He would no longer speak, and act, with the King’s Voice.
That was now Inda’s responsibility—and his life.
PART TWO
Chapter One
NDAND Arveas and the children of Castle Andahi made a long, weary trek up the side of the rocky mountainside, sleeping under the stars when the sun vanished. Ndand walked with them, leading her horse by the reins. She left the children with the older girls in the old robbers’ cave that the youngsters used as their main headquarters when they camped out and played scout and stalk games.
From Twisted Pine Path upward horses were useless; the trail was too steep and narrow. Ndand retreated back over the ridge that divided the cave from the castle, and trudged straight upward, Keth with her. He kept looking back down at the avalanche, admiring it anew.
When they reached Twisted Pine, they came to the fork. One way led into deep old forest, eventually winding down into Idayago. The narrower path led straight upward. They began to climb that path. The landslide, then the castle, dropped away from view.
Upward for the steepest portion of their climb they toiled, through three drenching lightning storms followed by the blaze of the summer sun. Down below that meant stifling heat unless a breeze came directly off the harbor, chasing up the canyons of the pass. Up on the mountains, the sun was bright but the air more mild, summer defining itself in a rainbow splash of wildflowers. The higher they reached the colder the night air, and they huddled together in the same bedroll, Keth dropping off within half a dozen breaths, Ndand lying back quietly to think, the horse on a long line nearby.
The three oldest girls had begun the trek in silent cooperation, but by the end Ndand had seen the little signs that there was going to be trouble between them. Inevitable, she’d discovered during her teens. Some girls were natural leaders, some just had to be leaders whether they were good at it or not, and some would do anything for attention. You could make do if you had only two of these types in any group, but all three always meant trouble, and they had all three.
Before she left the children in the robbers’ cave, Ndand assembled them so that no one would feel singled out. She looked at each face as she repeated the Jarlan’s orders. If good sense didn’t prevail, the threat of the consequences of not following orders would.
She had no fears for them otherwise. The castle children had been all over the mountains since their arrival at Castle Andahi almost four years ago. They knew all the local trails and caves; they had sometimes camped out for days at a time. The Jarl and Jarlan had thought such ventures good for developing responsibility as well as hardiness.
Good sense will keep you alive better than ambition, she thought as she got to her feet and helped Keth up.
After another long trek, she and Keth reached the last fork. The left-hand trail wound around the mountain to the lookout point, which was lower than the beacon crag, but from which the entire bay and the castle were visible. The right-hand trail climbed all the way to the heights. There at the very top of the mountain someone long ago had built a one-room house out of stone. Flash and Barend and their chosen men had built the beacon there, after tests with lanterns. The burning beacon (or its smoke during the glare of day) would be visible from the crags up the pass, though the bulk of the mountain blocked it from the view of the harbor and castle below.
She wiped her brow. Even if the air was cool, the bright sun was warm. Keth had begun stoutly determined to do his share, but for most of the afternoon she’d taken his little bag of clothes and he’d been holding her hand. Her shoulder ached from the constant pull.
She eyed the two trails, then dropped the packs on a nearby rock and swung her arm. “Let’s have something to eat, then push on,” she suggested, and watched the boy sink down with silent but expressive relief.
They wolfed down a portion of their journey bread, then got to their feet. She forced her voice to cheery briskness. “Come on, then. We can reach them before nightfall if we really push. Horse’ll wait here.”
Keth’s neck knuckle bobbed. “Right,” he said sturdily.
And so they ran and walked by turns, stopping only to drink. As the sky clouded for the almost inevitable afternoon storm, Ndand sang songs. When the storm struck, with lightning flickering all around, she switched to heroic stories as they huddled under a tree. As soon as the sun peeped out, shining through the crystal drips all around them, they splashed on, a rainbow reflected in the puddles.
She was busy enough with her stories to keep her own mind from gnawing itself raw with the now-familiar questions. So she was not aware just when the atmosphere changed.
Maybe it was the emptiness. Instinctively she slowed, relieved to reach the last narrow trail bordering the rocky cliff on which the little hut was built. No one knew who had built it, or why, but it was there, the stone walls so old they were mossy. The roof had long since fallen in, but Flash and his men had made a new one, laddering scavenged branches from wind-twisted trees and covering that with cut turf.
Ndand sniffed, her shoulder stiffening. The air smelled like it always did: pine, mud, a trace of wildflowers. So why did she feel like a scout dog, hackles up, ears twitchy?
“Behind me,” she said to Keth.
Her uncharacteristically sharp tone made him fall in obediently, tired as he was.
She began the stalk, treading on the outsides of the foot so that one moved in silence. The children learned it young; she didn’t need to look at Keth to know that he’d begun stalking. His steps were soundless.
They circled the house in a wide perimeter first, scouting in all directions.
Nothing in the makeshift stable, which was nothing more than a roof on poles for the horses of Barend’s or Flash’s Runners. None of whom were here.
She eyed the house. Nothing. She looked skyward. No threat of a new storm, and the old one was now just a dark line in the east.
“Hello?” she called. The single small window was open, which is what you’d expect on a sunny day, but Ndand’s neck hairs stood up and her scalp prickled with a sense of danger.
“Flash?”
A small foot splooshed the muddy ground next to her and Keth crept close, face blanched with question and fear.
She was scaring him. So she forced herself to walk briskly, her rain-soaked linen robe squeaking. Pitching her voice to heartiness, she marched straight to the warped wood-slat door. A faint smell made her throat close. She whirled and gazed toward the beacon farther up at the pinnacle of the mountain. It sat there unlit.
Unlit? Not only unlit but sodden from how many storms? Its leddas-weave, rainproof cover lay abandoned on the muddy ground, caught against a boulder where the wind had flung it.
She whirled back, sprang to the door and flung it open.
The faint stench intensified to the lour of death.
“Wait.” She flung out a hand, then gagged.
Keth backed away rapidly, eyes enormous.
She thrust her nose into the crook of her elbow and forced herself to look again at the two corpses seated at the table, covered with a mess of wet leaves chased through the little window by the storms. There were no signs of violence.
Flash sat with his head cradled on his arms as if he were taking a light nap. Across from him, Estral the Poet leaned on the table as well, one arm pillowing her head, the other rigid next to a pen and paper.
Ndand dashed in, took up the paper, and ran out. Despite the weather the ink was clear. Estral had used the expensive heralds’ ink, made to withstand sweaty fingers, years of seasonal change, decades of sitting on dusty shelves.
My dear brother Skandar:
If your plans work—and why shouldn’t they in the south as well as they have right here? You will be the first to find this letter, and I want you to understand that I do not blame you.
Skandar? Ndand knew that name. Wasn’t there a Skandar leading the Resistance? Skandar Mardric. Brother?
Sick with fear, anger, and grief, Ndand forced herself to read on.
The spell on my magical case abruptly ceased to function, as I am sure you are aware: I do not know if it was only mine, or all of ours wore out the magic. That is why the silence of these past days.
I shall keep my hands to the paper so that these words will be the third thing to catch your eye.
Not your fault, so I say again. You know I never desired to trade my old, silk-broidered words for the knotted ravels of current passions. You always mocked me with your smile and your “Oh, Estral, when will you face up to the truth, that the poems of olden times just decorated the same old betrayals, greed, and ambition.” I still believe if it is so, the greater cause was better than the meanness of our present choices—either “our” king (our loyalty far stronger after he fell than it ever was before!) or the carefully planned and impartial overlordship of the Marlovans. You say the Marlovans must die because we did not choose them. I say, but we did not choose our king, either.
Despite the kinthus my thoughts scamper in fright down this tangled path toward the gathering shadows. Is that because I know what lies ahead? If only I could see! Though pain there is none and the fear is gradually fading. My fingers slowly grow cold, see how carefully shaped my letters are? I have to state my point: I chose to follow you. But here, at the end, I can say it is not out of conviction, nor out of a wish for fame. I did what I did to see your smile of pride.
I will not see it now.
In horror Ndand read the rest of Estral’s confession: how she’d gone with Flash to the beacon. How she’d offered him a glass of wine while they waited for the storm to pass, so they could drag off the cover and light the beacon together. How she’d put a double dose of white kinthus into the wine, adding spices to hide it. The instant effect, Flash’s last words—words of love, not of war.
How she held him until he was dead. Then she dragged the cover off the beacon so it would be ineradicably ruined, just as Skandar had made her promise to do.
Everything done as she’d promised.
How she had judged herself for what she had done.
So instead of your pride, give me your promise: that you send this letter to Ndand Arveas, Flash’s wife. Yes, I am asking you to give information to a Marlovan. I beg you to try, just once, to see past the high fence of your political assumptions and extend a hand, human to human. Of all of them, she will understand most, and I would have her know that though I took his life away from him, away from her, away from his brother and father and mother and from the world, I gave mine in return. Not an equal bargain. Or a fair one. But it’s all I have to give.
Ndand crushed the letter into her robe, unable to read farther. She had to get control of herself, for there was much to be done.
Keth watched, white-lipped. “Did she kill him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She was part of the Resistance. We didn’t know she was sister to the leader.”
Keth’s voice trembled. “Let’s leave her here to rot.”
Ndand closed her eyes against a lightning-bolt of anger. She’d shared her home, her heart, her husband with this woman, who had taken away the last. Estral had enabled the Venn to make it easier to take away the first.
But she had never wanted to hurt the second. Ndand knew it as true.
“No,” she said, opening her eyes. “We will sing for her as well as him as we Disappear them. We will treat her with respect. We will—” No, they could not set the cabin afire to serve as beacon, for the furniture was as sodden as the beacon, and stone walls and a storm-soaked turf roof would not burn. Instinct urged her to move fast, not spend days here hoping to coax a fire out of sodden wood.
“We will leave this cabin clean and open to the air. And then we’ll go back down the trail to the lookout fork . . .” She let out a slow, shuddering breath as she caressed Keth’s face. “And if we see the red-black flag, and I am afraid we will, there won’t be time to visit the girls, and leave you with them. You and I are going to ride like thunder over the pass to warn Ala Larkadhe. Because it doesn’t look like there’s anybody else to do the job.”
Chapter Two
HYARL Fulla Durasnir, Commander of Prince Rajnir’s invasion fleet, looked around the ruins of Castle Trad Varadhe.
The Marlovans had destroyed the castle and the harbor; it was no surprise that they had been ready for the invasion. The carefully timed simultaneous attack on all three of Idayago’s castle-guarded harbors had thus been mostly a failed surprise, except for catching the Jarl of Arveas and his force leaving Trad Varadhe on their way to Castle Andahi.
Durasnir was here on inspection because his Drenga were a part of the invasion. Even though they came under the Hilda chain of command, Durasnir liked seeing whatever would be described in reports if he could. Hilda Commander Talkar had requested Prince Rajnir invite Durasnir as a courtesy.
The Drenga, as first in, had joined with the Hilda in attacking the Jarl’s force. Once the Marlovans had been destroyed, Talkar had been shifted to the most important castle, the gateway to the pass.
Durasnir paced over the battleground where the Marlovans had been defeated, then he inspected the harbor, finally shaking his head.
“The docks will all have to be rebuilt,” he said.
“The Idayagans can do it,” Dag Erkric replied, and then turned to the prince.
The way he did it burned warning through Durasnir. He’d turned too soon, not with the manner of seeing if the prince had anything to say, but as if giving him a prompt.
Sure enough. Prince Rajnir said, “Oneli Commander Talkar sent a dispatch just before you came, Hyarl my Commander.” He flickered his fingers, indicating a dispatch box. “He says they still do not have the castle gates down, even though he’s been there since yesterday! If Talkar’s men can’t get the gates down, I desire the Yaga Krona to help them. Since you are going to inspect there next, you may carry my will to Talkar.”
Behind the prince, Dag Erkric smiled.
“As you wish, my prince.” Durasnir made his obeisance.
Erkric said smoothly, “I would be glad to send you directly to the Cormorant by transfer magic.”
Prince Rajnir smiled. “It is a good idea. It will be so much faster.”
The dag might have meant it for a courtesy, though he rarely did anything for a single reason.
“I thank you both, my prince, Dag Erkric. But I wish to finish inspecting the harbor so that we may begin rebuilding the sooner. We will need it.”
Prince Rajnir exclaimed, “Yes. Yes! You always know what is right, Hyarl my Commander.”
Durasnir saluted in peace mode, wondering if the prince really understood why “Hyarl my Commander” was insisting on traditional travel: because despite all the talk about expedience, and quick-thinking aid, and adaptation being equivalent of the bending Tree against harsh winds, magic is not used in war.
A direct order from the prince must be obeyed. And the method of delivery made Durasnir a messenger-ensign. He must take the order to Talkar, which would signal to everyone that Durasnir was part of this shift away from tradition to using magic in war.
Therefore, Durasnir refused the offering of magic transfer. He took his time in finishing his inspection of Trad Varadhe’s harbor, and then had himself rowed back to the Cormorant, his flagship. He signaled for his raiders to assume fleet battle stations as they sailed west from Trad Varadhe to Sala Varadhe, or Castle Andahi.
The Marlovans were there, defending it with life and blood, so he may as well adapt to their name for it.
The trip itself was all too short a distance, the shore winds having shifted to speed them along.
They reached the bay on the morning tide. He signaled for the fleet to anchor outside in the roads, as the bay itself was filled with the advance force’s ships. As his crew went about their duty, he raised his glass to scan the horizon, where the bulk of the fleet tacked and tacked again, polishing the coast as they waited for orders to land the army. They were a fine sight, on strict statio
n all across the horizon.
By the time Durasnir had finished breakfast and inspected his ship, no messengers awaited him with the hoped-for news. The gates to Castle Andahi remained closed.
So Commander Durasnir set out to deliberately waste time.
He summoned his personal ensigns to get him into his heavy formal battle tunic again, and to have himself clasped back into his armor.
He brushed his hair out, rebraided it, and settled his winged helm on his head to his satisfaction.
He toured his ship on inspection again, pretending not to see covert looks of annoyance from his men interrupted in their duty rhythm.
He ate a biscuit while reading the newest dispatches—all three of them. He read them twice.
Finally he sent a polite message to Falk Ulaffa, the dag in charge of the prince’s Yaga Krona, sequestered in study down in the dags’ cabins, in case he wanted a ride instead of using transfer magic like the dags usually did. He issued orders for the boats, adding that the Drenga must find some mounts so that he could proceed by horse up the newly-secured road to the castle, after an inspection of the aftermath of the landings.
That ought to take up plenty of time, he reasoned, since the local tides did not cooperate, being mild. Maybe by then Talkar would have those gates opened.
He was surprised when Dag Ulaffa accepted his invitation. Getting the old dag over the side and into the boat on a brisk sea wasted more time.
He climbed down, taking care that the frisky breeze just kicking up did not disturb the wings on his helm. He settled himself, asked the dag if he was comfortable. Ulaffa gave him an absent smile, and responded in the affirmative.
The men picked up the oars and pulled for shore.
Durasnir remained in the longboat until the marines had beached it, their usual smooth, swift competence more speedy than ever, directly under the eye of their commander. When you’re at war, there’s no way to tell your men to slack off, he thought wryly.
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