“What should we do?” the old man asked. “We’re all just sitting here uselessly, waiting to be killed.”
“As soon as the sun rises, go around town and tell everyone to double the village guard. If the Whitish use force against you, send someone to my father’s manor to beg for assistance. They can’t attack you outright without destroying their chances at receiving payment for Port Emerald.”
If reinforcements came from Port Emerald, the villagers would be hopeless against the Whitish. Laina did not dare say this, though, for fear she would destroy any courage the villagers had mustered.
“Has everyone in town secured their valuables in the forest?”
“Yes, milady,” the woman said. “If the rain doesn’t send them all out to sea, we’ll be forever grateful to you.”
Laina nodded. This very thought had been nagging at her, though she believed the safe-boxes were heavy enough to withstand a decent current.
“Take care of yourselves,” she said. “I must return home and see if I can sort out this mess.”
“Best of luck, milady. Our thoughts go with you.”
Chapter 23
O n the long crossing down the coast to Varrival, Doran had ample time to contemplate everything he was leaving behind in Chelt. It had overall been a much more pleasant experience than he could have imagined, and it had given him purpose once again. Though he still felt humiliated at the way he was carried around, he no longer felt like an abomination simply for existing. His time in Chelt had shaken off the gloomy fog that had hung over him after the accident.
He was going to miss the books at his seaside manor; he had barely made his way through a tenth of them. If he had never learned that Lostport was in trouble, he would have happily stayed there for years—provided that Duffrey didn’t drive him mad first.
More than anything, he mourned the loss of what could have been his first true friend. He could imagine spending long, rainy days with Fabrian, happily discussing the intricacies of political structures and the economics that kept each kingdom afloat.
He had grown up with Laina and Conard, true, but Conard had always been Laina’s friend, not his. He could hardly keep up with the two of them—tireless and foolhardy, they were game for anything, no matter who tried to talk them out of it. That job had usually fallen to Doran, and he had usually failed at it.
It was a calm summer’s day when they set out, very different than the storm he had first rode through, and they made swift progress down the coast. Eight mornings later they lay anchor in the same Varrilan port as before, and already the air felt heavy, laden with heat.
Doran’s horse was still stabled near the port, and the innkeeper who had taken over her care was able to dig up the saddle Doran had ridden across the desert on.
“The Varrilans have no use for a horse,” she explained as she handed the beast over. “It would die out in the desert if it stayed too long. And most sailors don’t want something with hooves that could kick holes in their decks if a storm was stirred up.”
Doran’s entire household had chosen to accompany him—the cook, the two servers, Iole, and Duffrey—and they hired a guide in the port town. The guide was not Varrilan, but he claimed he had spent his life traveling through the desert and knew it better than anyone.
As they started out after a night spent in the harbor town, the air still blessedly cool, Doran pondered everything that would change now he had chosen to return home. He hoped Odessa would adjust to life in Lostport—if she despised the place, he knew that he would do as his father had done and let her go. Such isolation did not suit many.
As the day began to warm up, all thoughts fled except hatred for the suffocating heat, the sun that beat mercilessly down. The desert had seemed unforgiving before; now it was deadly, bent on killing anyone who braved its endless dunes.
He fell into a miserable stupor as they rode, gulping at water so frequently that his waterskin was dry by midday, and though they did not complain, he could tell his companions suffered as much as he did. Only their guide appeared unperturbed by the heat.
It was too hot to eat, too hot to ask if anyone had more water. When they stopped at midday, their guide took pity on them and suggested they should sleep the rest of the day and walk through the night.
“Please, that would be wonderful,” Doran said hoarsely.
“Your grace, do you need more water?” the guide asked.
Wordlessly, Doran held out his waterskin.
“This once, you can have a refill,” the guide said. “But after this, we’re rationing. Only one skin a day until we reach the first oasis.”
Doran remained on his horse while the guide erected a domed tent. At last Duffrey could ignore him no longer, and he helped Doran down from the horse with one of the servers lending a hand. They all piled into the tent, which was still hot inside but at least sheltered from the sun.
It was nearly impossible to sleep. Doran dozed fitfully, waking each time with a start to find his entire torso drenched in sweat. After the second time that happened, he struggled out of his shirt, though even unclothed he felt as though his skin itself was melting off him.
By the time night fell, Doran felt drained and feverish. He was so relieved when the sun went down and he could hear the crackling fire that meant dinner was on its way that he nearly cried.
The others were somehow still asleep, so Doran rolled onto his elbows and dragged himself out of the tent onto the still-fiery sand.
“Your grace,” the guide greeted him, not appearing to notice the undignified way Doran hauled himself to the fireside and struggled to sit up. He was cooking strips of meat over a fire that burned from a twisted braid of grass. It should not have kept going as long as it did—the grass should have disintegrated to ash within moments. For a brief instant, Doran wondered if the man was a Makhori. Then he realized that if anything was enchanted, it was probably the braid of grass itself.
“It’s from Baylore,” the guide said, nodding at the braid. “Varrival trades with them openly.”
He had been right, then. Baylore was the last refuge of magic.
“And how did you end up living in that desolate little port?” Doran asked, hauling his legs in front of him and clasping his hands over his knees. “Surely a guide could do something better with his days than travel the desert.”
The man shook his head with a smile. “I don’t look it, but I’m half-Varrilan. My father was Varrilan, my mother Cheltish. After my father died, my mother left the desert, but she could never shake her loyalty to the Varrilan people. I grew up half in the Varrilan capital and half in the Whitish cities, and finally decided I had to belong to both. This is the best compromise I’ve come up with.”
“It’s true, then?” Doran asked. “That they have three great cities fed by three rivers flowing off a volcano?”
“Aye,” the guide said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his smile deepened. “So you know more about us than you let on.”
Doran shook his head. “One of my guards on the journey to Chelt was a translator, and she told me stories about the Varrilan cities. It’s hard to imagine something like that, out in the desert, but I took her at her word. If circumstances were different, I might be journeying to that mountain now.”
“You’re different than I expected, being royalty and all,” the guide said. “I like it.”
Doran gestured at his legs. “I can hardly be arrogant when I can’t even walk. I feel below the lowest servant, at times.”
They were just starting on their supper when Duffrey joined them, followed quickly by Iole and the cook. Doran and his guide lapsed into silence, but he could tell the guide thought more favorably of him than before.
Once they had finished their supper, they packed up camp while Doran waited beside the remains of the fire. Then they set off into the darkness, following the stars that their guide could presumably read.
The breeze quickly drew warmth from the air, and soon Doran was wrapped in all t
he layers he had brought. Yet after the suffocating heat of the day, it was a pleasant sort of chill.
They reached an oasis just as the grey predawn light was beginning to spread; Doran was impressed that their guide had managed to find it in the dark. Camp was set once more, and they all drank deeply from the sour-tasting spring.
After the long night of riding, Doran slept deeply, only waking occasionally to drink more water or throw off another layer of blankets as the day heated up.
When he woke in the afternoon, unable to stand the stifling heaviness of the inside of the tent any longer, he dragged himself out to see if he could find a patch of shade to rest in. Duffrey, Iole, and one of the servers were already sitting outside, backs against a rock, faces shaded by the tent.
Doran was unwilling to join in their conversation, so he had to make do with the half-shade cast by a scrubby bush just behind their tent. Now that the sun was beginning to go down, birds and other small critters were emerging as if from nowhere and scurrying about the oasis. Birdsong lifted above their meager camp, and the hulking shape of an ashikornte lumbered closer over a distant dune.
Again their guide brought dinner, this time soup cooked with a generous helping of water, but once they were finished, Doran was baffled to see that no one was making any effort to pack away camp.
“Why are we delaying? Shouldn’t we press on, now that we have water?” A niggling feeling of uneasiness warned him something was wrong.
“I think we should stop another day,” Duffrey said. “Iole is faring poorly. We don’t want her to expire in the desert.”
The serving girl did indeed look flushed, but they all did with this relentless heat and cruel sun. Doran’s original trip through the desert had seemed like a pleasant stroll compared to this—how quickly summer had set in.
He wondered if they were deliberately trying to prolong his journey back to Lostport. Was there some important decision being made that would change the future of his kingdom if he was absent for it? Or was Whitland poised to take over Lostport even now, as he sat here staring uselessly at the sand?
“We will stay the night,” Doran agreed reluctantly. “But we must leave at dawn tomorrow.”
At dawn, they made swift work of packing away their camp. Every waterskin was filled to the brim, and several tin cups were carried as well—this would be a long stretch without replenishment. Doran’s horse still had an emergency supply of water strapped to its saddlebags, but they would not touch this until the final day before they reached the next oasis.
It was pleasant setting out in the cool of early day, the pale light of dawn throwing dramatic shadows across the dunes, and they made quick progress. The ashikornte was sleeping in the shadow of a nearby dune, kneeling down with its head flat across the sand, and all other forms of life had already fled the approaching heat.
Their party was unusually quiet as they forged onward—Doran began to wonder if there truly was something wrong, something Duffrey did not want to burden him with. Or perhaps they were merely tired, and he was overreacting.
As the sun appeared above the dune ahead of them, splitting beams of light through the sand to sear their eyes, the silence was broken by a whistling sound and a dull thud.
Iole screamed.
“What’s happening?” Doran asked wildly, looking all around. It took him a moment to realize there was an arrow protruding from Iole’s ribs, blood already beginning to seep through her plain tunic.
“Iole!” Duffrey shouted. He grabbed the girl as she crumpled to the ground, and held her head on his knees.
“You promised!” she cried weakly.
Before Doran could try to puzzle out what she meant, he felt a powerful impact in his chest, almost as though he had been punched.
The force sent him reeling off his horse, his legs only reluctantly sliding out of the strapped saddle, and he landed on his shoulder in the sand.
He had been hit as well. The agony only came once his horse had stomped aside and he tried to sit up—suddenly it felt as though he had been ripped in half, the raw wound grinding against his organs until everything was shredded and bloodied. He yelled blindly, as though it would drown out the pain.
The others were down as well, including the guide.
“Why are they attacking?” Doran choked out, the movement of his lungs grating against his wound.
“Varrilan warriors,” Duffrey spat. “They’re about to launch an attack on Whitland. They’re killing anyone who sets foot in their land, I imagine.”
“That’s not—not true,” the guide gasped. “Must be a rogue band. War hasn’t broken out—yet.”
Doran let his head drop back on the sand, his strength failing. An arrow lay beside his hand, so he grasped it and glared at the agent of his demise. Then he realized suddenly that the arrows littering the ground around him were fletched with feathers, not the fronded plant that his Varrilan escort had used.
These were Whitish arrows.
His household had led him knowingly into an ambush.
There was nothing he could do with that revelation. Anyone he could have warned was hundreds of leagues away, and he was going to die here. In fact, he was moments away. The world was beginning to waver, as though he saw it through water, and the heat of the sand felt like his mother’s long-forgotten embrace.
The irrational thought crossed his mind that it was a shame he had not drank more water. If he had known it would end like this, he would have gulped water until he could drink no more.
Then everything began to fade before his eyes, and he could fight it no longer. Memories of Laina and Conard and his father replaced the harsh early-morning sun, and he imagined walking up to them again, cured at last, and telling them of his adventures. He had sailed to Baylore, he would say, and tracked down a healer among the skilled folk.
The last thing he felt was a gentle hand on his forehead.
And the desert took him.
* * *
Faolan had lain awake most of the night, painfully aware that Katrien slept in Doran’s room next door yet unable to summon up the courage to visit her. Rain pounded on the roof, sending a waterfall tumbling from the eaves, and mingled with his awareness of Katrien was the fear that Laina had finally gone too far and would not return home. Perhaps she had even run off, unable to face the burden of governing a kingdom near collapse.
As soon as the sky outside turned from black to steely grey, Faolan rose and dressed himself. Now that his beloved wife was home, he was determined to prove himself worthy; no longer would he lie uselessly in his bed while his untrained daughter governed the kingdom. He fought back a wave of dizziness and was relieved to find himself steadier and stronger than before.
His wife had changed immeasurably. She was as beautiful as the day he had first met her, and for the first time ever she had the bearing of a queen. Her face was sharper and more angular than ever, her eyes guarded and full of wisdom. The journey home had altered her almost beyond recognition. Faolan was no longer sure he was worthy of the striking leader his Katrien had become.
Harrow was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, standing at attention despite the dark circles beneath his eyes.
“I heard word that Conard has returned,” Harrow said. “And rumors that you have placed a price on his head.”
“Aye,” Faolan said, leaning heavily on the banister. “I suspect he never left Lostport. He was planted here by King Luistan, charged with ridding me of an heir. He meant to kill Doran; that crash was no accident.”
“How are you so sure?” Harrow asked. “I thought I knew Conard. I’ve watched him since he was a lad, getting up to all sorts of mischief with Laina and Doran. He always seemed the honest type, a bit troublesome at times but never deceitful. Who told you otherwise?”
“The man who arrived with my wife. He says someone is paying for Prince Doran’s accommodations in Chelt, ensuring he never wishes to return to Lostport. There has been a conspiracy in place against me from the moment
those blasted gemstones were uncovered.”
“What do you want me to do?” Harrow asked, rubbing his eyes wearily. “Should we spread the word? Go after the boy ourselves? Offer our meager wealth in exchange for his capture?”
“Yes, spread the word,” Faolan said. “I want him captured now, before he can do anything to Laina. She would trust him with anything, and he knows that.”
“Yessir,” Harrow said. He trudged off, his spine stiff.
At that moment, the door swung open to admit a very wet, bedraggled Laina.
“Laina!” Faolan called, at the same moment Laina cried,
“Father! You’re well!”
Faolan marched toward Laina, weakness forgotten. “You should be ashamed of yourself. I don’t know how you could think to call yourself queen. No one as irresponsible and rash as you should ever be allowed to rule.”
Laina opened her mouth to argue, but something at the top of the stairs stopped her.
Faolan looked back to see Katrien standing on the second step down, staring at Laina as though she was seeing an apparition. Slowly she descended the staircase, eyes locked on Laina’s. Laina stepped cautiously forward, unaware of the muddy trail she left on the marble.
“You must be Laina,” Katrien said softly. “My beautiful daughter, all grown up.”
“Mother?” Laina whispered.
Their expressions were so alike. Faolan had never seen Katrien in his daughter before; the Katrien he had married had been soft and girlish and timid, fragile as a wisp of smoke. But this new Katrien was the mirror image of his daughter. Despite his anger, Faolan’s heart ached at the sight.
When Katrien reached the foot of the stairs, she strode forward and enfolded Laina in her arms. She did not seem to care that her daughter was coated in mud head to foot.
“Why’ve you come back?” Laina sobbed.
“I was a stupid child,” Katrien said. “I should never have abandoned you. I should have stayed to raise you properly.”
The Fall of Lostport Page 37
