“You don’t care,” Gdir began.
Han gave way to her own temper. “If you start pugging like Lnand—”
She never got a chance to finish the threat. Gdir’s hand came round so fast Han only registered it just before it hit her face.
Gdir backed up, staring at her hand, and at Han, who had staggered back, her face buzzing like it had been stung by a thousand bees.
Gdir whirled around and ran to the back, where the water trickled down the wall from a crack way up in the shadows.
Han ignored Gdir for the rest of the day. Her cheek throbbed as she got everyone to clean up and organize the cavern. Then she conducted warm-ups for the first time, and the snap of her voice got them all in line and working their best.
All except Gdir.
Lnand abandoned her languishing pose when everyone else was intent on warm-ups, and with a tragic air of sacrifice, she drifted to the front. She made what looked like the supreme effort as she took up the rhythm, favoring one knee and one wrist, and making faces of silent suffering. The younger girls and all the smalls moved closer to her. A few of the boys called the gruff, joking encouragement they got from their older brothers, now away at the academy.
When Han, who watched narrowly, saw the familiar small smile Lnand couldn’t quite hide, she picked up the pace, ignoring Lnand’s limping and posturing. She also ignored Gdir, who remained a silent hunched ball of misery at the far end of the cavern.
The rest of the day they played blind-stalk, the one with the blindfold having to use other senses to catch people sneaking slantwise across the cavern and back. It was a great training game, one of the favorites, and the winners got a lick of honey.
At supper time Han ordered no lighting of the Fire Stick, and no one protested.
Gdir did not speak to Han or to Lnand. In fact, they did not see Gdir speak to anyone, but suddenly the eights and Hal, the nine-year-old, swarmed around Han, asking variations on “When can we check the castle?” adding, “We’re cowards if we don’t go. They might need help!”
Han was tired, worried, and unsure about everything. She said angrily, “No castle! If you even bring it up again, then I’ll tell Liet-Jarlan that you broke orders! Now, lights out!”
Though everyone moaned and a few of the eights flipped up the back of their hand at Han (when she couldn’t see), Lnand was relieved. Even then it seemed to take forever to get the smalls settled, especially as they had no more milk and didn’t dare make a fire, so they couldn’t even make warm steep.
But at last the younger children were settled, and Han climbed wearily into her bedroll. The last thing she saw was Gdir lying in her bedroll, Tlennen just beyond. Gdir had moved them away from everyone. Her profile was a pale blotch against the dark stone. From somewhere the faintest gleam reflected in her wide-open eyes.
Han was just as glad not to have her nearby and curled up gratefully. But as disjointed images from the day mixed with memory and as her mind chattered imagined conversations with everybody—all the things she should have said—something bothered her. She kept remembering Gdir’s eyes open and staring in the dark. Was that it?
The creeping sleepies withdrew, and Han too glared upward at the shadow-hidden cavern roof. She didn’t want Gdir to see her checking on her, if she was still awake.
Besides, it wasn’t Gdir that bothered her. It was Tlennen, his bedroll on Gdir’s other side. They’d never done that before. Tlennen had always had his bedroll next to Young Tana, Rosebud’s six-year-old brother.
Slowly, so she wouldn’t be obvious, Han turned over. She eased her head up . . . to see two flat bedrolls.
Han went cold all over. She scrambled out of her bedroll and groped her way to the back where Ndand had set their roll of weapons, with a whole list of terrible threats invisibly attached if they used them in any but dire need.
She unrolled the weave-reinforced canvas with its rows of wave slots holding weapons so they wouldn’t clatter together and nick. She felt her way down with shaking fingers and yes, two bows were missing from their hooks, and one pair of knives.
But Tlennen didn’t have a bow. None of the boys had their own bow until they were older.
Han’s chill turned to sickness. The knives were Gdir’s, of course, but who else was gone? Oh. Yes. Had to be Gdir’s first cousins, seven and eight. The girl cousin, just turned eight, would have her bow.
Han grabbed her own bow, and her knives, but they felt heavy and clumsy, and she knew she couldn’t fight a grown-up with them. But she strapped them on anyway, her hands shaking.
Then she turned away—and tripped over the lantern, set out ready to be lit. It jangled loud as thunder.
Lnand started up. “Who’s there?”
“Me,” Han said.
“Who?” Lnand crawled out of bed.
Han closed the distance, and drew Lnand away, toward the mouth of the cave. After the profound dark of the back, the cavern entrance seemed almost bright in the light of the stars and the rising moon. “Gdir left. Took Tlennen and her cousins. I have to go get them.”
“I’ll go,” Lnand whispered promptly.
Han had figured Lnand would love a night sneak—and a chance to fight Gdir again. “No. You stay here. If something happens to me and Gdir, then you’re in charge.”
Maybe Lnand thought it was dark, but the starlight lit her teeth when she grinned. Han saw that grin, and her annoyance hardened to hate.
She hitched her loose-strung bow over one shoulder and her quiver over the other. She hopped over the low wall and walked out. Lnand called a soft question, words too low to make out. Han ignored her, feeling her way to the trail that led up over the ridge.
The air was soft and warm. Somewhere high up, wings flapped, and a wheeling shape crossed the low half moon. After the cave dark, Han’s eyes had adjusted enough for her to pick out the animal-made ridge trail. Not the one that led down to the pass, but the one that ran parallel to the cliffs. From below you’d be outlined against the sky—the children had discovered that on their campout night sneaks—so they only used that one to travel fast, but never on the sneak. But now, at night, with the Venn gone and no teams of children out roaming, she hoped no one was around to see her.
Still, she remembered Lnand’s pale face, and when she crossed a small stream winding down the mountain from the thunderstorm just after sunset, she stopped and scooped up the soft, silty mud, rubbing it over her face and the tops of her hands. She took off her brown sash and tied it around her head, tucking her braids into it. Then she smeared mud down the bleached muslin of her summer smock. That felt cold and nasty, but she was used to that from their stalking games.
She bent to the trail and stalked over the big ridge that jutted into the pass, forming the first big bend. When she topped that, she caught her first glimpse of Castle Andahi down at the bottom of the pass. It was reassuring to find it just the way it always looked, except for the familiar landslide slanting down to the inner wall on the east side. Relief welled inside her until she realized the ruddy glint of the night torches was missing.
A vague sense of motion caused her to squint at the base of the landslide. Four ghostly blobs were just beginning to climb the long dirt spill.
Had to be Gdir. So she wasn’t marching right up to the castle at least. Looked like she was going to scout by going up the landslide to peer down inside. Han began to scramble down the ridge, her bow bumping on her back. Twice she tripped over unseen roots and fell flat.
She moved faster then the four. Gdir was treading cautiously. Her brother and cousins weren’t very good at night moves yet. Gdir had Tlennen by the hand.
Gdir was a good scout. She spotted Han just as Han reached the landslide, which was disappointing: Han wanted badly to scare Gdir as she deserved.
At least Gdir halted the others about a hundred paces up the steep incline. Little rocks pocketty-pocked down the slope toward the castle, making Han wince as she bent lower and lower, almost crawling.
As s
oon as she reached Gdir, she put her mouth up to her ear. “I don’t like it. No torches, and I can’t see any sentries.”
Gdir’s wide eyes reflected the moon. “I saw that. Something happened. We need to check.”
Han shivered, though the air was warm. Everything felt wrong now, and not just because they were breaking orders.
“Let’s get just a little closer.” Han crouched low, instinct tightening the back of her neck. “Maybe the torches aren’t visible from this part of the landslide. We never had a chance to check before they sent us away.”
Gdir flicked her hand open. The three younger children crouched down. They’re following her orders now, Han thought.
“I think you need to mud up,” Han whispered.
Gdir shuddered. But she’d stalked long enough to know that pale faces showed up if you knew how to look. “If we see anyone.”
“But that might be too—”
Late. At that moment a tall, horn-helmed sentry walked slowly out from the west tower arch on the castle wall and made his way northward.
He was on the other side of the castle from the children, moving away. The children stared in horror at the castle.
The moon shone down from overhead, just enough light for them to comprehend that the Venn had taken control of the castle. The children could make out sentries on the north wall of the castle, where the gates were.
“Did they take our parents prisoner?” Han whispered.
Gdir said, “Where would they put them? The garrison lockup only has two beds in each cell—”
“Four cells—”
“—then they must be down in the old dungeon, but they’d have to move everything around—”
“But remember, they already moved things, when we helped make those mazes.”
Tlennen pointed his wet thumb. “Why are all the guards at the front?”
“They must expect attack from the sea,” Han said slowly. “They must think nobody will come from the pass. Because they have all those marchers.”
Han looked Gdir’s way for corroboration, but Gdir was staring intently up at the top of the landslide. She pointed with her bow, and the others saw the line of pale faces all the way up at Twisted Pine Path, adjacent to where Flash and Keth had stood to start the avalanche.
The line spotted Gdir’s pale face. They halted.
“They’re sneaking up on the castle,” Gdir said, sucking in a happy breath. “It’s got to be our people!”
Han got a single heartbeat of joy before she had to say, “No. Ours’d be in mud. They wouldn’t be standing up like that, making targets.”
“They’re attacking the castle.” Gdir shivered with excitement. Everything was going to be all right! “We can help them! We can tell them how we’d do it!”
“I think we better hide,” Han ordered, still crouched low.
But Gdir was already running. Her brother and cousins launched after her.
Gdir waved her bow, which she hadn’t strung yet. “We can help,” she called in Marlovan, and then in Iascan, “We can help—”
The attackers talked in Idayagan, too fast for Han to catch the words, or maybe it was the words themselves she didn’t know.
The voices were angry. One carried on the summer air all the way to Han: “No, they won’t,” and then in the children’s own language, accented but clear, “Little Marlovan shits!”
Twang! None of the four children saw the arrow until it smacked Gdir’s chest, not twenty-five paces from the speaker.
Han’s eyes swam with weird spots. But she could see—would forever see—Gdir’s body twist around, her hands going to the arrow, just before she crumpled up.
Tlennen began to screech, high, breathless, shrill.
Hiss! Zip! More arrows, at least a dozen, and before Han’s horrified eyes the other three children jerked then fell, Tlennen with four or five arrows in him.
Some of the Idayagans missed—one arrow landed within arm’s reach of Han. She tensed, not sure whether to yell, to fight, to freeze.
From inside the castle a horn blatted. It was answered by another. Mounted Venn emerged from the back of the castle, carrying torches, and rode toward the landslide. The Idayagans had scattered, some running straight back up to Twisted Pine, others toward the far side of the landslide and out of sight.
Han backed all the way down the southernmost edge of the landslide as the Venn horses plunged in pursuit of the Idayagans, perhaps five hundred long paces away, racing at an angle away from her.
She remembered orders. She remembered the cave. She kept backing away, low as a turtle, until she reached the gulley between the avalanche and the ridge. Shivering with fear, terror, shock, she darted from bush to bush, pausing just once to look back.
There were the four small bodies, just barely visible on this side of the landslide, hidden from the castle. Memory was cruel, forcing her to see them fall—the small things—Gdir’s jerk, Tlennen’s little fingers scrabbling, and she bent over a bush and vomited.
She collapsed onto the trail next to the bush. The smell of the vomit forced her away, clawing at the back of her throat. And though her head throbbed, she got to her hands and knees, crawling until she could get her feet under her.
Somehow she got back to the cavern. Lnand had lit a lantern, shading it on the side where the children lay sleeping.
“Oogh, what is that stink?” Lnand whispered.
Han did not answer. She found the bucket and dunked her whole head. The water was merciful on her hot, smeared, itchy face, but memory granted no mercy.
She sucked in water then spewed it back out, and the magic fluoresced a brief blue as it snapped away the vile taste in her mouth. She raised her head, breathing hard.
Lnand waited, so still the lantern’s orange tongue of flame reflected in her eyes.
Han had left hating Lnand. There was no room inside her for that now. She fell to her hands and knees, and Lnand stared in shock at the tears tumbling down Han’s face, her contorted mouth.
“She’s dead. Gdir is dead.” Han keened, trying to keep her voice down. But a sob sucked in her chest, and she bent double, rocking as she fought to contain it. “All. Dead.”
“Who did it? Venn?”
“Idayagans.”
Lnand whispered, “Did they see you?”
“No.” Han squeezed her eyes shut. What to do? They’d already broken orders once. And Gdir was dead! No, maybe she was alive. Han caught herself up. Yes, maybe she was alive—she saw a lot of bad shots—she might be hurt—
“I’ve got to go back,” Han said.
Lnand hissed her breath in. She looked back toward the children, and Han knew she was scared. Lnand was far too frightened to hide it.
“You’re coming with me,” Han stated.
“But you said before if something happens—”
“It’s all changed. The Idayagans know about us now. Maybe even the Venn. If Gdir is alive, any of them, the Idayagans might even try to find out where we are.” Han breathed hard, the ideas coming faster. “Yes. If they’re dead, we’ll Disappear them. We won’t just leave them there. I can’t do that.”
“No.” Lnand hunched up. “But I don’t see why I have to go. You’re making me go to be mean.”
“You have to help me against those Idayagans. They are talking right now, I bet anything. I mean the ones who ran away. They’re talking right now, just like we are. ‘Where did those brats come from?’ They called us little shits. ‘Where did the little shits come from? We better find out. Maybe the little shits we filled with arrows are alive. We can drag the bodies away so they can’t Disappear them, and throw them off a cliff.’ ”
Lnand was too shocked to act shocked.
“They might think the Venn saw us, but I don’t think they did. They might be afraid the Venn will find out about the Idayagans from Gdir, if she’s alive. They might think grown-ups of ours will come and find out, and come after them.”
Lnand’s mouth turned down. “I wish we had gr
own-ups.”
“We don’t. It’s us. So wake up . . . oh, Freckles and Dvar. I’ll wake Hal. He’ll have to be in charge here, since he’s not very good with the bow yet.”
Even Hal would agree. There was no insult in that. Boys started with sword when girls started with bow. Usually, they didn’t get bow until they were eight or so. Hal had only been shooting a year—and that maybe twice a week, when the girls shot every single day.
Han and Lnand shook the three nine-year-olds awake and told them what had happened. Freckles and Dvar reacted with disbelief, and then angry determination, catching their mood from Han. Haldred shivered, all bony knots, but turned his thumb up when Han gave him his orders.
Under Han’s sharp order, the girls bound up their hair and covered themselves with mud.
Then in low-running single file they stalked from cave up over the ridge, down to the landspill, and up.
They’d almost reached the four small death-sprawled figures when Lnand poked Han with her bow and pointed upward at Twisted Pine Path.
Han had been right! Figures slunk out from behind the wind-shaped conifer that clung to the broad ledge, and began picking their way down.
The Idayagans were terrible at the stalk. They didn’t wear any helms. A few had mudded their faces, but most hadn’t. They all wore dark clothes, but they faced the moon, and were clear as could be. Marlovans wouldn’t be that stupid.
Han wondered if the Venn saw them, too. She glanced back at the castle, but saw nothing, not even any sentries.
“We have to wait for them to get into range,” Lnand said, which was the second rule on drills.
Han said, “Right.” Gdir would have gotten mad at Lnand for saying something they’d all known since they were six, but Lnand’s shoulders relaxed as soon as Han said right.
Lnand’s expression was hard to make out because of the mud, but Han could tell she was worried. “Will they come at us in that line? We can’t shoot the first one, all the others will just run away.”
She wants to know if everything we practice is going to work. Han said, “No. If they’re looking for Gdir and them, they’ll have to spread out. I bet they don’t remember just where they were. They can’t know the landslide like we do.”
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