by Melanie Rawn
“Keth dur azh!” And she flung the dark gleaming pearl down into the moat.
Against all reason and rationality, proving themselves good, honest, superstitious barbarian savages, they ran back even before Johlarian ignited the moat. Sunrunner’s Fire circled the castle, leaping up half again the height of the walls, obscuring the view of the chaos below. Yet chaos it was, from the sound of it. Above the roar of flames Karanaya heard cries of terror. There were other shouts, too, from commanders or those made of sterner stuff, unmistakable even in a strange tongue as they ordered warriors to act like it. But all at once even they howled in fear. Dimly, through the writhing white-gold Fire, she saw why.
“Goddess help us,” she whispered. “Johlarian—are you doing that?”
“N–no, my lady,” he replied in a hushed voice. “It’s the High Princess—I can sense her colors—ah, Goddess, it hurts!” He moaned, and Mirsath grabbed him before he could fall.
“Don’t stop!” the young lord commanded. “Steady the Fire, damn you!”
An immense, blazing dragon, five times the height of a man, spread wings of red-orange flame just beyond Johlarian’s Fire. Head thrown back, it exhaled streaks of light toward the sky. Karanaya knew it to be a conjuring of the High Princess’ powerful mind, but even though she felt no awe of Sunrunners she found herself completely understanding the enemy’s panic. And if she was frightened, knowing what was happening, they must be mad with horror.
Johlarian held out as long as he could. At last he crumpled to the stone floor, panting for breath. Fire sank into the moat and vanished; the dragon disappeared.
So had the Vellant’im.
• • •
“Someday you must teach me how to do that,” Pol remarked as he handed his mother a full wine cup.
With a tired smile, she replied, “One of my more flamboyant talents. Pol, if there’s any moonlight to work with later, see if you can find Johlarian and apologize for me. I’m afraid I was a little rough.”
“What happened?” Tobin snapped in what was almost her old voice, crisp and impatient.
“She scared the spit and piss out of them with a conjured dragon,” Pol reported, succinctly if inelegantly. “It was gorgeous! Do you want me to help you to your room, Mother?”
“I’m not decrepit yet, boy. It’s just the dranath. I’ll be all right.” She swallowed some wine and sighed. “You didn’t find Azhdeen, did you?”
He shook his head. “He’s gone back to the Catha Hills with the rest of the dragons. It would’ve been nice to give them a real one, but yours worked just as well.”
“I don’t like to think how close we cut it,” she mused. “Johlarian’s Fire alone might have done it. An appearance by your dragon would have been better. Maybe our luck is changing, that the sun came out in time for me to work.”
Tobin drummed the fingers of her right hand on the table. “Gone for good?”
“Perhaps. I hope they ran like frightened deer all the way to Riverport.”
• • •
Catha Heights had not yet been so long in enemy hands that its famous gardens had suffered from anything more destructive than winter. The individual enclaves of rare trees, bushes, and shrubs were richly green with rain that swelled the ponds and leaped in the fountains. Only the flower beds, turned and waiting for spring seed, were brown. Vines scrambled up the walls of a few houses made of reddish brick; the keep itself rose pale yellow and thickly covered on its lower floors with climbing roses. Amid the workshops and storehouses ran narrow cobbled alleys, yet even here trees grew in tubs set at interesting intervals.
Rihani had settled his mind by the time he rode through the gates at his uncle’s side. Saumer approached immediately, bowing with as great a flourish as he could muster with one arm in a sling and tight strapping around his ribs.
“I beg to present you with your holding of Catha Heights, my lord,” he said, and grinned.
“Accepted,” Kostas replied, grinning back. “I think you have one or two other gifts for me as well?”
“Waiting in the square, my lord.”
Izaea and her uncle Othreg stood together beneath a tall pine. Sangna, Patwin’s middle daughter, had put deliberate distance between them and herself. Rihani saw at once the marks of gyves around her wrists—some of them scabbed, which indicated to him that this was no pose. She had worn iron for some time now. He knew his uncle would execute the other two; he was deeply relieved that Sangna would be spared. There had been enough killing today.
Dismounting, he held Kostas’ stallion and when Saumer came to stand beside him whispered, “Shoulder or ribs?”
“Both. And both my own stupid fault—I wrenched it when the balance-weight on the gates lifted. I never even saw who broke my ribs. How about your leg?”
“I don’t remember how or when it happened.” To Saumer’s startled, disbelieving glance, he defended, “Honestly, I don’t remember much of it at all. You’ll have to go to someone else for tales of the battle.”
“The biggest fight in thirty years, and he doesn’t remember! Did your own horse kick you in the head?”
“Not me—just anyone else within reach. Shh—he’s about to judge them.”
There was no plea and no mercy. Before his assembled army, the few Vellant’im who had been captured, and the frightened castlefolk, Kostas said one simple thing—“Othreg and Izaea of Catha Heights are guilty of treason”—and summarily lopped their heads from their necks with his own sword.
Had there been anything in his stomach, Rihani would have thrown up. Thin, bitter fluid gushed into his mouth; he swallowed it and set his face in stone.
Sangna flinched back against the Syrene trooper holding her up. Kostas wiped his bloodied sword on Izaea’s skirts and came toward the terrified woman. “You are evidently blameless, my lady,” he said. “But you will understand that by their actions, the rest of your family forfeited this castle. You will be taken back to High Kirat and treated with honor there. Part of the revenue from this place will provide your dowry, should you ever marry. But your line is finished here forever. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, my lord uncle,” she whispered, and swayed to her knees before him. “Thank you for my life.”
“You have yourself to thank, Sangna, for not heeding your father’s treachery.” Kostas gestured her away, and she was taken into the keep. Turning, he addressed the crowd. “For their services today to us and to Syr—and to the High Prince—we have decided to bestow the honor of knighthood on our squires. Prince Rihani of Ossetia, Prince Saumer of Kierst-Isel, come forward.”
In shock, the pair approached their prince and knelt. Saumer received the accolade with a proud smile. Rihani, hearing phrases that made him a knight at barely seventeen, could think of nothing but that he was being rewarded for his skill at butchery. Well, why not? After all, he knelt near a pool of blood.
“We have neither salt nor bread nor golden buckle to give you,” Kostas said when it was finished. “Those things, and Syr’s gift of a coffer encrusted with gems, will have to wait. But as of this moment, having proven your courage and accomplishments on this fine and glorious day, we acclaim each of you a knight in the service of the High Prince and ourselves, Prince of Syr.”
A cheer went up—genuine from the Syrene warriors, pure release of tension from the people of Catha Heights. Some of the former, the captain Havadi in the lead, jostled forward to congratulate the young men. And in the sudden confusion, no one heard Kostas give a grunt of surprise and pain.
Rihani saw his uncle fold to the ground. He saw a bearded man rise from Kostas’ side. What he did not see was his own sword—until it was hilt-deep in the Vellanti’s guts.
He let the blade go. He knelt in a new pool of blood. He reached for the knife, snatched his hand back. It was made of glass, and had splintered.
“Oh, Goddess—no,” he breathed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kostas demanded in a heavy, breathy voice. “It’s just a pinprick in
the belly. Pull it out.”
“I—I can’t, my lord. It’s a Merida knife.”
No one believed it, least of all Kostas. Not until he tried to wrench the glass out himself. He could not move.
Saumer took the prince’s lolling head onto his knees. “Rihani got him, my lord,” he said, tears thickening his words. “Rihani killed him for you.”
“Good. Kill the rest of them, too.” He coughed, spat as if the poison had fouled his tongue, and said, “Take me to River Run, where I was born. Reclaim it and burn me there. Swear to uphold my son Daniv as Prince of Syr.”
“We swear, my lord,” Saumer said for both of them; Rihani could only nod.
Kostas looked at him, his eyes glazing over now. “Take care of your mother,” he whispered, his voice going from strength to feebleness in an instant. Rihani didn’t understand; his uncle saw it and insisted even more weakly, “Gemma—keep her safe.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, for lack of anything else and because it was what the dying man wanted to hear.
Then, quietly, light in his eyes like the last glimpse of sun before night: “My poor Dani.”
• • •
Dragon Gap was tough going in daylight at a decent pace. By night, at speed, it was madness. Meiglan’s usual mount, a placid little mare with a mouth and disposition like silk, had not prepared her for this great gelding she now bestrode. All she could do was beg the Goddess to keep her on the horse.
Laroshin was in the lead. He knew the trail as well as anyone and better than most. Next came Rislyn and Jihan, then a guard, Meiglan, and finally Kierun. She hadn’t planned on bringing the squire along, but it had become necessary when, on entering Pol’s chambers through the passage from her own rooms, she had discovered Kierun tidying his lord’s clothes for something to do. No use to dissemble; she and the girls were dressed for riding and once Kierun found out where they were bound, his presence was inescapable.
“My lord left strict orders, my lady,” he said stubbornly. “I’m to protect you and their graces. I’m coming with you to Stronghold.”
Meiglan held the name before her as if the stars had formed it overhead. Stronghold—where Pol was. Where she would be protected and cherished and utterly safe. She bent over the gelding’s neck and hung on.
Chapter Twenty-six
Forced to conceal his anger in public, in private Miyon of Cunaxa did not scruple to blister the ears off the hapless tutor. Catallen’s initial defenses withered quickly at the onslaught; he trembled and begged forgiveness and was ready to fall on his knees when Miyon ordered him out in disgust.
“Blind and deaf—but not, unfortunately, mute! Shut your mouth, you slug! Kill you? I ought to open your eyes and ears with a hot iron! You had charge of the brats! You should’ve alerted me when they didn’t return to their rooms last night! Get out!”
Miyon stalked from one end of his chamber to the other, seething. Catallen had been a convenient outlet for rage, but ultimately unsatisfying. The fault was his own. He’d badly underestimated the changes in Meiglan since her marriage. Evidently she’d developed some backbone. But there had been such sick terror in her eyes after the cottage burned down . . . perhaps he had frightened her too much. Either way, the mistake was his.
His hostages were gone. He had nothing to offer Chiana and the Vellant’im except Dragon’s Rest itself. Moreover, he was stuck here with Laric and Edrel and the whole palace guard, and without Meiglan to bully into giving what orders he desired for his convenience.
Adding to his troubles was the report of the Sunrunner, Hildreth: heavy snow threatened the north in the next few days, making Laric’s departure impossible. The prince had believed his story about Yarin—after much persuasion and even more agonizing over the betrayal. Lark’s slowness in accepting the tale grossly insulted him. Had Rohan and Pol so poisoned all minds against him that no one believed a word he said? The fact that he was doubted when telling an obvious truth angered him even more.
Miyon was briefly torn between staying where he was or making for Swalekeep. The latter held attractions. He would be in direct contact with the Vellant’im, planning out the shape of the continent after the wars were done and Rohan and Pol were dead. But at Swalekeep he would be just one more collaborator. Here at least he was senior prince and Pol’s father-by-marriage. Too, taking up residence at Swalekeep would be an irrevocable choice of sides. No, he would save that for when he had something to bargain with.
Maybe Pol would do the smart thing and send Meiglan home. Stronghold would soon be under siege in earnest. It was no place for anyone who had a perfectly safe palace only two days’ ride away. He began to nourish a certain hope, fed by faith in Pol’s protective instinct. Meiglan might come back; Laric would march for Balarat as soon as he could without killing his men or his horses; Edrel was only a younger brother of a ruling athri, for all that he had been Pol’s squire. With Meiglan to hand once more, Laric gone, and Edrel hopelessly outranked, things would turn Miyon’s way again.
He decided he could wait a little while. Not that he had much choice.
• • •
Lord Yarin paused outside his nephew’s chambers, arranging his face into properly grave lines. Tirel would be grieving over that damned Sunrunner woman who had taken such a very long time about dying. Yarin had to be sympathetic but firm with the boy.
He hadn’t expected the squire to be in attendance, but Idalian’s presence altered his plans not at all. He expressed sorrow he did not feel at Arpali’s death, then suggested that it might be a good idea for Tirel to remain in his chambers until any threat of contagion was ascertained.
“What did she die of, my lord?” Idalian asked.
“No one knows for certain,” he lied smoothly, glad that virulent fevers or wasting sicknesses produced the same kind of drastic loss of weight as that brought by starvation. “But until the physicians are sure it’s not catching, they advise me to keep my nephew isolated. I think you should join him, Idalian—your remaining family would not thank me for risking your life, and you would help make the days go faster for Tirel.”
The young man looked uncertainly at the boy, then nodded. “As you wish, my lord. Will you keep Natham isolated, too?”
Yarin searched his face quickly for any signs of suspicion and detected none. “You’re kind to worry about him,” he replied smoothly. “My son will also be kept apart—but I think he might be allowed to come play with you, Tirel, and share your lessons with your squire. Would you like that?”
“Yes, uncle,” he murmured meekly. His wide gray eyes were unreadable—eerie in one so young, but then Tirel had always been a strange child.
“I’ll see if I can persuade the physicians.” Pleased—and reminding himself to order Natham kept to his rooms—he unfolded a thin sheet of parchment and continued, “In this crisis, and because you won’t be able to meet with your father’s ministers until the danger is past, I’ve drawn up a document that will ease your mind, Tirel. It gives me certain limited powers to conduct the business of the princedom and see to its defense in these troubled times.”
“Do you wish me to sign it, Uncle?” Again that flat, slate-colored stare. It unnerved Yarin for a moment.
“Yes, I do. It would be best.”
“Shouldn’t you read it first, my lord?” Idalian asked. Then he added too swiftly, “He should become familiar with official documents, Lord Yarin. He’ll rule Firon one day.”
The lame excuse was mildly amusing, but it warned Yarin that the squire was indeed suspicious. He would be watched. “He should certainly read it—as a matter of fact, I should go through it again myself. These legal minds with their tortured phrasing!”
The parchment was only to reassure the more timorous councillors that what Yarin was doing was perfectly legal. It was, and would be—right up until the time he disinherited Tirel and proclaimed himself rightful Prince of Firon. As should have been done eighteen years ago.
Tirel asked Idalian to read the document alo
ud. Yarin pretended to listen, thinking instead of the three sets of riders dispatched south to Swalekeep. There had been no news since Arpali had been confined, of course, but Yarin felt safe in his surmise that Chiana would walk hand-in-glove with anyone who could destroy Pol and put her and Rinhoel in Princemarch. He had taken her measure at several Riall’im and knew that her cause was roughly the same as his: to claim a usurped birthright.
He was equally confident that at least one pair of couriers would make it through the winter storms. The message they carried was as much a triumph of vocabulary as the document Idalian recited. It managed to convey Yarin’s plots and hopes without actually stating them; it hinted delicately at Chiana’s cooperation with the enemy; it guided her toward what he really meant without actually saying it. If read by the wrong people, it would not incriminate him—but the woman for whom it had been written would understand it at once. He might need her help in spring, when the roads would be passable again. By that time he hoped to be in complete control of Firon. But just in case, he had sent a message to Chiana. Besides, she might even do him the favor of killing Laric and Lisiel, or at least putting them in the way of being killed. Whatever happened elsewhere, he believed Chiana would be the new power. The barbarians would win—how could they not, faced with that weakling Rohan and his prating, posturing son? Andry was a worry, but Andry showed scant affection for Rohan or any of his works—including Pol.
“I believe I understand,” Tirel said quietly, and again Yarin was amused as the boy played at being a prince. “Idalian, may I have a pen and ink, please?”
Yarin watched him sign, hiding his glee. Whatever he did now would be in Tirel’s name, as titular prince while Laric was absent. He was official Regent of Firon. He could rule as he pleased.
“There’s a time limit set on this,” he said as he waited for the ink to dry. “It’s now the thirteenth day of Winter. Soon we should have some sort of word from your father and we can revise the document if necessary. But I think he’ll be proud of your maturity, Tirel.”
