The thought of the High Priests reminded her that they might be trying to trace her, follow her trail. But they are looking for a young woman alone, she reminded herself. Not a woman who shares a hearth with a man.
She glanced back at him over her shoulder, heard an impatient sound from Falar, then heard her paw the roadway.
Jezzil spoke to her, his voice holding unmistakable author-ity, and the mare stood still.
If Jezzil were with me, no one could break in and harm me while I slept, Thia thought. No priest, no drunken bruiser looking for a whore. Jezzil is a warrior. And I must sleep sometime …
Her heart rose a bit within her as she realized she’d made her decision. Her steps swift and sure, she walked back to him. “Let us try it,” she said. “I am willing.”
He nodded. “Good,” he said, and she heard relief and pleasure in his voice. “On to Q’Kal, then.” He swung up on Falar and reached down a hand. “Hand me your bundle.”
She gave it to him, and he quickly lashed it to one of the ties on the saddle. He reached his hand down again. “Now you.”
Thia looked up at him. “Me? Ride with you?”
“It grows late,” he said. “We don’t want the city gates to close before we can get there.”
After a few abortive tries, he rode Falar over by the bank, and Thia was able to climb up, then slide on behind him. She perched uneasily on Falar’s round rump, feeling the surge of
the strong muscles between her thighs, through her rucked-up skirts.
“Hold onto me,” Jezzil directed. “We must hurry a bit.”
Thia leaned forward and grabbed his belt.
He must have given some signal, for Falar’s hindquarters bunched, and then they were heading down the road at a dizzying pace. Thia had never gone so fast.
She found that she was clinging, not to Jezzil’s belt, but had wrapped her arms around his body, hiding her face against his back. Her nostrils were full of the smell of oiled leather, and the edges of the plates in his armor dug into the skin of her forehead, cheeks, and chin.
Falar’s hoofbeats sounded like miniature thunder as she galloped, and Thia struggled to hang on, to balance. She clamped her legs tightly about the mare’s flanks.
She heard Jezzil shout, “Stop that! Do you want her to pitch us off?” But even before his warning, she’d felt the muscles of the mare’s rump tighten like a drawn bowstring.
Hastily, she forced herself to loosen the muscles of her calves.
The cantle of the saddle dug into her thighs and groin, the plates from Jezzil’s armor scored her flesh, the night rushed past her so fast that she grew dizzy and her head reeled.
And yet Thia had never felt so alive, so free. She heard a sound, realized it was coming from inside her, bubbling up like clear water from a mountain spring.
It was laughter. Pure, joyous laughter.
Eregard
Eregard Livon Willom q’Injaad, third son of King Agivir of Pela, stood with his brothers on the wall-walk of the ancient fortress that enclosed much of the capital city of Minoma.
The ramparts of the old fortress stood high above the city that had outgrown their limits two centuries ago. The fortress itself had crumbled, as had the castle it guarded.
But the outer protective wall remained, enclosing the royal palace Agivir’s grandsire had built, along with the Old City.
Eregard leaned on the rampart and sighed as he looked down at the prosperous, bustling harbor town. It was a beautiful vista, and the autumn air was as clear and tangy as a fine Pelanese vintage. The Prince could easily make out the blue-green waters of the Narrow Sea beyond Minoma’s sheltered bay. So many ships rode at anchor that their spars and masts resembled the forests from whence they’d come.
If I concentrate on the view, the Prince thought, I won’t have to listen to Salesin gloat about wedding Lady Ulandra.
I can just let his voice blur into the whisper of the wind and the cries of the sea birds. I will not allow myself to envision my brother screaming as he plunges down from these ramparts to the street below.
Salesin, Crown Prince of Pela, Viceroy of Kata, noticed his younger brother’s preoccupation with the view. “Eregard! Don’t look so sour, this is good news!”
Eregard nodded. “Indeed, brother,” he said softly. “Excellent.”
“You weren’t even listening!” Salesin accused. “Hear me, baby brother! Father says that if I produce an heir within a year, he’ll consider relinquishing the crown. He wants to be free to spend more time with Mother.” The heir’s tone betrayed his contempt for a king who would let a woman— even his queen, the Princes’ mother—influence him. “What d’you think of that, little brother?”
Eregard was royal, and he’d learned to control his features before he learned to straddle a horse. Royals did not betray their inner thoughts or emotions … not to friends, and most certainly not to enemies. So his expression when he turned to face his brother was neutral, conveying only polite interest. “I think Mother thrives on company, and we should all spend more time with her.”
Salesin stared at his brother for a moment, then threw back his handsome head and laughed, long and loud.
“Where did you learn to dissemble so well, youngster? In one of your everlasting books?”
Eregard smiled thinly. “Where else, brother? Books are no substitute for your fleshpots, of a certain, but they do teach a few minor lessons.”
Salesin’s grin broadened, losing all semblance of good humor, until his teeth were bared wolfishly. “Remind me to take you along to some of my haunts, brother. You could use a few lessons in learning to be a man … if it’s not already too late, that is. You haven’t been baring your backside to Lord Malgar and his mincing bunch, have you?”
Despite his control, Eregard felt himself flush hotly, and knew that his brother had not missed that. He shook his head, but held his tongue. Don’t let him bait you. He always wins, and he never stops. Push him, and you will regret it …
As the brothers bristled at each other, Prince Adranan, whom both had forgotten, stepped between them. “Here, now. Let’s have none of that. Mother wouldn’t like it.”
Salesin’s lip curled. “Adranan, try not to be any stupider than you can help. Who cares what Mother would like?”
Eregard looked at his brothers, then shook his head inwardly. Did our mother cuckold the King? How can we be siblings? We are nothing alike!
Agivir’s sons were all young, but any resemblance between them ended there. At twenty-seven, Crown Prince Salesin was tall, lean, and disturbingly handsome. His men jokingly called him the “Demon Lover,” in homage to both his looks and his cold-blooded prowess with women. The Prince had dark, saturnine features and gleaming black hair with a pronounced widow’s peak. A short beard and moustache framed his thin lips. His eyes were pale brown, almost the color of amber, startling in his dark countenance.
Prince Adranan was two years younger. He was also dark, but was built like a wine cask, tall with broad shoulders and a gut that betrayed his fondness for ale and rich foods. Despite his bulk, he was a formidable fighter, an excellent shot, and an even more expert swordsman. His good-natured smile was gap-toothed; he’d had two of his front teeth knocked out in a brawl during one of his incognito tavern crawls in Minoma, and refused to wear his false ivory teeth except during state occasions.
Nineteen-year-old Eregard was a full head shorter than his brothers. He had impeccable taste and always dressed in the latest fashion, but his elegant clothing did little to improve his unprepossessing exterior. Pale, freckled skin, lank, mouse-brown hair, and eyes that were an indeterminate shade between blue and gray made him easy to overlook.
The spectacles he wore for reading either dangled on a ribbon around his neck or were pushed up onto the top of his head. He was as heavy as Adranan, but without the underly-ing muscle. His belly bulged over his fine, tooled belt.
Salesin stared intently into his youngest brother’s eyes, then suddenly laughed. “
Oh, you should see yourself, baby brother. If looks were weapons, I’d be choking on my own
lifeblood right now. Watch yourself, Eregard. You just …
watch yourself.”
Rage bubbled in Eregard, and he couldn’t disguise his anger. He longed to draw his sword and bury the point in Salesin’s throat. Or … there was always the rampart. Up and over, yes …
But there was no point in trying. Salesin was much stronger, an experienced fighter. The Crown Prince was a master swordsman, while he was barely beyond the basics.
Besides, Adranan wouldn’t let him do it, even supposing he could somehow get the best of the heir in a physical tussle.
Eregard drew a slow, deep breath. Control. You must learn control. Salesin will be King, remember. Already he wields almost as much power as Father. Kill him and you commit treason.
Aloud, he said, “You go too far, brother. But for Adranan’s sake, I’ll say no more.”
The second-in-waiting for the throne of Pela clapped him on the back. “There’s the lad! Salesin, what say you? Peace between you?”
The Crown Prince did not reply, but he shrugged, and Eregard knew that was the only concession he would get. Anger stirred in him again, but he repressed it.
“Just wait until I’m King,” Salesin said. “There’ll be no more buy-offs or ceding of land to avoid trouble. Any country that dares look askance at Pela will face war, all-out war.
Father used to be a force to reckon with, but in his old age he’s grown as spineless as a jellyfish.”
Eregard bit his lip until it stung fiercely, but he did not rise to Salesin’s bait, knowing that’s what his brother wanted.
Luckily for Eregard, a distraction was approaching at a brisk pace. A group of ladies-in-waiting out for their daily constitutional were almost upon them, so the three Princes fell silent. As each lady drew even with them, she sank down in a rustle of satin brocade and Severian lace, curtsying deeply.
Eregard gave each of them a nod and a polite smile. Adranan had a grin, a guffaw, and something personal to say to each, sending many scuttling away, blushing and giggling.
Salesin gave each lady a brief, cool stare—even those whom Eregard knew he’d bedded.
Following behind the ladies-in-waiting came a gaggle of barefoot serving boys and girls, carrying palm fans, shawls, pomander balls, boxes of sweets, parasols, and squirming lapdogs.
Eregard regarded the colorful display, wishing for a moment that he could be one of those boys, with no care in the world except to carry his lady’s lapdog or parasol. If I were a servant, she would be so far above me that I would not even dare to think of her, he thought. I could have followed her all the day long, listened to her voice, and been happy in her presence. I would have been spared the torture of hope.
The Prince turned away from the crowd to gaze back over the ramparts at Minoma. The Sun had gone behind a cloud; the sea no longer sparkled. Directly below him he could see the dark green treelined paths of the King’s menagerie.
Commoner and noble alike strolled along the paths, gazing at the rare animals in their spacious cages. Faintly, he heard a cry from one of the wild desert cats, a snarl that deepened into a full-throated roar.
Adranan poked him with an elbow and pointed. “Look,” he said. “King’s messengers, two of them. Odds are they’ve come straight up from the port, with news from the mainland.”
Eregard watched as the two riders approached, seeing they were urging their horses onward with whip and spur.
Their mounts clattered up the cobblestoned street, running all-out. Passersby scattered to get out of their way as they recognized the official scarlet tunics banded with black.
As though the Sun’s disappearance were a signal, the wind picked up, reminding them this was autumn, and winter was scant weeks away. A chill gust made Eregard shiver as it buffeted him.
Salesin swore as his cloak snapped out behind him. “Thrice-damned wind!” he muttered. “I’m going in before I catch my death. Besides, I need to see what message they brought.”
Good riddance, Eregard thought. Despite the cold, he waited, shivering, until his brother was long gone. Adranan
stood beside him. Only when Eregard bade his brother farewell did the middle Prince speak.
“Listen, Eregard,” he said, his normally jovial features twisted with concern. “Don’t let Salesin bait you. He’s …
he can be … cruel.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Eregard said.
“He has spies everywhere. Plot against him—or even think about plotting against him—and you’ll find yourself exiled. Father may well abdicate in his favor.”
“And would that be good for Pela?”
Adranan smiled ruefully. “Depends on your point of view.
It would fill up the dungeons with political prisoners, thus providing jobs for many additional gaolers. And on the mainland, those outspoken Katan grumblers would learn to guard their tongues and watch what they print. No more outrageous political cartoons or broadsides. Salesin would make short work out of suppressing any hint of rebellion.”
“True,” Eregard agreed dourly.
“I care about you, little brother,” Adranan said. “Heed my warning. Don’t cross him.”
Sound advice, Eregard thought. He managed to smile at his brother. “Adranan the Peacemaker. Why couldn’t you have been firstborn?”
Adranan smiled. “Being heir is not my idea of a good life.
I’m content to be the King’s arm. I’m not good at intrigue.”
“Unfortunately, Salesin excels at it,” Eregard observed bitterly.
“Yes he does. And I don’t want to lose my favorite brother,” Adranan said. “So control your temper, Eregard.
There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Sound advice, brother,” Eregard agreed. “I thank you for it.”
“I’m going down to the Golden Sail for a pint,” Adranan said. “Join me?”
Eregard shook his head. “No, thanks. I should be getting back. I was going to visit Mother before supper.”
Adranan nodded, then headed out to meet his personal guard where they stood waiting patiently.
Moments later, Eregard, clutching his cloak around him, hurried down the stairs. A small contingent of soldiers, his personal guard, awaited him on the landing.
Eregard nodded brusquely at the sergeant, then started down the next flight of weathered, oft-mended steps. When he reached the street level, the Prince headed back toward the royal palace. Flanked by his guard, Eregard walked down the oft-repaired streets, automatically avoiding the slimy gutters running down the middle. Smells warred with each other: the stench from the gutters, a pungent reek from an outhouse, the warm scent of bread and ale, the sharp yeasty stink of horse piss, the sweet fragrance from a flower-seller’s cart, and the mouth-watering fragrance of gamebird pie.
Minoma’s Old Town was old indeed, far older than the royal palace. It was at least as old as the massive wall. The houses were bluestone and weathered wood, with occasional newer structures of half-timbering and whitewashed stucco.
Shops lined the streets, interspersed with residences. A goldsmith’s shop, with a beautifully kept exterior, perched uncomfortably next to an old, low-ceilinged tavern, rowdy and full of sailors even at this early hour. A wool-merchant’s shop presented splashes of color from the dyed hanks of yarn, and a sail-mender’s shop was doing a brisk business.
Eregard strode along, head down, and the sergeant of the guard forged ahead, making sure his path was clear and that no knife or gun-wielding assassins lurked in the alleys. The Prince’s thoughts were as bleak and cold as the autumn clouds that continued to block the Sun.
If Father abdicates in favor of Salesin, what will happen to me? I’ll be here, stuck at court, having to watch the two of them together. I’ll have to watch him treat her badly, for Salesin treats none of his women well, and to him a highborn lady has the same furnishings down below as a tavern wench— The
thought was so distressing that he forced himself into
considering something else, a subject he normally detested—politics.
What if he decides that the Chonao Redai … what’s his name?—Kerezau, that’s it—what if he decides that Kerezau is too powerful for Pela to fight? What if he tries for an alliance with that barbarian instead?
Bleakly, Eregard wondered if Kerezau had any daughters.
If he did, that was bad. Adranan was a formidable fighter. He could lead troops. Adranan was valuable. Whilst he, Eregard, was useful only as a potential pawn in a ruler’s marriage game.
Scowling, Eregard kicked a loose cobblestone on the edge of a dank pothole, sending it skittering into a narrow, greasy little alleyway. He glanced over at the sergeant. “Notify the street warden to fix that spot.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The Prince lengthened his stride, pulling his cloak tight around him as a chill gust whipped down the streets. A touch of winter’s breath, he thought. The wind suited his mood, matched the cold desolation growing within his heart. Soon I won’t even be able to think of her without committing treason.
His dark thoughts accompanied him the rest of the way home, dogging his steps like a relentless beggar. The walk from the old fortress wall to the royal palace was not long, but it was all uphill, and Eregard was not in the best of shape. The Prince was panting by the time he reached the gates and was bowed through them.
Dismissing his personal guard, he started up the raked gravel toward the entrance. The palace consisted of one large square central building with three smaller wings on each side and at the rear. It was built solidly of pale gray stone, with red tiles on its roofs lending a touch of cheery color against the leaden skies.
Soldiers drilled in the courtyard as Eregard walked by.
Absently, the Prince returned the Captain of the Guard’s salute. Reaching the broad, sweeping staircase that led up to the palace, the Prince plodded up the wide steps.
He was halfway up when some sixth sense made him look up—and then he saw her. She was evidently just back from her own constitutional, and, as he watched, Lady Ulandra’s slender form stepped through the palace entrance and vanished.
Storms of Destiny Page 11
