Inheritance

Chapter 15

Areava was woken early by a messenger from Dejanus. He had someone in the Royal Guard’s office with information concerning Prince Lynan. In no mood to suffer the new constable alone, she had Olio roused as well. Dejanus’ guest, sitting on a stool and looking exhausted and sorry for himself, was a man dressed in the livery of a naval officer; the long red stripe on his jerkin’s sleeves indicated the rank of captain.

When the queen and her brother arrived, the captain stood up so quickly the stool toppled over. He managed a salute. Areava could see that he was terrified. What had Dejanus been saying to him?

“Your Majesty, this is Captain Rykor of the Revenant, one of the ships sent after Grapnel Moorice’s Seaspray” Dejanus told her. He looked at the captain with barely disguised contempt. “He has a tale for you.”

Areava nodded for Rykor to tell his story. In a nervous voice he told Areava and Olio about a small boat that had fled from his ship the previous day, and which had been wrecked against the rocky cliffs north of Kendra. His description of the events was sparse but left out nothing.

“How many did you say were in the boat?” Areava asked the captain when he was finished. She glanced at Dejanus standing behind the captain like a nemesis, brooding and threatening. For a moment Areava herself felt threatened by his presence, but then she heard Olio’s steady breathing behind her and she felt safer.

Captain Rykor swallowed, cast his gaze down to his feet. “Four, Your Majesty. Three men and a woman.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“Not as such, Your Majesty. But the largest one had the build and look of the const… I mean… of Kumul Alarn.” He cast a frightened glance toward the new constable. “We were never close enough to see their faces.”

“And there were no survivors,” Dejanus said, a statement and not a question.

“No,” Rykor confirmed. “We waited for several minutes. No one survived. There were no bodies. The undertow there is horrific. If they are not… well, eaten… one or two of the bodies might wash up on the shores of Aman or Lurisia in the next few days.”

Areava sighed deeply.

“How did you find the b-b-boat?” Olio asked. “I thought you were sent after the Seaspray?”

“Three warships were sent out, Your Highness,” Rykor answered. “Besides my own Revenant, there were Moonlighter and Windsnapper. My ship was out last, and my lookout saw kestrels above a boat northwest of our position, though he saw no actual boat at that time. I knew that both Moonlighter and Windsnapper each had the necessary speed to catch Seaspray, so I decided to follow the new sighting, just in case.”

“As well you did,” Olio said gently.

Areava nodded to Dejanus, who tapped Rykor on the shoulder. The captain saluted the queen and left.

“I want patrols increased along that coast, both by sea and by land. If any bodies resurface or are washed up on the shore, I want them returned immediately to Kendra for identification.”

Dejanus nodded. “It may be hard to recognize any remains, Your Majesty. Thrown against those rocks, and what with the sharks and other creatures… well…”

“Nonetheless,” Areava insisted, “I want it done. Is there any word from the captains of the other two ships?”

Dejanus looked dejected. “They lost the Seaspray, Your Majesty. She went too far out to sea. There was a fog, some shoals…” His voice trailed off.

Areava nodded stiffly, turned on her heel and left, not waiting to see Dejanus salute her. Olio followed her.

“I had hoped it would all be over by this morning,” Areava said dully.

“It m-m-may b-b-be all over. I don’t think anyone could survive b-b-being thrown into the sea so close to the rocks near those cliffs.”

“And what of the conspiracy?” the queen wondered aloud. “Without Lynan or one of the others, we may never know who else was involved.”

“And it may never m-m-matter. If Lynan and Kumul were both involved in B-B-Berayma’s death, then they were almost certainly the ringleaders. Who else could have been? And without them, any other conspirators aren’t likely to b-b-be a threat.”

“If Lynan and Kumul were involved? You still doubt it?”

Olio shrugged. “The evidence against them is overwhelming, I admit, but it is entirely circumstantial. Think, sister: if the conspiracy was set against you or m-m-me as well as B-B-Berayma, do you think either of us would be here now to talk about it? Poor B-B-Berayma was the target, not the whole royal family. And if that is the case, what profit did Lynan gain from the king’s m-m-murder?”

Areava nodded. “Perhaps he argued with Berayma on the night.”

She stopped suddenly and looked up, wide-eyed.

“What’s wrong?” Olio asked.

Areava had just remembered her conversation with Lynan on the south gallery only a few hours before Berayma’s murder. She had consciously tried to suggest to Lynan that Berayma supported her approach. What if Lynan had confronted Berayma about it that night? What if in anger and frustration and confusion Lynan had lashed out, killing Berayma?

It was my fault, she told herself, then shook her head fiercely. No. If Lynan went that far, it was his own base nature, not my words, that drove him.

Olio looked on, bemused, wondering why her expression was so bleak one second and then so angry the next. “Sister?”

“Perhaps he argued with Berayma on the night,” Areava repeated.

They resumed walking. After a moment Areava continued, “We may never know. Of most concern to me is the loss of the Key of Union.” She looked down at the two keys that now hung around her own neck. “I do not know what power the Keys hold, but I fear that the loss of even one Key will weaken them.”

There was the sound of footsteps running behind them. Areava looked over her shoulder to see Harman scurrying after them, his writing implements and pads tucked under one arm.

“So soon, old friend?” Areava called out to him.

“The business of the kingdom waits for no man or woman, your Majesty,” Harman replied, catching up with them. “Not even the queen herself.”

“Tell me, was it always like this for my mother?”

“Always, Your Majesty.”

“How did she live so long?”

Harman smiled slightly. “I think she actually grew to enjoy it.”

“That is something I will never do, I think,” Areava said wistfully.

“Give it time,” Olio said in her ear. “You are more like our m-m—mother than you think.”

Dejanus left his office in high spirits. When he passed a patrol of the Royal Guards that forgot to salute him as constable, he merely reminded them of their duty. They will learn, he told himself.

Captain Rykor, whether he knew it or not, had lifted from Dejanus’ mind his greatest fear: that Lynan would be captured alive. Exactly how much the young prince knew of Dejanus and Orkid’s part in Berayma’s murder he did not know, but his predecessor Kumul was certainly clever enough to have figured out most of it, and was sure to have told Lynan. Now that both Lynan and Kumul were dead, however, Dejanus was secure in his new position.

At last I am safe, he thought.

Ever since Orkid had discovered his betrayal of Grenda Lear during the Slaver War, Dejanus had lived in fear of being exposed to Usharna, but from the moment he had pierced Berayma’s throat with Lynan’s dagger he had as much against Orkid as the chancellor had against him.

He stopped for a moment, frowning. And what of the deal with Orkid? For helping with the assassination of Berayma, the chancellor had promised to ensure he was made constable… and yet… and yet Orkid’s expression had seemed particularly displeased when Areava had announced Dejanus’s elevation at the first meeting of the executive council.

The constable shook his head. There was nothing the chancellor could do. If Dejanus was brought down, then Orkid would come down with him. And now that Lynan and Kumul were dead, no one except the pair of them knew the whole truth about Berayma’s death.

He breathed a sigh of relief, and for the first time in his life knew he no longer had to look over his shoulder to the past. Only the future mattered now.

Amemun held up his glass to the light, admiring the color of the fine red Storian wine. He sipped it carefully, enjoying its full body and woody aroma.

“We have nothing like this back home,” he said.

Orkid offered his friend a smile and drank from his own glass. “Trade is one of the things we will improve. Usharna was loath to surrender the crown’s monopoly on luxury goods such as wine; it added so much to her revenue. I could never make her understand how reducing restrictions would increase the flow of commerce and so increase her revenue in the long term.”

“She was shortsighted, then.”

Orkid shook his head. “In some ways perhaps. She could be hidebound, with monopolies for example, but in other things she was remarkably progressive. After all, she made me chancellor, the first citizen of the kingdom not from Kendra itself to hold such high office.”

“To our benefit,” Amemun said without irony.

“To the benefit of Grenda Lear as a whole,” Orkid pointed out without pride.

“As your brother, the noble Marin, foresaw all those decades ago when you were first sent to Usharna’s court.”

Orkid nodded. “Aye. Farseeing, indeed.”

“What of our co-conspirator? Do you think he will cause you trouble?”

Orkid shrugged. “I had hoped to tie Dejanus to me even more closely, but Areava announced his promotion without consulting me. From her point of view it was the right thing to do, but regrettably it happened before I could suggest it to her myself. Dejanus is not the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, but he’s not stupid. Knowing that I was working on his behalf would have confirmed our relationship.”

“But you have a hold on him anyway. His secret past is enough to ensure his obedience, surely?”

“Perhaps. But don’t forget Dejanus now has a hold on me as well. We are like two great bears with their mouths around each other’s throat.”

“So how do you intend to proceed to the second part of the plan?” Amemun asked.

“Sendarus has been doing most of the work unwittingly for us, but it may require a little prompting on our part. The people will soon be demanding Areava provide an heir, especially after the events of the last few days. And fortunately for Aman, King Marin’s son is available.”

“And if the queen marries him, a day will come when the kingdom will be ruled by someone with the blood of both Kendra and Aman.” Amemun grinned into his glass. “A pity your brother had no daughter. Then Berayma could have lived.”

Orkid shook his head. “No. His closeness to the Twenty Houses meant he would never have married outside of them. Areava was our only chance.”

“And what of Olio, and that Harnan fellow?”

“I thought I knew Olio. He was always such an inoffensive boy, lurking timidly in the background, but I did not give enough credit to the relationship between him and his sister. She has needed his strength since Berayma’s death, and he has provided it without hesitation. I must work on him, bring him around, make him trust me as much as his sister does.

“And Harnan is so devoted to his duties he does not always see what is going on around him. He and I have always worked well together. I see no reason for that to change.”

Amemun pursed his lips. “There is one other matter Marin has asked me to report on. The Keys of Power. I do not think he was aware they were to be divided between the heirs. You should have warned him.”

Orkid grunted. “I had hoped to convince Usharna not to proceed with her plan, and for a long time thought I was succeeding. Given another day or two, I might have won her around, but…”

“But now they are apart. They have lost their power. If Areava and Sendarus have issue, we will want the Keys brought together again.”

“You forget, Amemun, that Lynan was wearing one of the Keys. They can never be together again. Their power is broken.”

Amemun’s face clouded. “This is dark news.”

“The individual Keys hold some energy, I’m sure. They may work still, though not as effectively as in the past. Other rulers have survived without such tokens. So will Areava’s heirs.”

“Other rulers haven’t had such a large kingdom to administer,” Amemun pointed out. “And power or no, they still have an influence over the people. We must work to unite the surviving Keys.”

Orkid held up his hand. “Patience! There is more than enough for us to deal with at the moment. The Keys can wait.”

Amemun nodded reluctantly. “I hope Marin sees it the same way.”

“He will forget all about the Keys when Sendarus and Areava are engaged,” Orkid said.

“Oh, aye, there’s no doubt about that.” Amemun raised his glass. “For Aman!”

“For Grenda Lear,” Orkid replied.

Olio left the palace as surreptitiously as possible, not wishing to be seen by his sister or any member of the Royal Guards. Under present circumstances they would have insisted on providing him with an escort, but Olio needed time alone, time to think, time away from the palace itself and everything it represented.

He wandered for a while along the wide avenues of the higher, richer districts, but gravity and inclination slowly drew him down into the old city, the heart of Kendra. He was dressed plainly, and the Key of Healing was hidden beneath his jerkin. In the crowded streets no one looked closely enough to identify him.

Olio reveled in the anonymity. No one fawned over him, no one expected him to respond to a salute or greeting. He was no more than a citizen of the city, and this meant more to him than his official rank. Like Areava, he believed heart and soul in the kingdom, in the good it had achieved, in its civilizing influence and the peace it had brought its many millions of inhabitants. But he was also aware of how much more it could achieve, given the will and determination. Around him were signs of poverty: people living in the streets, poor sanitation, children laboring away at a hundred different crafts from cobbling to sail making. He walked carefully along rises and curbs to avoid stepping in human and animal excrement.

In time, he found himself in a short alley darkened by the leaning roofs of the old timber houses that lined it. Garbage and filth clogged the worn, shallow drains on either side of the cobbled paving. Two children dressed in little more than rags ran past him, squealing with laughter as they went. An old man sat in a doorway, trying to mend a tattered shirt with a bone needle and coarse twine.

Olio paused. He looked up and around, counting the houses. Twelve along one side, eleven on the other. He wondered how many families lived in each. One or two, maybe more? Say three to six members for each family. In a space no longer than fifty paces or wider than thirty, there probably lived between a hundred and two hundred people, many of them children, and many of them would not live long enough to reach adulthood.

This is also Kendra, Olio thought. This is also the kingdom.

He started to walk on when he caught sight of a familiar cloak. Its round owner was just stepping out of one of the old houses the prince had been considering.

“Well, well,” Olio said loudly, “M-M-Magicker P-P-Prelate Edaytor Fanhow.”

The prelate turned, obviously not expecting to meet anyone who knew him. His expression showed twice as much surprise when he recognized the prince. He bowed uncertainly, still not quite believing his eyes.

“Your Highness! What are you doing down here?” He looked around curiously. “And where is your escort?”

“I am walking, sir, taking in the sights. And as for escort, why, I have n—n-none.”

“No escort?” Edaytor scurried to the prince’s side, and took his arm. “Then, your Highness, stay close by me. I will see that you come to no harm.”

Olio laughed lightly. “Why should any harm come to m-m-me?” He looked up and down the alley. “I see no thieves or scoundrels. We are quite safe, I think. At any rate, you yourself have no escort.”

“They know me around here, Prince. They know I carry nothing on my person worth stealing except my cloak, and no one would buy that from a thief, for it is generally believed to protected by magic.”

“And how comes it that the m-m—magicker p-p-prelate is so well known in this desperate slum?”

Edaytor’s expression became guarded. “My duties carry me to every part of the city, your Highness.”

“There is no theurgia hall here.”

Edaytor said nothing, but tried to guide Olio out of the alley. The prince pretended to go along, but stopped suddenly when they came to the house Edaytor had appeared from.

“Definitely no theurgia hall.”

Even as he spoke, the door to the house opened and an old woman came out carrying an empty basket. She saw the prelate, came over quickly and kissed his hand, then scurried off in the opposite direction.

“Who was that?” Olio asked mildly.

“I… I don’t know her name,” Edaytor admitted.

“She certainly seemed to know you.”

“Only in the last hour. Her son was a student magicker in the Theurgia of Fire. He died last week in an accident at the armory foundry. She had no money coming in at all, so I gave her some coins.”

Olio absorbed this information, but said nothing. Edaytor misinterpreted the silence, and blurted, “But I used my own money, your Highness, no theurgia funds.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that.” Olio patted Edaytor’s hand still resting protectively on his arm. “One day, P-P-Prelate, I think you and I should sit down and have a long talk.”

“About what?”

“Why, sir, about the kingdom.”

Left alone in her bedroom, her ladies-in-waiting gone at last, Areava slumped in a chair. She was exhausted and wide awake all at the same time. The sheer emotional and physical load of the last few days pressed down on her like a heavy weight, but a thousand thoughts were racing through her brain, all competing for her attention. Details about the Twenty Houses and their allies, Orkid’s list of possible traitors, the missing corpses of her youngest brother and his co-conspirators, the hiring and billeting of mercenaries, the impatient demands of the trade guilds for their protective tariffs to be kept in place, the impatient demands of merchants for the tariffs to be lifted, the invitation list for the coronation… The urgent, the sublime, the foolish, and the unnecessary all combined, and it was all new to her.

She had no way of knowing how to cope with the sudden flood of details and facts overwhelming her, and which was added to every morning by Orkid with his heavy solemnity and bearded, brooding face. Olio and Harnan helped where they could, but Olio was as new to administration as she was and Harnan had his duties as private secretary to keep him busy without having to answer all her foolish questions. She found herself constantly being given information she did not want to know about, applications she did not want to read, appeals she did not want to judge, and blandishments she did not want to hear.

She stood up angrily. The night was still warm—the last hurrah of summer before autumn’s cold sou’westerlies began and brought with them the icy winds up from the lands of snow far south of Theare—but she still felt the need to stoke up the fire; anything to help fill up the vacant space in her room. And the vacant spaces in her life left by the deaths of her mother and brother.

She lay on her bed and closed her eyes in an attempt to find sleep, but it was futile. Restless, she left her room, startling the two guards on post at her door. Ignoring their concerned expressions as they trailed behind her, she soon reached the south gallery. She headed over to the balcony and stopped short. There was a figure on the balcony, looking out over the city and the waters beyond. For a terrible moment she thought it was the ghost of Lynan come back to haunt her at the very place they had last spoken. The figure turned, and Areava recognized the tall and slender profile of Prince Sendarus. Her breath gushed out in relief.

“Your Majesty!” Sendarus exclaimed, and bowed deeply. “I did not know you were there!”

“I have just arrived. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I came to get away from my rooms.”

“I understand. You wish to be alone. I will leave now.”

“What were you looking for?” she asked.

“Your Majesty?”

“Can you see Aman from there? Are you homesick?”

Sendarus laughed lightly. “No, it is too dark for that, and I am not homesick.”

“I thought you might miss your father.”

“I did at first. But I have found my attention quite diverted.”

“The city has that effect on people seeing it for the first time.”

“That is not what I meant,” he said seriously.

Areava joined him at the balcony and felt a breeze on her face. She closed her eyes and pretended she was not queen and that her mother still reigned, and that all was right with the world.

Sendarus watched her carefully, watched her hair blown by the breeze, watched a small pulse in the curve of her throat, but said nothing.

Chapter 16

It took Lynan and his companions six days to reach the outskirts of the Forest of Silona. The encounter with the mercenaries had made them all jumpy, and they could ill afford further trouble now that Kumul was temporarily incapable of wielding a sword; though much better, Jenrosa still lacked stamina. Besides, the open farm land they were passing through encouraged caution.

They walked from dusk to dawn, keeping to side trails where possible, and rested during the day, taking turns to keep watch. They ate whatever food they could scrounge on their journey—berries, nuts, once a runaway chicken—and used ground leaves from whip trees and sword bushes to harden the skin on their heels and toes and reduce the risk of infection from the blisters that blossomed on their feet.

They had one more close encounter with mercenaries before reaching the forest, another troop of cavalry, but they had heard the horses from a distance and were able to hide in time.

The Forest of Silona was made up of towering wideoaks, summer trees, and headseeds, packed more closely together than any such trees had any right to be. Their branches blocked most of the sunlight from reaching the forest floor, and a sad wind passed between them, making a sound like wooden pipes playing a dirge. The air smelled rich and loamy and left a musty taste on the back of their tongues. There was something forbidding about the place, about the wood green darkness, which made all four travelers hesitate before entering its cover.

“It’ll be safer for us in the forest than out here in the open,” Ager said reassuringly, his voice hiding a quaver. He grunted, squared his shoulders as best he could, and strode, lopsided, in among the trees.

“There. It’s done, and I haven’t dropped dead. Come on, the sun’s already up. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be out the other side.”

“Is nowhere safe anymore?” Lynan asked forlornly, of no one in particular. He followed Ager. Once under the heavy shade of the trees his feeling of dread eased somewhat. It was like jumping into a cold river—after a few seconds it did not seem nearly so cold.

“It’s all right,” he said encouragingly to Jenrosa and Kumul. “It’s… safe.”

Jenrosa stood with her fists on her hips for a moment as if she was about to dispute the fact with Lynan, then sighed and crossed the boundary into the forest.

Kumul still hesitated. “I cannot forget the stories I have heard about this place.”

“We’ve all heard stories,” Ager muttered. “Soldiers make them up about every forest or river or city. You haven’t paid them any heed before.”

“I haven’t been here before,” Kumul countered.

The muscles in Lynan’s back started to tighten. Kumul’s words were frightening him. Instinctively, he drew closer to the other two, fighting the urge to leave the forest and let pure sunlight bathe his skin again.

Kumul looked back the way they had come and watched as a breeze calmly ruffled the stalks of ripening wheat and barley which filled the fields stretching north to the horizon. Then he looked at the trees, scowled into his beard, and followed the others in. Immediately, some of the tension left his body, but his expression remained grim. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he grumbled, and led the way deeper into the gloom.

“That’s curious,” Lynan thought aloud.

“What’s that?” Ager asked.

“I don’t hear any birds.”

It was true. There was not the slightest sound made by a bird, not even a raven’s desolate cawing. Except for the companions, everything was still and silent. The trees closed about them like a silent escort, shepherding them north and into the forest’s heart.

They used trails when they found them and stayed with them as long as they led north. Most of the tracks had not been in use for many years and were difficult to follow, but some had been abandoned only recently and undergrowth had not yet made the way difficult. Occasionally they come across small, abandoned huts, their open doorways and windows making them leer like skulls, their wooden floors covered in cobwebs and dust. At night the huts provided welcome refuge from the damp leafy ground outside and some protection from the creatures they assumed roamed the forest as soon as evening settled on the trees, although the only spore they saw belonged to rabbits or hares and the occasional badger. When forced to sleep outdoors, the companions would take turns on watch, guarding a tiny, precious fire and listening anxiously for any sound. Even the snuffling and pawing of a wandering bear in the blackness just beyond the circle of flickering light would have provided some measure of comfort and reassurance, for, in fact, there were few signs of any life apart from the creaking of timber, the sighing of the canopy far above, scattered spoor in the morning, and the half-ruins of deserted human habitation.

On their third night, however, when Lynan was taking his turn on watch, he did hear a sound from somewhere in the night. At first he thought it was nothing more than a settling branch, the sound of wood moving, but the second time he was sure it was closer, and its quality was different somehow from a tree’s random swaying, as if caused by a definite movement.

He held his breath and peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing. He stood up and drew his sword silently from its sheath. He wondered if he should wake the others, but told himself it was his own fears and wild imaginings that were disturbing him.

And then the sound came again, from a different angle but closer still. He twisted around, staring into the dark forest, trying to make out some hint of movement, some sign of life. But, again, there was nothing to be seen.

He finally convinced himself he was overreacting, sheathed his sword, and was squatting to sit down by the fire when he saw two eyes—green slits that burned unnaturally—staring back into his own. He cried out involuntarily and leaped to his feet. The vision disappeared.

Kumul jumped up and grabbed his sword. He scanned the area slowly, then settled his gaze on the prince. “What the hell are you bellowing for?”

“I… I thought I saw something.”

“What?”

“Eyes. A pair of eyes. Green eyes. Before that, I heard movement.”

“Movement,” Kumul said dully. Ager was now sitting up as well. Both men stared out around them. “I hear no movement and I see no eyes.”

Lynan blushed. “Sorry to wake you,” he said stiffly.

Kumul and Ager exchanged weary glances. “You’re doing fine, lad,” Kumul muttered halfheartedly. “Such alertness commends you.” The soldier dropped back to the ground, and both he and Ager returned to sleep almost immediately.

Lynan angrily poked the fire until the flames were much higher. He walked to the limits of the light it cast and studied the ground as best he could. There were no tracks, nothing unusual.

Oh, you are a mighty warrior, he told himself. Shadows and creaks and fear make enemies for you, as if you didn’t have enough real ones already.

He sat down by the fire and tried to relax, but when he was relieved from the watch by Jenrosa not long afterward, he was still so tense it took him another hour to find sleep. When he woke the next morning, he was tired and irritable and could not shake from his mind the memory of those two green eyes.

The companions carefully rationed the dried fish and berries they had brought with them, but their food was gone entirely by the end of their fourth day in the forest. They managed to find a few handfuls of wild blackberries and nuts, but it wasn’t enough to keep away the increasingly urgent hunger pangs that disturbed their sleep. At least, they came across enough streams to quench their thirst.

On the morning of the fifth day they discovered a wide and apparently recently used trail. Fresh human footprints patterned the dirt, and they found a dropped nail and close to it a brooch, still shiny with recent use. After a few hours they heard sounds up ahead: human voices and the grunting of a pig or two. The travelers’ spirits lightened, but they proceeded cautiously, not sure of what they might find.

Soon after they came upon a hamlet comprising a dozen or so huts gathered around a level area, at the center of which was a well. The place was teeming with small children, all dressed similarly in plain smocks gathered at the waist by rough cords. Moving to and fro between huts and the well were women, wearing long woolen dresses and wide leather belts, and carrying heavy baskets of washing or wooden buckets of water. They carefully lifted their loads above the heads of the children who swerved and careened around them with carefree abandon.

As soon as they saw the companions, everyone in the hamlet stopped what they were doing. The happy faces of the children changed to expressions of uncertainty and fear, and the women dropped their baskets and buckets and retrieved long curved knives from the back of their belts. The blades shimmered in the soft light filtering through the canopy.

“Friendly lot,” Jenrosa murmured.

“Have you noticed how many there are?” Kumul asked Ager.

The crookback nodded absently, and Lynan realized that indeed there seemed to be a large number of people for the small number of huts. Then he noticed the frames of several new huts lining the trail as it left the hamlet on the other side.

Kumul motioned his companions to stay where they were, and cautiously moved forward ten paces, his arms spread out and his palms held upward.

“We mean you no harm,” he said.

“We’ll determine that,” a woman near the well said. She was shorter than most of the other women, but something about her voice bespoke authority. She came forward to within a few paces of Kumul. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“They’re hounds, Belara!” another woman said, her voice full of alarm. “They’re Silona’s hounds!”

There was a ripple of fearful moans from the people, but none of the women lowered knife or retreated.

“Don’t be foolish, Enasna,” said the one called Belara. “It is just past midday. No hound walks at this hour.”

Kumul shrugged, looked at the woman called Enasna. “As you can see, madam, I have two legs, not four. I am no hound, but a traveler.” He faced the first woman. “You are Belara, I assume. My friends and I are an embassy from our village to King Tomar in Sparro. We have been sent to ask for lower taxes; the past season has been cruel to us and our crops were poor.”

“There are easier routes to Sparro than through the Forest of Silona,” Belara said, her voice taking on a menacing edge. “And you don’t dress like any villagers I’ve ever seen. You’re soldiers, and the woman carries magical designs on her tunic.”

“Our village sits on the northern foothills of the Ebrius Ridge. This is the most direct route, and the sooner we reach Tomar’s court the sooner my village will have relief. As for our clothing, we live in a hard land and must defend ourselves. And it is true that the woman knows some magic, but she is only young and still learning.”

While Kumul spoke, Belara had been studying his companions. “What’s wrong with your bent friend?” she asked, pointing at Ager with the knife.

“My friend’s injury is an old one, inflicted when he fought for Queen Usharna during the Slaver War.”

“And why is your arm in a sling?”

“We were beset by bandits. I was stabbed in the arm, and the woman is recovering from a blow to the head.”

“Did the bandits get much?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“A shallow grave each,” Kumul said gruffly.

The woman laughed suddenly and lowered the point of her knife. At that, all the other women lowered their blades as well. The children came forward then, milling around the companions, but especially Ager, pointing at and touching his crookback. Many, too, were fascinated with Kumul; they had probably never seen anyone so large. Kumul introduced himself and his friends, using only first names.

“You look like you could do with some food and rest,” Belara said. “Take what water you need from the well, and then come to my home,” she pointed to a hut not twenty paces away, “and I’ll see what food I can scrounge up for you. We may even be able to do something for your arm.”

“We do not need much,” Kumul lied. “We have no wish to be a burden.”

“We never refuse hospitality to travelers.” She paused, losing her smile, then said, “We get so few. At least stay the night.”

Belara’s home was larger inside than any of the abandoned huts the companions had rested in so far on their journey through the forest. A bleached woolen rug separated sleeping quarters from space set aside for housework and cooking. Planks made from summer trees and sanded back to a fine finish made the floor, and rougher planks were used for the walls and caulked with dried mud. Two small children, neither older than three, were sleeping in a large wooden cradle near a slow-burning fire in the middle of the living area, the smoke rising to a hole in the branch and twining roof. Furniture was sparse but comfortable and practical, comprising a long table and an assortment of hand-made chairs and stools, all beautifully carved.

While Belara tended Kumul’s wound, she asked many questions about the outside world. Ager now did most of the talking, careful not to admit to any knowledge someone from a small village would not have.

“These are your children?” Lynan asked Belara during a lull in the conversation, pointing to the two in the cradle.

“The oldest, Mira, is mine. The other belongs to Seabe. She’s out gathering food with some of the other women.”

“Where are your men?” he asked. “Out farming?”

Belara looked at Lynan strangely. “You would have little success fanning in this forest. The men are out cutting timber. Every half year we hire oxen from those farmsteads surrounding the forest and use them to haul the timber to the Orym River, where merchants buy it and float it down to Sparro. We use the money to buy what we can’t supply ourselves. We get fish from the streams, and trap rabbits when we can, and the forest supplies all the berries and roots we need.”

“I’m surprised no one’s cleared parts of the forest for cultivation.”

“Some have tried,” Belara said fatalistically. “But clearings don’t stay cleared for long. The forest always grows back before any crop can be harvested.”

“I don’t know that I like the sound of trees growing faster than wheat,” Jenrosa said.

“This is an old part of the world,” Belara told her. “The forest was here long before the kingdom, or even Chandra, existed. It never seems to change. It doesn’t grow, it doesn’t shrink. But it provides well enough for those who take out of it only what they need. Most of the time, anyway.” She was now applying some lotion to Kumul’s wound, making him wince.

“Most of the time?” Kumul asked.

Belara stared at her guests, then shook her head. “There’s no need for you to know. It’s our problem.”

“Why is this the only inhabited hamlet we’ve come across so far?” Kumul persisted.

Belara was wrapping a clean bandage around Kumul’s wound. “There used to be a dozen or more. There are only three or four left now, though I would have to ask my husband, Roheth, to tell you for sure. He travels through the forest all the time, finding the right trees for us to take.”

“Is this problem you mentioned behind people leaving their hamlets?” Ager asked.

Belara’s hands stopped their work. “Perhaps,” she said in a subdued voice. “But that, too, is something better asked of Roheth.” She finished dressing the wound and moved over to the fire to place a gridiron over it, then packed the gridiron with round lumps of seed dough she quickly kneaded between her hands.

“There are many people in your hamlet,” Grapnel said innocently. “Far more than I would have guessed from the number of huts.”

“We are two hamlets,” Belara said in a small voice.

“Seabe and her child come from the other hamlet,” Ager guessed aloud.

“Yes. She is staying with us until a new hut can be built for her.” She turned to face them, her face suddenly light and smiling. “Do you think King Tomar will listen to your appeal for reducing your taxes?”

Caught off guard, Ager parried the question valiantly. Lynan could only admire his skill, and was relieved the question had not been directed toward him.

Having successfully deflected any more questions about the forest, Belara made sure the topic was not raised again. When Seabe, a large, quiet woman with sad eyes, came home carrying a wooden basket filled with hard nuts, Belara set her guests the task of breaking open their shells and cleaning the fruit.

An hour before nightfall, Roheth and Seabe’s husband, Wente, returned. Children in the village had told them of the arrival of the four strangers, so they were not surprised to see them when they entered the hut. They were tall, gangly men with long, wiry arms, and their hair and full beards were black and shaggy. Soft brown eyes stared out of long, angular faces, the contrast startling. After introductions, Roheth studied his guests carefully before saying: “You say you’re from Ebrius Ridge?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“A small village just north of the Ridge,” Ager replied. “Novalo, it’s called. About ten days from here.”

“How small a village?”

Ager shrugged, wishing Roheth would change the subject. Eventually, he knew, he would be caught out by such persistent questioning. “Around eighty or so.”

“You don’t know exactly?”

“There were three women pregnant and near their time when we left,” Jenrosa said quickly. “The village could have eighty-three souls by now.”

Roheth faced Lynan. “Where did you say you bumped into these bandits?”

“We didn’t,” Kumul replied for the prince. “But it was two days out from the edge of this forest.”

Roheth nodded knowingly. “Aye, well, you don’t get bandits inside of the forest. Except for us woodcutters and our families, you don’t get much of anyone here. You lot are a bit of a surprise. Haven’t had any strangers come this way for… now what would it be, Belara?… Three years, maybe four?… A long time, anyway. Certainly no one just passing through.” The companions said nothing, content to let Roheth enjoy his fishing. “Did you see anyone else in the forest on your way here?”

“Anyone else?” Jenrosa asked.

“A woman,” he said, and his throat tightened. Lynan immediately recalled the pair of green eyes he had seen staring at him from the darkness, but he said nothing. He was still ashamed of the reaction from Kumul and Ager when his cry of surprise had woken them.

“No, we saw no one else,” Jenrosa said.

Roheth shook his head, as if he was chasing away a persistent fly. “So, you’re off to see the king in his court about taxes? I wish you luck, then.”

“Are you taxed heavily here?” Kumul asked.

“Us? Taxed?” Roheth actually laughed. “No tax collector’s been here for nearly a century. They don’t like the forest. Lucky, that.”

Roheth and Wente had each returned with a brace of rabbits, and these were wrapped in leaves and baked for dinner, served with roasted nuts and a dark gravy made from some mushrooms Seabe had collected that afternoon. The gravy was mopped up with the fresh bread Belara had baked, and it was all washed down with a few flagons of forest mead.

Lynan enjoyed himself more than at any time since fleeing Kendra. His hosts were considerate and, after a few mugs of the mead, joyfully boisterous. There were odd moments throughout the meal, though, when the forest dwellers would inexplicably slip into a kind of deep melancholy, as if a great tragedy had touched all their lives and memory of it refused to leave them. As the night wore on, the bouts of melancholy became deeper and more frequent, and then-laughter sounded forced. The companions began to feel uncomfortable, and started making excuses to leave.

“We can’t let you sleep outside,” Roheth protested. “There’s more than enough room in here for all of us.” His arm moved in a wide arc, encompassing the hut crowded with people. “Plenty of room,” he insisted somewhat groggily.

“It’s all right, Roheth,” Jenrosa said. “We’re used to sleeping on the ground.”

“It won’t do. Tell them, Belara.”

His wife stirred uneasily. When she talked, her eyes were downcast. “Roheth is right. We cannot let guests sleep outside when there is more than enough room in our home.”

“Your generosity is overwhelming,” Ager said to the hosts.

It was another hour before the forest dwellers had drunk themselves into a near stupor. With great effort, they gathered together their sleeping children and withdrew behind the woolen rug into their sleeping quarters, leaving their guests to stretch out how they liked in front of the fire.

Lynan woke just before dawn, not sure what had roused him. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers, and the air was chill. He pulled his cloak tighter around his body and tried to get back to sleep. His mind was just beginning to drift when he heard a scraping sound. He sat up, peering into the eerie gloom. The others were all asleep. He heard the sound again and realized it was coming from outside. Something was scratching on the door, trying to get in.

A part of his mind was surprised he was curious instead of frightened. What if it was a bear or wolf? No, he told himself, that sound is not being made by claws. What if it was one of the children, gone outside for a piss and not able to get back in? He threw off the cloak and stood up, being careful not to step on anyone. The scratching became more insistent, almost frantic, as if whatever was doing it knew someone was coming to open the door. Lynan stretched out his hand, touched the wooden handle and began to turn it.

“No!” hissed a voice behind him.

Lynan nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around and saw Jenrosa sitting up, holding her cloak protectively around herself.

“Don’t open the door, Lynan, whatever you do!” she pleaded.

“What’s wrong? It could be one of the children trying to get back in…” Even as he said the words, he knew with utter certainty it was no child outside. He whipped his hand away from the handle and stepped back, his skin crawling with instinctive revulsion.

The scratching stopped. For a moment there was no sound at all, then something with an inhuman throat started wailing. It was almost inaudible at first, but it grew louder and more keening until it had become a scream of anger and hatred that made every nerve in Lynan’s body vibrate in pain. The cry then pulled up and away from the hut, as if its source had taken wing and was flying above the hamlet and heading into the forest. In a few seconds there was silence again, and Lynan found he could move once more. His body started shaking uncontrollably, and Jenrosa had to help him into a chair. By now everyone in the hut was awake. The sound of two mewling children came from the sleeping area.

Roheth and Wente stumbled into the living area, sharp axes in their hands, followed by Belara and Seabe holding their babes. Terror was on all their faces. At first, no one said anything. Belara placated Mira and put her in the cradle, then heated up a mug of spiced mead and gave it to Lynan. There was a heavy knock on the door, and before Lynan or Jenrosa could say anything, Ager had opened it. A wide-shouldered woodsman entered, and like Roheth and Wente he carried an ax.

“We heard her,” the stranger said to Roheth.

Roheth nodded. “Everyone is safe. Thank you for coming, Tion.”

“She’ll be back now,” Tion muttered, glancing disapprovingly at the guests. “Unless something is done.”

Roheth ushered Tion outside and followed him. When he came back a few minutes later, his face was gray and worried.

“What is going on?” Kumul asked levelly.

“What was it?” Lynan added.

“She was Silona,” Roheth said heavily.

Kumul did not look surprised. “So the stories are true.”

“Oh, yes. She exists, all right.”

“Excuse me,” Lynan interjected, feeling annoyed. “But who is Silona?”

“She is part of the forest,” Belara said quietly. “She’s been here since time began, guarding the trees.”

“Is she dangerous?”

“Mortally dangerous,” Roheth answered. “You are a very lucky young man. By rights, you should have died tonight.”

“If she’s so dangerous, why don’t you hunt her down and kill her?”

“Oh, men have tried before. Over the centuries, every generation throws up its heroes and its fools. Those who go after her are never seen again; at least, not as man or woman.”

“How often…” Lynan swallowed hard and started again. “How often does she kill?”

“Most of the time she’s asleep. Every few years she wakes to take the blood of three or four humans, then goes back to sleep.”

“Blood?” Lynan’s hands started shaking, and had difficulty putting the mug of mead to his lips. He drank deeply.

“She is a wood vampire,” Roheth explained. “Perhaps the last of her kind. The fact that the borders of this forest have stood for so long shows how strong her will is.”

“How does she take the blood?”

Roheth shrugged. “No one has ever seen her, let alone watched her feed, and lived to tell about it. One day you wake up and someone in the hamlet has died. There are no marks, but the body is drained of blood. We burn the corpse. Sometimes she takes travelers, and if their bodies are not found by the next night, they will walk the forest seeking out new victims for her.”

“The hounds of Silona,” Jenrosa said, glancing at Belara.

Roheth nodded. “When we find them, we cut off their heads and burn them. We give them rest.”

Lynan was feeling sick. I almost let her in. “Why… why did she not just break down the door if she wanted someone inside this hut?”

“Legend says her victims must come to her willingly,” Roheth replied, looking sideways at Lynan.

“I’m sorry, Roheth, I didn’t know what I was doing…‘

“I’m not blaming you. It’s impossible to resist her, which is why our families crowd together when she is awake and haunting the forest.”

“That explains all the abandoned huts we found on the way here,” Ager said. “They belong to woods people who leave to join other hamlets.”

Roheth nodded.

“How do you know when it’s time to gather together?” Kumul asked.

“When we find the first victim,” Roheth replied bluntly.

“I think we are lucky not to have met this Silona before,” Kumul said. “To think of all the nights we were sleeping in the open.”

“She stalks the hamlets and the forest surrounding them, mostly.” Roheth caught Lynan’s attention. “But now that’s changed. If she’s felt your mind, she will pursue you.”

“But I am safe here?”

“Not anymore. You’ve frustrated her once. She will keep on returning to our hamlet until she takes you, or some other unfortunate falls in her way.”

“We can keep watch,” Kumul suggested, his voice becoming strident. “We will set a trap for her—”

“Do you think we haven’t tried this before?” Roheth demanded. “Our traps never work. Watchers fall asleep where they stand, or become victims themselves. She is used to the ways of people: she knows us the way we know the boar we hunt or the fish we spear.”

“You mean that our presence is placing all your lives in danger?” Ager said.

Roheth nodded reluctantly. “That’s what Tion wanted to talk about. He believes I should ask you to leave, for the sake of the hamlet.”

“Will you force us to go?” Jenrosa asked, appalled.

“No. I cannot do that. You are my guests. If you wish to stay, I will do what I can to protect you.” Roheth’s face was bleak as he said the words.

“We’ll go of our own volition,” Lynan said, startled by his own decision. Ager and Kumul stared at him in surprise. Jenrosa looked aghast. “From what you say, Roheth, we’re no safer here than in the forest, but while we’re here, we increase the danger to you and your family.” He turned to his companions. “A prince’s decision. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be making these days?” The woods people looked at their guests with puzzled expressions.

Ager nodded resignedly. “What a time for you to practice your leadership skills.”

“Any of you who want to stay are welcome to,” Roheth said. “Not all of you have to go.”

“Just the one Silona touched?” Lynan asked.

“Yes. The others are safer here if you leave the hamlet. It is you Silona will be after.”

“We’ll all go,” Kumul said definitely, and Ager nodded his agreement. Only Jenrosa gave no indication of what she was thinking.

Chapter 17

The light of the morning sun struggling through the tree A canopy found the four companions saying their farewells to the people of the hamlet.

“Keep your campfires burning high and bright,” Roheth advised them. “Legends say she finds strong light uncomfortable. Other than that, there is not much else that will help. Except maybe this.” He offered Lynan his own coat, a finely made woolen garment dyed the dark green of the forest.

“Does it carry a magic charm?” Lynan asked, wide-eyed.

Roheth laughed. “No, but you’ll need it to keep you warm if I take yours.”

“Mine? I don’t understand.”

“If we keep something of yours with us, it may fool Silona into thinking you’re still here, for a night or two at least.”

Lynan gratefully exchanged coats and shook Roheth’s hand. Berala handed them seed bread and strips of dried rabbit which they crammed in their pockets.

“Good luck, Lynan,” the forester said somberly.

Lynan smiled weakly, already frightened of what might lay ahead.

The companions kept to the main trail heading north out of the hamlet. They talked sparingly, each feeling the tension build in them as the day wore on. They stopped briefly for a meal around noon, then continued on their way until they came across a narrower, less-used trail that headed northeast. Ager suggested they take the less-used trail, reasoning that if Silona came hunting for Lynan she would follow the main trail first.

The way was gloomy and overgrown, and they often had to struggle through brambles and tall bushes. Tempers frayed. As evening approached, Lynan’s stomach started to compress into the now familiar knot of apprehension. His knees no longer seemed strong enough to support his whole weight.

“We should stop soon and make camp,” he suggested.

“I thought you’d want to be as far away as possible from the hamlet,” Jenrosa said.

“What I want is enough time to gather so much firewood that our campfire will shine all night like the sun.”

“One thing about a campfire is that it’ll draw attention to us,” Jenrosa said helpfully.

“Then what would you suggest we do?” Lynan snapped.

She shrugged, looking miserable. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do. It seems to me if we’re not being chased by guardsmen or warships or mercenaries, then it is bears and vampires. What’s next, do you think? When do we stop running?”

“We stop when we reach the Oceans of Grass.”

“What makes you think Areava won’t stop hunting for you, even as far as the Oceans of Grass?”

“It’s easy to hide in the grasslands,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “They go on forever. Areava can’t spare the troops or the money to search for me forever.”

“Face it, Lynan, you’re not simply fleeing Kendra, you’re going into exile. All your life you’re going to be a wanted man. I don’t want to be a part of that, but I don’t know how I can get out of it. As long as your life is in danger, so is mine.”

“Then why didn’t you stay behind in the hamlet? You could have stayed there until the danger with Silona was passed and then made your own way elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere? I only have one home, and that’s Kendra. And eventually even the foresters will hear of Berayma’s murder and the four outlaws accused of it. Besides, I’m not interested in wielding an ax and hunting rabbits and being surrounded by nothing but trees, vampires, and screaming children. With you, at least, I have the protection of Kumul and Ager.”

“And me,” Lynan added quietly.

Jenrosa glanced at his sideways. “I need to be by myself for a while,” she said, and increased her pace to pull ahead of him. Her place was taken by Ager.

“Adventures aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, are they?” the crookback said.

“Adventures?”

“What we’re all going through now, your Highness. It’s an adventure, really, when you look at it properly. Think of all the things we’ve done in the last few days. I’d call it an adventure.”

“I don’t think I’d call it that. More like finding increasingly unpleasant ways to die.”

“But that’s what adventures are when you’re actually experiencing them. They don’t become adventures until afterward, when you’re sixty-three years old and sitting in front of a huge fire with your grandchildren all around you.”

“It’s not the adventuring that worries me, Ager. It’s the fear. I always seem to be frightened, sometimes so frightened I want to throw up. I want to rest. I want to be able to go to sleep on a soft warm bed and know that not only will I wake up the next morning, but that I won’t have to get up just to do more running.”

“I don’t know when you’ll be able to do that again,” Ager said.

“Jenrosa doesn’t think I’ll ever be able to. She said I’ll be an outlaw for the rest of my life.”

“She’s scared too, Lynan. I don’t think she really believes that. Things will seem better when we leave the forest. This is a dark place, and makes for dark thoughts.”

“And hides dark things, Ager,” Lynan reminded him.

They found a space among the trees which, if not large enough to be called a clearing, at least allowed in some light and made them feel less closed in by the forest. They gathered as much wood and tinder as possible and started a large fire.

Kumul arranged the watch. “From what Roheth told me, this demon usually comes in the hours before dawn, so I’d rather Ager or myself faced it. You take the first watch Jenrosa, followed by Lynan, then Ager, and lastly myself.”

“What will you do if it comes?” Jenrosa asked him.

“Cut its bloody head off,” he said grimly.

The forest was completely still. No animal came snuffling at the perimeter of their camp, no wind moved among the trees, no insects called out in the night. Lynan sat as closely as possible to the fire without risking his forester’s coat catching alight. He turned constantly, peering into the dark. Whenever a log cracked in the fire, he jumped and then cursed his own cowardice.

Time stretched until seconds seemed like minutes and minutes seemed like hours. Lynan wondered if he would ever be relieved from the watch. Perhaps Silona was sorceress as well as vampire and had frozen time until she could find the mind she had touched so softly the night before.

Twice before, he told himself, remembering those green eyes in the forest.

When at last Ager did rouse himself from sleep, stretching like a misshapen bear and grinning like a child waking on its birthday, Lynan felt so much relief he wanted to laugh.

“How did it go?” Ager asked him.

“No problems at all,” Lynan lied.

Ager nodded and made himself comfortable on an upturned log.

For a while Lynan watched the confident crookback with envy, then closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep as if he had nothing in the world to worry about.

The sixth day after the companions left the hamlet the trees started to thin out and they could track the sun against the sky. The air was cooler, drier, and they could smell a river and ripening fields as well as bark and moss and humus. The old trail they had been following for so long now turned east, so they headed north among the trees, confident they would soon come to the borders of the forest.

Early in the afternoon Lynan stopped suddenly and looked up. The others halted, hands going to weapons.

“It’s all right,” Lynan told them. “Listen.”

They all cocked their heads and listened. They kept still for over a minute. Jenrosa opened her mouth to make some comment about her feet turning into roots when the clear, beautiful fluting of a bird reached all their ears. Jenrosa smiled with pleasure and Kumul and Ager laughed.

“I never thought I’d be so pleased to hear birdsong again,” Kumul admitted.

“Not long now,” Ager said. “Maybe only one more night in this forest and then we’re out.”

They set off with renewed energy and a longer stride, even Ager stretching his strange lope without complaint. None of them cared what dangers faced them out in the open because nothing could be worse than the constant fear they had endured over the last six days.

That evening they had no trouble finding a suitable place to make camp. They celebrated their last night in the forest by eating the last of the dried meat the foresters had given them.

“We’ll have to find another stream tomorrow or we’ll have nothing to eat,” Ager said.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t a bow, but I could try and trap some game,” Kumul offered.

“As long as we’re out of this forest, I don’t care if I don’t eat for a month,” Lynan said.

When Lynan took his watch, he was alert but more relaxed than he had been for many nights. He was reassured when he heard the sounds of crickets among the undergrowth, and even the occasional soft padding in the dark of something considerably larger than an insect. Nevertheless, he kept the fire high and bright, and was glad of the warmth it gave.

Toward the end of his watch he heard someone stir, and he turned expecting to see Ager rising early, but it was Jenrosa. She had turned in her sleep, throwing open her coat. Lynan walked quietly to her and closed the coat around her and then, on impulse, softly touched her hair. The skin on his fingers tingling, he retreated, feeling that perhaps not all was wrong with the world after all.

He turned and saw, at the edge of darkness and light, a girl. She was small, dressed in green cloth, with long blonde hair that reached down to her waist. Her face was hidden in the night.

Lynan studied her, unafraid. She took a gliding step forward, as if her feet were not actually touching the ground. He could see her face now. It was round and beautiful. Deep, dark eyes returned his stare. She looked younger than Lynan. She took another step forward and held out her hand.

Lynan started walking toward her. A part of his mind was telling him to stay where he was, but he ignored it and kept on walking until he was only a few paces from the girl. He noticed absently that it was not green cloth that dressed her but parts of tree and bush and moss, and somehow it all seemed a part of her, not something she wore at all.

“I have been searching for you for many nights,” she said, her hand still held out to him. Her voice was as deep and dark as the night surrounding them, and it drew him forward. He reached out with his own hand and took hers. Her skin was as smooth and cold as glass. Her nails dug into his palm and he felt warm, sticky blood trickle between his fingers.

She leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “I want you. I need you.” Her breath was like the sighing of the wind. He could see now that her eyes were the green of the forest itself. She raised his wounded hand and softly licked the palm. He reached out with his other hand. The green surrounding her fell away, and he saw two small white breasts with dark brown nipples.

He put his bloody hand over one of her breasts. He felt no warmth, but still desire flamed within him. She took his hand and moved it to the other breast, and then the flat of her stomach, smearing blood over her ivory skin.

“Kiss me,” she said, and pulled him toward her.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and brought his lips against hers. He kissed her gently, ignoring the smell of decay on her breath and the sharp teeth that filled her mouth and the rough, rasping tongue that touched his. She drew him away and smiled, her mouth wet with saliva. He saw her eyes brighten, and her pupils distend into slits like those of a cat. Her nails stroked the back of his head and neck.

“Kiss me again,” she said.

Lynan submitted, lost in her, and shivered when her teeth bit into his lower lip. The metallic taste of his own blood flooded his mouth and a small germ of panic wormed its way into his mind. He tried to draw back but found that he was held fast. He grabbed her arms and immediately let them go—they felt like the strong, young branches of a wideoak, the skin rough as bark. A cry started somewhere deep in his throat and escaped as a pitiful moan. His lover threw her head back and laughed, an eager and malevolent sound that finally brought him to his senses and he saw her for what she was.

The face was still that of a girl, still beautifully alluring, but it rested on a body that was half-human and half-tree. The limbs were covered in gray skin, and her body was as hard as wood. Her hair was made from green wisps that smelled of moss and twigs and made a clacking sound when she moved her head. A long, green tongue with three hollow tendrils flickered between her lips.

“Do you desire me?” the creature asked, and laughed again.

He felt her grip tighten around him, and his breathing became labored as he felt his rib cage bending under the pressure. He put his hand under her chin to keep her mouth away from his face, but she was far too strong and slowly she forced her head closer to his.

Suddenly the night was filled with flaring brightness. Lynan was flung away from the vampire like a child’s toy, and he landed heavily on his side. He heard a scream of such pain and torment that his mind reeled in shock. He shook his head and looked up to see Jenrosa, a flaming brand in one hand and a sword in the other, confronting Silona. She was thrusting the brand at the creature’s face, forcing it farther and farther away from Lynan. He saw that Jenrosa was also drawing herself farther into the forest. He cried out to her and tried to stand, but was still so dazed he could only manage to get to his knees.

He heard more cries behind him as Kumul and Ager leaped to their feet and scrabble for their weapons. With a greater effort Lynan stood up and tried to run to Jenrosa’s assistance, drawing his sword as he did so. By now Silona was fighting back, hissing fiercely at the magicker and trying to knock the brand from her grasp. The vampire moved to Jenrosa’s left, forcing her to follow, then quickly leaped back to her right, her arm whipping up and connecting with the magicker’s right shoulder. Jenrosa cried out in pain but managed to hold on to the brand. Silona now struck with her other arm, and her nails raked across Jenrosa’s right shoulder. This time the impact sent the brand flying out of her grasp to land fizzing on the ground twenty paces away. Silona cried in triumph and moved in for the kill, but the cry turned into a scream of rage as Lynan’s sword sliced into her arm. Lynan felt the blade bite into the vampire’s limb, making a whacking sound as if it had embedded itself in a block of wood. Silona pulled back, the blade popping out of her arm. Pale blood seeped from the deep cut, pink in color and almost transparent.

Lynan swung the sword over his head for another blow, but Silona had seen Kumul and Ager running toward her, each bearing a brand as well as their own weapons. Her body writhed and her back split open like a seed case. Two huge black wings sprouted, dark flowers against the light of the campfire. The wings came together with a crack and the vampire lifted into the air. The wings flapped a second time and she disappeared into the night.

The four companions stood together, peering into the darkness, but could see nothing of her. A second later they heard a wail of frustration and pain echo through the forest. Lynan’s whole body shuddered, and he collapsed to the ground.

When Lynan came to, it was morning. The fire was still burning brightly, keeping him warm in the chill air. He propped himself onto his elbows and tried looking around, but he felt dizzy and his head fell back with a clunk.

“I don’t know what your skull’s made from,” said an interested female voice behind him, “but it’s tougher than iron.”

His eyes rolled back in their sockets and he saw Jenrosa sitting on the ground.

“I feel terrible,” he managed to say.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, the collections of cuts, bruises, and bumps our little party has managed to collect since fleeing Kendra. Can you imagine what we’ll be like in a year’s time? Or a decade?”

“Are we still in the forest?”

“Yes, but Ager thinks the border is only one or two hours’ steady walk from here.”

“Where is he?”

“With Kumul, trying their hand at trapping. As soon as they’re back, we’ll move, if you think you’re up to it. I don’t fancy spending another night in Silona’s Forest.”

Lynan shuddered with the memory of last night’s events. He remembered how easily he had been beguiled by the vampire and felt ashamed. “I almost got you killed last night.”

“But you saved my life from the bear, so don’t lose any sleep over it.”

Lynan laughed grimly. “You’re determined to keep behind your fortress walls, aren’t you?”

Jenrosa stood up and brushed off her pants. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Help me up, will you?”

Jenrosa hooked her a hand under one of Lynan’s arms and lifted. He was unsteady on his feet for a few seconds, but soon he could walk around without falling over. He managed to complete a circuit of their camp and was beginning a second when he saw something at his feet. Jenrosa joined him and looked down where he was gazing at a patch of blackened leaf litter and scorched ground.

“That’s just where my brand hit the ground,” she said.

“That’s your brand over there,” he said and pointed to it. He knelt down and stretched out his hand. “See, there’s some—”

“That’s her blood!” Jenrosa cried.

Lynan jerked back as if he had been about to pat a snake. He stared at it, fascinated. “You’re right, it is her blood.”

“Leave it alone, for God’s sake. Haven’t you had enough to do with her?”

Her words made him feel suddenly stubborn. He pulled out his knife.

“What are you doing?”

He ignored her and cut off a triangular section of Roheth’s coat, then used the cloth to scrape up the blood.

“What are you doing?” she insisted.

“A souvenir,” he said, waving the cloth at her. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve heard stories about vampire blood: it’s supposed to have magical properties.”

“What if it helps Silona track you down again?” Jenrosa spat at him.

Lynan hesitated, his face pale. “Do you think… ?” He shook his head. “No. Once we’re out of the forest, we’re free from her.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Silona is a wood vampire. If she leaves her forest, she dies.”

“You don’t know that.”

Lynan put the sample in his coat pocket and stood up. “I’m prepared to risk it.”

Jenrosa spun away from him. “You’re a fool, Lynan. You’ll get us all killed yet.”

Chapter 18

After a week of searching for reasonable billets for his men in Kendra, Captain Rendle found a message from the quartermaster’s office of the Grenda Lear army waiting for him at his inn. All mercenary companies had less than ten days to gather at the port town of Alemura if they expected employment in the coming demonstration against Haxus. Rendle was too experienced a soldier to be disappointed with the vagaries of the military bureaucracy, but he was angry he would lose the deposit he had just laid down for the billets.

He rode out of the city to where his company of mercenary cavalry had camped. He was greeted enthusiastically, his troopers expecting him to bring news that from now on nights would be spent with a proper roof over their heads, plenty of food and wine in their bellies, plenty of women in their beds, and an easy few months of employment at the expense of the new king. What they got were new marching orders and the news that they were to be employed by Grenda Lear’s new queen.

Rendle’s second-in-command, a whip of a man named Eder, asked him what was going on. In a few terse sentences Rendle told him of Berayma’s murder, Areava’s ascension, and Lynan’s outlawry and subsequent drowning.

“I’m not keen on serving under a Kendran queen,” Eder said.

“Nor am I,” Rendle replied brusquely, “not after fighting against the last one in the Slaver War; but for the moment we’ll take her money and salute her pennant. At least until she moves us up north.”

“So we are going to fight Haxus?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it. Haxus always paid better than Grenda Lear.”

Eder smiled thinly. “I think I like the idea of taking coin with both hands; it seems a fairer way of doing things.”

“What about our missing patrol? Any sign of them?”

Eder took him to a tent on the edge of their camp. He opened the flap and Rendle saw jerkins, belts, and knives laid out, all of them covered in damp soil. “One of the scouts I sent back found their graves near a stream about two days’ ride from here. Their horses were nowhere to be seen. They all died from sword wounds.”

Rendle’s jaw clenched in anger. “Where are their swords?”

“None in the graves.”

“And no sign of their attackers?”

“The scout said too many companies like our own had passed that way since. The tracks are all mixed up. He did find two of their mounts wandering alone on Ebrius Ridge.”

“Do the others know about this?”

“Hard to disguise a scout carrying so much extra equipment and leading two riderless horses back to camp. They know.”

Rendle led the way back to his tent where he rummaged in one of his chests and retrieved a large hand-drawn map. He laid it out on the ground outside.

“I don’t like losing my men,” Rendle said tightly. “And I don’t understand this. None of my people are so stupid as to bother a village or hamlet by themselves. They might have tried to steal a chicken or pig, or annoy a farmer’s daughter, but a farmer hasn’t a chance in hell of doing anything about it.”

He studied the map carefully. He had been roving over this part of the world for nearly thirty years now and knew most of it like the back of his hand. He pointed to a series of trails and streams at the north base of Ebrius Ridge which intersected the road the company had taken to reach the Horn of Lear. “They were sent ahead of us to here. When we passed by, there was no sign of them, so chances are whatever happened to them occurred in the six hours after they left the company and we reached this point.”

There were a few villagers within a half-day’s ride of the road, but little else. Ebrius Ridge itself had mediocre soil and the constant threat of great bears to worry any settlers, so people tended not to farm in the immediate area.

Rendle tapped the map angrily with one finger, then started circling out in a spiral. He traced over the main road, the ridge itself, the edge of Kestrel Bay, back to Chandra… His finger stopped, then retraced to the coast.

“I was told Prince Lynan had been drowned off these cliffs here, but his body was never recovered.”

Eder looked over his shoulder. “Was he by himself?”

“No. He had at least three companions. A cripple, a girl, and Kumul Alarn. None of their bodies was found.”

Eder’s eyes widened. “The Constable of the Royal Guards was in on the king-killing plot?”

Rendle nodded. “According to official proclamations.”

“I saw him once, during the Slaver War. The biggest, ugliest bastard I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’m not sorry he’s left this world.”

“But what if he and his friends didn’t drown and instead made their way up the ridge? Where would they go? They couldn’t return to Kendra, and they couldn’t stay on the ridge. And it all happened at the same time we were making our way here from the other direction.”

“You don’t think our patrol met them?”

Rendle shrugged. “Impossible to know.” He bent over the map again, his gaze moving north along Chandra’s length and into Hume, then west to the Oceans of Grass. “So where could they be heading?” he asked himself.

“You going to report this to the queen?”

“Report what? That we’ve lost a patrol to unknown attackers? We have no evidence one way or the other about how they met their fate.”

“Except that it was violent and their swords were taken.”

“Another mercenary patrol could have done that. Old Malorca was moving through that area with his archers the day before us; he’s always willing to take a snipe at a competitor.”

“We’ll have to fix him one day,” Eder said gruffly.

“But not this day. The new queen is offering enough contracts for all of us right now.” Rendle was still studying the map. He jabbed at a place marked as Arran Valley. “I don’t suppose Jes Prado is still settled there?”

“Last I heard, and with a good portion of his men settled nearby. They moved there to take care of some minor trouble in the region and stayed. But you never liked the man. What’s on your mind?”

“I think Prado’s a whining excuse for a soldier, but we’ve never had any problems with him and he’s a straight dealer. Send a message to him.”

“I’ll organize a rider—”

“No. I need something faster. Go to Kendra and buy a pigeon carrier.”

“What’s the message?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’ll think on it over the next hour, but it will have to mention money, and a lot of it.”

Olio reached the rendezvous at Kendra’s harbor ten minutes before the agreed time. Prelate Edaytor Fanhow had agreed to guide the prince through the city’s worst slum, a tangle of streets behind the docks where sailors’ widows and orphaned children, whores and smugglers, fugitives and the unemployable all congregated like ants around a honey pot. Olio was determined to do something for the poor in the city and Edaytor had reluctantly agreed to show him the worst poverty Kendra had to offer.

The prince found a place to sit in the sun and watched a merchant ship from Lurisia being unloaded. Stevedores manhandled a winch over the ship while the crew set about tying thick rope around the biggest logs Olio had ever seen. It was rain forest wood, as red as flame and as hard as iron, and Lurisia’s main export to the rest of Theare. Three logs were bound together, the winch hook was slipped under the top knot, and the stevedores heaved back on their ballast until the load was raised above the ship’s gunwales. The final maneuver had the stevedores swinging the load across to the dock and slowly releasing the ballast so the logs could be placed gently in a waiting cart. When the first load was dropped, the ballast was released too quickly and the cart lurched, scaring the four oxen tied to it. Only the quick wits of the driver, who pulled back sharply on the horns of the lead ox, stopped the cart from being pulled away before its load could be secured.

There were sharp words between the ship’s captain and the stevedore boss, and then the second load was made ready and attached to the winch. As the winch was swung over the dock, the top knot holding the hook slipped and the load lurched heavily. Stevedores scattered from the winch, but the hook held and two of them hurried forward to release the ballast. As they set hands to the winch, the knot unraveled completely. The logs fell with an awful crash and the winch careened sideways, the ballast slamming heavily into the two stevedores who had tried to rescue the load. Olio heard the dull thump of the collision and then terrible shouts and cries as people ran to help the injured.

Without hesitation, Olio rushed to the scene. He elbowed his way past a gawping bystander and stopped suddenly when he saw the broken and twisted remains of one of the fallen stevedores. Blood pooled around his feet and he stepped back.

“This one’s alive!” a voice said, and Olio looked up to where the second victim was lying, his head supported by the crew boss. The prince stepped over the corpse and knelt down next to the injured stevedore. The man’s breathing was labored and blood flecked his lips.

“He’s dying,” the boss said grimly. “His chest is crushed.”

Olio grasped the stevedore’s hand and squeezed gently. The man’s skin was cool and clammy. His eyelids fluttered and opened, showing dilated pupils.

“Is there n-n-nothing you can do?” Olio asked the boss.

“He’s dying,” the boss repeated dully.

Olio reached inside his coat with his free hand and grasped the Key of the Heart. It felt cold to his touch. He waited for something to happen, not knowing what to expect. He felt nothing, nor sensed any change in the man whose hand he held. He closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for some sign in his mind about how to use the Key. He remembered the sheer power he had felt after Usharna had healed the crookback. His hand around the Key started to tingle, but still he felt nothing passing from him to the injured stevedore, felt no surge of whatever it was that the queen had used. The stevedore moaned, then coughed. Blood spattered Olio’s face, but he ignored it.

“He m—m-must n-n—not die,” he stuttered under his breath. He bowed his head and tried praying to God, but the vague faith he held to gave him no sign. And then a hand lay softly on his shoulder and he heard words in a strange tongue spoken above his head. The Key in his hand seemed to come alive with sudden heat so fierce he wanted to let go of it, but he held on as the heat spread from the Key to his hand and then his arm, flowed into his chest, making his heart beat twice as fast, and then on through his other arm and the hand that held the stevedore. He could sense rather than see the aura of light and power that took shape around him and the injured man, and he could physically feel the stevedore’s ribs and lungs bend and warp and reshape into their normal form. The stevedore let out a great cry of pain, but no blood came from his mouth and his eyes were keen and alive.

As quickly as it had started, the surge of power ebbed away until at last Olio let go of the Key and stood up. He immediately swooned and started falling back. His vision was blurred and he could not make out the face of the man who caught him and pulled him away from the wondering crowd, but then he heard a familiar voice say: “I did not think we could do that.”

“Edaytor?” Olio asked weakly. “What did you do?”

“Added my knowledge of magic to the power lent you by the Key of the Heart. Can you walk, your Highness? I am not strong enough to carry you any farther. I want you away from this dock before someone recognizes you.”

Already some of the stevedores were pointing at the pair and using the word “miracle.” Olio nodded and staggered a few feet before Edaytor put his shoulder under one of the prince’s arms and helped him away from the harbor. They continued like that until they had reached one of the dark, narrow back streets behind the warehouses that lined the docks. They collapsed together against an old brick wall.

“I really wish you would bring an entourage with you when you leave the palace, your Highness,” Edaytor gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“What good would that do? Everyone would know who I am, and curtsy and p-p-prithee and p-p-petition. How could I explore the city then?”

“Better curtsied and pritheed and petitioned than stabbed by some malcontent. Especially down here on the docks where many are not from Kendra but the provinces and so less respectful of rich young noblemen and their purses.”

“Oh, God, a shame to die because someone thought I was a m-m-member of the Twenty Houses,” Olio joked, but his laughter sounded forced.

“I thought your family was one of the Twenty Houses.”

“Don’t tell my sister that.” Olio stood upright and immediately felt dizzy again. Edaytor was by his side instantly with a steadying arm. “What happened b—b-back there?”

“You healed a dying man.”

“B-b-but not by m-m-myself. It was your m-m-magic that m-m-made the Key work.”

Edaytor shook his bald head. “I don’t think so, your Highness. I’ve never been able to do anything like that before, and I’ve handled many magical artifacts. The Key worked because you were the channel.”

“Then why didn’t it work b-b-before you helped?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is an ability you must develop. Were you ever tested for magic when you were young?”

“N-n-no.”

“Yet I suspect it runs in your family. That is not unusual. Certainly, your mother had the power. It also may be that the Keys only work effectively when they are all together, and singly need an outside source of magic. There is much to ponder on this.”

Olio smiled shyly. “B-b-but together, Edaytor, we can-work it.”

“At a price. We are both exhausted.”

Olio nodded wearily. “I’m afraid I am going to have to call off our tour. I cannot remember ever feeling so tired b-b-before.”

“Nor I. Come, your Highness, I will walk with you back to the palace.”

“B-b-but your own offices are near here. I am fine.”

Edaytor insisted, and together they made their way back up the avenue that wound its way through the city, ending in the climb to the palace’s main gate and two of the Royal Guards. Edaytor left the prince in safety. Olio watched the round prelate start his journey back to his own offices, wondering what he had done to deserve such devotion.

“Your Highness, we didn’t know you were out,” said one of the guards as he saluted him in.

“That was the whole p—p-point,” Olio said under his breath.

He paused in the courtyard, befuddled by exhaustion and all the questions in his head about what had happened on the docks. He badly wanted both to talk to someone about it before going to sleep. He decided to see Areava first; he thought she might have some knowledge from all her reading that might explain how he and Edaytor had performed their magic. He glanced up to her chambers and saw her figure silhouetted in the window. She was not alone. Olio did not have to guess who her companion was.

Well, sleep first, after all, he told himself, smiling. I will not disturb the love birds.

“I have your final spearman,” Sendarus said, holding up the piece in victory.

Areava ignored him and carefully studied the polygonal board in front of her. True, all her spearmen had been discovered and destroyed, but her city was still protected by two lancers and a duke, and she was sure her defenses would not easily be overcome.

Who knows, she mused to herself, he might even be foolish enough to send his sappers under my walls.

“Now the game is reduced to its essential,” Sendarus continued. “One player striving to breach the last barrier between him and his heart’s desire.”

“Your metaphor strains like a constipated old man,” she told him without looking up. “I forgo a move.”

“That is your last pass, your Majesty.” Sendarus rolled the numbered knuckle bones. “I count five.”

“That is a four. That bone is on its side.”

“Four, then.” He reached for one of his sappers and placed it under Areava’s parapets. Areava removed an ivory shield to reveal her neat row of waiting swordsmen. “Your piece is taken.” Sendarus blinked in surprise. “Swallowed whole like so much bait.”

“You played the whole time for defense!” Sendarus protested. “You never had any intention of attacking my city!”

“And now that your last offensive piece is devoured, I am left with all the high points. My game.”

Sendarus rested back in his chair and laughed. “You played me for a fool.”

“Not at all. I played you like a fish.”

Sendarus laughed even harder. Areava beamed.

“You fought hard, though,” she conceded. “I was not sure if you had started the game with the sapper or the battering ram. I could not have stopped the latter.”

“You can always stop me, your Majesty.” He caught her gaze. “And I will always surrender.”

She blushed, and stood quickly to hide it. “This has been a pleasant diversion, my lord, but I have business to attend to.” She pulled a bell cord near her desk.

“A diversion? Is that all I am?” He asked the question lightly enough, but his expression was tense.

Areava gently placed a hand against one of his cheeks.

“There is no other diversion like you in my kingdom,” she said.

He reached for her hand, but at that moment the door opened and Harnan bustled in, his arms filled with papers and scrolls.

Areava withdrew from Sendarus; he took the hint and stood, placing his hands behind his back. “I will see you later?” he whispered.

“Perhaps,” she said, but not unkindly.

He bowed to her and left, nodding to Harnan, who tried to bow and hold onto his papers at the same time.

“We have much to get through, your Majesty,” Harnan told Areava, and dumped his load on her desk.

“There is never a day when we don’t,” she said dryly.

“The life of a monarch has little pleasure, I know, your Majesty.”

The corners of her mouth curved into the slightest of smiles. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“You will not say your farewells to Sendarus?” Orkid asked.

Amemun shook his head and mounted the horse Orkid was holding for him. “We talked last night. There is no need for further words between us. Nothing I could say would make him fall more in love with your queen.”

“Our queen,” Orkid said.

“Yes, of course,” he said absently.

“That is the whole point of this exercise,” Orkid persisted. “If she had no legitimacy in our eyes, then there would be no value in bringing her and Sendarus together, and any progeny from them would have no more right to claim our fealty than a child from a whore.”

“It is not her legitimacy that concerns me, my friend. It is you.”

Orkid’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“Marin had no choice but to send you here. He knew you agreed with his plan wholeheartedly and would never waver from our country’s cause. And though your years here have not blunted your love for Aman, they have given you time to learn to love this city and its rulers.”

“And why not, Amemun? It will soon be as much Aman’s kingdom as it is Kendra’s. But we must never forget the kingdom was built by those who came from here, not by our own people.”

Amemun nodded. “I don’t dispute any of this. But if things go wrong and do not turn out the way we have planned, then a time may come when you have to choose between your loyalties.”

“Aman need never doubt me,” Orkid said passionately. “I long for the day when I may return to my home.”

Amemun patted the chancellor’s hand, something no one had done since Orkid was a child. “I know. Keep your patience and your own counsel. The time will come, I am sure of it.”

“Praise God,” Orkid said.

“Praise the Lord of the Mountain,” Amemun replied, not entirely in jest. “Goodbye, Orkid. Keep our prince safe!” He spurred his horse into a canter and left the palace for the docks where a ship waited to return him to Aman.

“Journey well,” Orkid said quietly after him, and wondered when he would see his old friend again.

Chapter 19

They were tired and hungry, but Lynan and his companions walked without stopping across yellow meadows and slowly undulating hills under a bright clear sky until the Forest of Silona was nothing but a green border on the southern horizon. For the first time in over a week they felt free, more at ease than at any time since their flight from Kendra. They all wore smiles like badges of distinction.

The sun was low in the west before Kumul called a halt. They were on a low hill that gave them a good view over a wide, shallow valley stretching some ten leagues north to south and half that east to west. Along its middle ribboned a blue stream, partnered by a wide dirt road. From their vantage point it looked as if most of the valley was under cultivation, divided into small squares of various shades, the pattern broken occasionally by small hamlets of twenty or so houses and one large town not far from their position.

“Mostly orchards,” Ager observed. “This must be the Arran Valley. That means we’re seventy leagues from Sparro, about a week’s journey.”

“I remember this place from one of my geography lessons,” Lynan said. “This valley is famous for its peaches.”

“And its wine,” Ager added, licking his lips.

“And its archers,” Kumul warned them. “They can put an arrow through the eye of a raven at a hundred paces, so let’s stay alert. If anybody asks any questions, we spin the same yarn we gave the foresters.”

“You don’t think they believed us, do you?” Jenrosa asked.

“The point is, it’s a story we know, and if we continue to use it, we’ll get better at telling it. Just don’t get imaginative. Keep it plain, and if you have to invent anything, let the rest of us know so we can speak the same lie.”

“We’ll need new names,” Jenrosa said. “We can’t go around declaring ourselves to be Lynan, Kumul, Ager, and Jenrosa, poor peasants whose names and looks happen to exactly match those of four outlaws from Kendra.” The others agreed. “Then I’ll be Analis,” she said. “It was my grandmother’s name, so it will be easy to remember.”

“Then I will take my father’s name,” Ager said. “Nimen.”

“Well, I had no mother or father to speak of,” Kumul said, “so I’ll be Exener, the name of the village I came from.” He turned to Lynan. “You could you could take your father’s name. Elynd is common enough, and many boys born around the same time as you were named after the General.”

Lynan shook his head. “I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“What about Pirem?” Ager said.

“No,” Lynan said quickly. “Never again.”

“Migam,” Jenrosa suggested.

“What?”

“Migam. It’s a nice name and it’s easy to remember.”

Kumul and Ager were looking at Lynan impatiently. “Yes, all right,” he conceded. “Who was Migam, anyway?”

“My mother’s pig,” she replied, smiling.

Kumul and Ager burst out laughing, and in the end even Lynan joined in. “I hope he was a noble animal.”

“He was small and hairy and he farted a lot, but he had his winning ways.”

Against the continued guffaws of the two men, Lynan decided to change the subject. “Shall we camp here tonight?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Ager said. “Let’s make for the town and see if we can’t get some food and shelter. There’s bound to be an inn or hostel there.”

“What do you suggest we use for payment?” Jenrosa asked.

“We can work for it. Places like this always need seasonal labor, especially in autumn. Besides, it might also be a good way for us to get information about recent developments.”

The others agreed, and less than an hour later they were walking down the town’s main street where they found they had three inns to choose from. “This is a market town,” Ager told them. “Some weeks the population here must treble.”

They went to the largest inn and were immediately met by a burly man no taller than Lynan, with a red face impaled by a generous nose. Watery blue eyes stared out beneath a well-furrowed brow, and thin lips barely protruded from a forest of whiskers.

“Lady an‘ gents, welcome to the Good Harvest. You’ll be wantin’ board? We have a wide selection of rooms for you to choose from—”

“We have no money to speak of, landlord,” Lynan said quickly. “But we would appreciate shelter and food for a night in exchange for any work you have.”

“Food and shelter for work, eh?”

“Only for one night. We are on a mission for our village to the capital and must depart tomorrow morning.”

“And what makes you think I have any work for you?”

“If you don’t, we’ll try one of the other inns,” Kumul said bluntly.

The man regarded the giant for a second, then Ager and his crookback. Eventually he put his hands up. “Not so quickly now! Yran did not say he had nothin‘ for you to do!” He rubbed his chin with one hand. “In fact, I’ve got wood that needs cuttin’, an‘ a beast in the outshed ready for dressin’.” He pointed a finger at Lynan. “You ever dressed a beast before?”

Lynan blinked. Was the man serious? And what kind of beast? Before he could open his mouth, Ager stepped forward. “I’ve carved up sheep and goats,” the crookback said.

Yran nodded. “Well, then, close enough to a steer, I expect. If you an‘ the big fellow do the dressin’, an‘ the boy an’ girl reckon they can cut all the wood into cords before it gets too busy tonight, you’ll have a good meal, a comfortable bed, an‘ I’ll even throw in a few ales in front of the big fire. If I’m in a good mood tomorrow mornin’, you might even get breakfast out of it.”

The companions accepted the offer, and Yran took them out back. There was a large pile of uncut wood against the rear wall, and nearby was the outshed. “You’ll find the tools you need in the shed, includin‘ an ax an’ a whetstone. Call me when you’ve finished.”

The ax was made for someone with bigger muscles than Lynan or Jenrosa, so Kumul agreed to do the wood cutting in exchange for Lynan helping Ager with the carcass. At first, Lynan thought he had the better of the deal, but when he walked into the outshed he started having doubts. The steer had been slaughtered recently, and its hide still smelled of blood and shit. Its cut throat grinned obscenely at him, and dried gore matted the animal’s fur. Seeing the massive weight hanging from a huge iron hook on the traverse beam, he realized how big a job lay ahead of them.

“I don’t think we’ll get this done in time,” he muttered.

Ager ignored him. He opened the back of the shed and half-pulled, half-dragged the carcass along the traverse beam until it was outside.

“Bring me the slop buckets and butchering knives,” he told Lynan, and pointed to two wooden buckets in one corner with three different-sized knives in them—a heavy-bladed straight edged chopper and more finely bladed but wickedly sharp carvers. The buckets were black with grime and gore. Lynan felt like gagging, but brought the equipment with him, together with dirty white aprons he found hanging from the shed wall. The aprons covered them from neck to knee.

Ager, with a carver in one hand, walked around the beast a couple of times then nodded to himself. “Not too different,” he said and stabbed the knife into the steer’s groin. Lynan could not help flinching. With all his strength Ager pulled the blade down toward the neck until it met with the gash, then made quick cuts at the base of each of the limbs.

“Right, now comes the hard part,” he told Lynan, and indicated he should take hold of the hide on one side of the long cut. Lynan did so, and on Ager’s word they both pulled away from each other. The hide slowly, tortuously, separated from the flesh for about a hand’s span. Ager then punched at the tegument connecting hide to muscle until it loosened and started peeling again; Lynan copied him on his side of the beast. Eventually the hide was taken off completely, revealing white tendon over pink muscle and ribbons of veins and arteries.

“This is what we all look like inside,” Ager told Lynan merrily. “During the war I came across the remains of our scouts the Slavers had captured and skinned. They looked something like this.” He patted the prince on the back. “And now comes the fun part.” He used the knife again, carefully cutting around the intestines and other internal organs. The stench was overbearingly warm, as if the steer was still alive and breathing. The organs fell out together in one great glistening movement and slopped to the ground.

With great effort they unhooked the beast from the beam, and then with something like relish Ager cut off its head and quartered the body using the chopper. Then they worked at the internal organs, putting the ones that could be used for food into one bucket and discarding the others.

When day’s last light evaporated, Yran came out with torches so they could continue their work. He quickly checked on their progress, seemed happy enough with it, then disappeared back into his inn, taking with him some of the offal and one of the quarters slung over his back.

An hour later, Ager, covered in sweat and flecks of fat and dried blood, finally stood up and stretched his arms. “Well, that’s as good a job as Yran would manage, I dare say,” he told Lynan. “We’ll put this lot in the safe box and then help the others stack the cords.” Lynan found the safe box tethered high in a nearby headseed tree and let it down. They loaded in the remaining quarters and offal, closed the mesh, and hauled it back up again.

“Just in time,” Ager said, pointing to a mangy looking dog and one very fat porker that had come around to investigate the discarded organs.

By the time both tasks were finished, Yran had filled an old iron basin in one of the bedrooms he assigned them with hot water and next to it placed scented fatblocks and clean washers. Ager and Lynan let Kumul and Jenrosa clean first, then deliriously enjoyed wiping the gore off their own faces and hands. All the time they could smell the night’s meals being prepared, and their stomachs rumbled in hunger.

They left their coats, cloaks, and swords in the bedroom and found Yran, who then led them into the main room and showed them to their table, already laden with large tankards of warm peach wine and wooden platters burdened with grain bread steaming from the oven. The room was still largely empty, only a few travelers present and none yet of the locals, but the main fire burned fiercely, filling the inn with the scent of sweet-smelling resin.

The companions were thirsty and tired from hard work. They swigged down their drinks and stuffed their mouths with the bread.

“Swinging that ax for three hours was harder than fighting,” Kumul said, pulling at his shoulder. “It’s the same action again and again, and wears your bones away.”

“You’ll live,” Ager said without sympathy, and turned to Lynan. “I’ll bet our young friend has never gotten his hands so dirty.”

Lynan felt his ears burn. “I’ve done hard work before.”

“In the training arena, I’m sure. But this was different, wasn’t it? It’s the work your servants have always done.”

“Hush,” Kumul warned them. “We know nothing of such things, remember?”

But Lynan was not quite so ready to let the matter drop. “I’m willing to learn, Ager. You should know that by now.”

Ager regarded him with sudden affection, his one eye bright. “Aye, that’s true. You’ve never shirked from hard lessons.”

Any further discussion was forestalled by Yran joining their table with a tankard of his own and a huge jug. “The kitchen hands can finish off the stews an‘ porridges, an’ the meat’s Crispin‘ nicely,” he told them, refilling their drinks. “How long have you been on the road, did you say?”

“We didn’t,” Kumul said carefully. “But close to three weeks.”

“You ever been to the Arran Valley before?”

“Once, a long time ago,” Kumul replied. “I was a soldier many years back, and came through here on the way north.”

“Oh, aye. You had that look and walk about you, I must say. Many soldiers have settled here over the years.”

“It’s a beautiful valley,” Jenrosa said matter-of-factly.

Yran visibly swelled with pride, and started talking animatedly about the valley. He knew all the best streams for fishing, where the choicest fruit was grown, which farms had the best soil, and where the best rabbits could be caught. When he finished with the geography, he moved on to the valley’s history. Tired from their exertions, the four visitors listened as politely as possible to family trees and accounts of great storms, but the going was heavy until Yran mentioned the valley’s annexation by a king of Chandra some five centuries before.

“An‘ more recently, of course, Chandra’s marriage to Grenda Lear.”

“Recently?” Lynan objected. “It was over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Yran scratched the side of his large nose with a chipped fingernail. “Recent to some, as might be,” he said reasonably. “An‘ the way things are goin’, it might not be too far in the future before Chandra’s a spinster again.”

“What do you mean?” Lynan asked tightly, and Ager gently placed a hand on the youth’s arm.

“Well, I’ve heard Tomar’s naught happy with the new queen. Fact is, some in the valley are sayin‘ our peaches and plums would make better rulers than any of Usharna’s mixed brood.” Yran did not notice Lynan and Kumul stiffen, nor Ager firm his grip on the youth. “Maybe they’re right, with one murdered, one drowned, one an idiot by all accounts, an’ the girl on the throne untimely.”

“Why is Tomar unhappy with the queen?” Ager asked.

“There’s rumors of war. She’s callin‘ in mercenaries to boost her armies, and a lot of them are marchin’ through Chandra to get to the capital, which makes Tomar feel about as comfortable as a slug on a salt lick. An‘ then there’s the accusations against General Chisal’s son. The court’s sayin’ he did in his own brother! Poor little bastard drowned tryin‘ to escape, they reckon. Chisal and Tomar were friends a long time ago, an’ the news hit him hard, folks say.”

Lynan resisted the temptation to ask what the accusations said about him in detail, and instead said: “War with whom?”

“Why, Haxus, of course. Trust those bastards to make trouble as soon as Usharna passed on. An‘ if they weren’t thinkin’ of it then, Berayma’s murder must have convinced Salokan to try his luck by now. At least, that’s what everyone’s mutterin‘.”

“But surely the queen is organizing to defend all of Grenda Lear, including Chandra,” Ager argued.

“Maybe, maybe not. An‘ then there’s that bastard from Aman makin’ everyone in Chandra unsettled.”

“The bastard from Aman?” Lynan asked. “You mean King Marin?”

“Lord, no, he’s too far away to trouble anyone. It’s his brother, the chancellor.”

“The man’s enough to make the dead unsettled,” Kumul agreed. “But he’s been chancellor for years now.”

“An‘ never had so much influence, folks say. Look at that mountain prince he’s fittin’ up with the queen.”

The four companions looked blankly at one another.

“You have been out of touch!” Yran declared. “King Matin’s son—Sendarus!”

“What’s this about Sendarus and Areava?” Lynan had met the man briefly before Usharna died, and he had seemed halfway decent back then.

“They’re playin‘ all sweet together, and Orkid’s budgin’ them on for all he’s worth. Accordin‘ to talk, the way they’re goin’ at it, Areava will have an heir by the end of next year.”

By now the inn was filling up with customers. Yran stood to leave. Lynan wanted to hear more about the goings-on in Kendra, but Yran waved him down. “I have work to do, lad. Maybe we can talk again later.”

Soon afterward bowls of thin beef soup arrived, and before they had finished those, plates with steak rounds and baked parsnips. The four wolfed down the food, more hungry than they could have believed possible.

When he was finished, Lynan rubbed his stomach. “It is a long time since we have had such a meal,” he said.

“Even longer since I enjoyed one so much,” Jenrosa added, looking reasonably content for the first time since their escape from Kendra.

Lynan took the time to look around at the crowd. Some were travelers, garbed in riding leathers and dirt-stained coats and cloaks, but most of Yran’s guests were locals in for a drink rather than a meal, farmers dressed in the same garb he himself had once worn to fool Ager on the night when they first met. That was less than four months ago, he reminded himself, but it feels as if years have passed since then.

Exhaustion crept over him, and he tried to shake it off. He wanted to speak to Yran again. His needed to know what was going on back in Kendra. He glanced up at his companions and saw they were equally tired. A full night’s sleep would do them all good, and who could say how long it would be before they would get another one.

“Why don’t you all go to bed,” he suggested. “I’ll stay up a while.” Jenrosa nodded, but Kumul and Ager looked unsure.

“One of us should stay up with you,” Kumul said. “Someone might recognize you and try something.”

“I’ve drowned, remember? No one is looking for me anymore. And if anybody had recognized me, don’t you think they would have given the alarm by now?”

Kumul could find no counter to the argument, and his body cried out for rest. “Well, don’t stray outside of the inn.” he warned, and then he and Ager left with Jenrosa to go to their rooms.

Lynan finished the dregs in his tankard and refilled it with the last of the peach wine. He noticed a collection of more comfortable chairs arranged in a semicircle around the main fire, all unoccupied, and left the table to claim one. Lynan found himself watching the dancing flames like a mouse hypnotized by the movements of a snake. His exhaustion returned and he tried to shrug it off, but the warmth and smell of the fire, and the peach wine, were making it impossible to keep his eyes open. He caught himself nodding off and tried sitting up, but after a moment his eyelids drooped again and his shoulders slumped forward. In the background he could hear the voices of Yran’s guests merge into a single low drone, and sleep stole over him like night over day.

Lynan woke with a jerk, shaking his head to clear it. Pins and needles sparkled under his thighs and he changed position. The fire was burning low and he felt colder. His empty tankard hung from his right hand. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the inn was almost empty now. A couple of travelers were sitting together, hunched over their drinks in serious conversation, and a group of farmers were telling each other stories at another table. With relief, he noted that Yran was still working, clearing tables and sweeping the floor. He caught the innkeeper’s eye, and Yran nodded back. Lynan took that as an encouraging sign and decided to wait a while longer. There was a sound on the stairs and he looked up to see Jenrosa. She came and took the chair next to his by the fire.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She shook her head. Lynan liked the way the fire reflected in her sandy hair. “It’s like that sometimes, when you’re so tired you can’t even close your eyes.”

“Especially if something is on your mind, and you’ve had your fair share of troubles since we met.”

Jenrosa shrugged. “The truth is, things weren’t going that well for me back in Kendra. I was proving to be a disappointment to my instructors.”

“You couldn’t do the magic?” Lynan had heard that it could take years for magickers to develop their skills and, conversely, years to discover that their latent potential was not magical at all but some other gift or ability.

Instead of answering, Jenrosa put her hands out in front of her, palm outwards, and muttered three words. The flames in the fireplace brightened noticeably, and golden sparks shot up the flue.

“I’m impressed,” Lynan admitted. “I didn’t know a student could do that, especially a student in the Theurgia of Stars.”

The look she gave him was almost pugnacious. “You don’t really think Silona was scared off by nothing more than a burning branch, do you?”

Lynan could not help shuddering at the memory of that night, but he remembered how brightly Jenrosa’s brand had burned.

Jenrosa shrugged. “Party tricks, of course. I can’t start a fire, for example, only increase the brightness and heat of one that already exists, and then only for a short while.” Even as she said the words, the fire in front of them descended into old age again. “But my ability, for what it’s worth, does stretch across several disciplines. I think that’s why my maleficum and the theurgia’s instructors let me stay on for as long as I did.”

“You were in trouble with them?”

“I was bored with them,” she said. “The pointlessness of so much of the instruction, repeated from generation to generation for no other purpose than maintaining a tradition. They are never sure which bits of their rituals and incantations actually perform the magic, so they keep it all. Can you imagine how horrifying it will be for students a thousand years from now? They’ll be ninety before they graduate.”

“Still, at least you had a home with them.”

“Not for much longer.” She turned her head to meet his gaze. “But I would rather be here right now than back in Kendra. I know it’s easier to say this sitting in a dry and comfortable inn than it is in a forest inhabited by a vampire, but there you are.”

Lynan nodded, not sure what to say in response, so he offered a thank you. It seemed to have the right effect. Jenrosa smiled and got up. “I think I’ll be able to sleep now,” she said, and left.

Lynan watched her climb up the stairs, a part of him wishing he was climbing up with her, and all the way back to her bed. However, another part told him it would be exactly the wrong thing to do just then, and he took the advice.

He was not aware at first of the figures moving behind him, but when he looked over his shoulder to see where Yran was he found himself gazing into the steady brown eyes of one of the farmers. He was a light-skinned man, past middle age, with thick gray hair twisted into tight braids. He carried a paunch still kept in some control by broad muscles. His face was a macabre collection of scars and a crooked nose. Behind him were two taller men, their faces as disfigured, their hair almost as gray; they were so similar they could have been twins.

“We told the innkeeper you were asleep, and so he’s turned in himself,” the first man said, and casually sat in the chair just vacated by Jenrosa. The other two stayed behind Lynan.

Lynan looked at the man blankly. “What?”

“A wonderful purifying thing, fire,” the seated man said. “Did you know that in some cultures only males are allowed to start a fire, and in others women are considered the guardians of the flame?”

Lynan shook his head. He wanted to leave, but found himself cornered by his own uncertainty. These were farmers, that was all, he assured himself. No reason to go screaming for Kumul. I cannot spend all my life jumping at shadows and doubts.

“Wonderful and purifying,” repeated the fanner. He cocked his head and glanced at Lynan out of the corner of his eye. “I know you, young sir, I am sure of it.”

“We’ve never met,” Lynan replied, trying to keep out of his voice the frog that had suddenly appeared in the bottom of his throat.

The man extended a hand and Lynan felt compelled to take it. “Jes Prado.” He pointed to the two men behind him. “And these are Bazik and Aesor.”

“Migam,” Lynan returned shortly. “Are you a farmer hereabouts?”

Prado nodded. “I know your face. Do you have a brother?”

“No.”

“A cousin, then?” Jes stretched out his hands to warm them by the fire.

“Possibly. I don’t know all my uncles.”

“Then maybe it was your father.”

Lynan swallowed. “I don’t think so.” Shame burned his face.

Prado wagged a finger. “Now, I know there’s some connection.” He held a hand up. “No! No, don’t tell me. I’ll remember. Where are you from, Migam?”

“A village, just north of Ebrius Ridge.”

“I haven’t spent much time in that region, I’m afraid. No clue there. Is your father a merchant? Someone who travels?”

“No. He was a farmer. He grew wheat.”

“Was a farmer? He’s dead? I’m sorry to hear it. Did he ever buy slaves for his land?”

Lynan looked up, horrified, before he could stop himself. “No!”

“Ah, then maybe we haven’t met,” Prado said evenly.

Lynan stood up, but two heavy hands rested on his shoulders and gently forced him back into his seat.

“There was a man called Elynd,” Jes continued. “He was much like you, Migam, if older and broader, but I can see you will fill out with time. He was husband to a great woman, but he met with a terrible accident.”

“He was murdered,” Lynan said sullenly, no longer seeing any point in continuing the pretense of not knowing whom Jes was talking about.

Prado shrugged. “He was a victim, Migam, a victim of a political decision.” He cupped his chin in his hands and stared into the fire. “If I have it right, Elynd had a son with this woman, a son now wanted for regicide, a crime generally regarded as being even more terrible than slavery.” The man laughed softly, sending a shiver down Lynan’s spine. “And here you are.”

Lynan tried again to stand up, but the grip on his shoulders became painful. Fingers dug under his collarbone.

“And the big one in your company must be Kumul Alarn. There are few others who would fit that description. I can’t remember the names of the other two, but they’re unimportant. I think the largest reward will be for you. Large enough, in fact, for me to reform my company. What do you think of that?”

Lynan glared at the man, saying nothing.

Prado sighed, extracted a small knife from behind his belt buckle and leaned across. Lynan tried to pull away. “Bazik,” Prado said, and the man holding him placed one strong hand behind his neck and used the other to cover his mouth. Lynan struggled even harder, but the second man now came and stood in front of him and punched him once under the diaphragm. All the wind in his lungs exploded from him, and his eyes watered in shock and pain.

Prado smiled disarmingly as he placed the point of his knife against Lynan’s jaw, just in front of his right ear. “Rendle did not say in what condition you were to be given him, only that you were to be alive. This will teach you to answer questions from your betters.”

Lynan’s head exploded with excruciating agony as the small knife bit deep and dug across his jaw in a line to his chin. His cry was stifled by the hand across his mouth.

“In the old days, when I was a slaver and not a captain, I would not have marked my merchandise in so visible a place. But I have to admit it was satisfying doing that to the son of Elynd Chisal.” Prado wiped the knife on his boot and tucked it back behind his belt. “Think of this as your initiation into adulthood. Welcome to a life of pain, although in your case it sadly looks like being a short life.” He pulled out a kerchief and wiped at the blood streaming down Lynan’s throat and neck, then forced it into Lynan’s hand. “Keep it against the cut. It will serve until we have more time to do a better job.”

Lynan closed his eyes and desperately tried to overcome the pain threatening to make him pass out.

Prado nodded curtly to the man holding Lynan, and he yanked his prisoner to his feet.

“Keep quiet,” Bazik whispered in his ear, “or Jes will cut you again.”

Prado led the way out of the inn, the other two taking Lynan. It was raining outside, and the shock of the cold made Lynan gasp. Blood and water ran down his shirt. He was pushed and dragged around the side of the inn where three horses were tied to wall stakes; full saddlebags and swords hung from their saddles.

Prado held Lynan by his hair. “You can make this ride easy on yourself. You do what you’re told and you’ll be reasonably comfortable, but cross me and I’ll match your new scar on the other side of your face and you’ll be dragged behind like a legless dog on a lead.” He patted Lynan’s head and laughed. “Don’t look so bloody miserable, boy, things will get a lot worse than this for you before your life is over.”

“What about his friends?” Aesor asked.

“Too many for us to take on by ourselves. This is our prize.” Prado mounted one of the horses and put an arm out for Lynan. Lynan hesitated and he was punched in the kidneys for his trouble. Strong hands hooked under his armpits and lifted him behind Prado. “Hold on, Your Highness; you don’t want to fall off.”

The other two mounted their horses. Prado gave a hand signal and the party moved silently out to the main street and then north headlong into the rain, the sound of their passing lost in the night.

Chapter 20

It had been as unexpected as it had been desired. Areava and Sendarus had been in her bedchamber discussing a future that might include the two of them together. Neither had mentioned the marrying of royal houses, or the combined destiny of two great peoples; it had been about making one life out of two, about having children, about growing old together. And then, as if predestined by God, the talk had turned to holding and passionate kissing, and finally to making love.

Afterward, when Sendarus lay sleeping with his head across her belly, she had felt the Keys of Power glowing with a bright warmth between her breasts. She traced a finger along his spine, his neck and cheek, and kissed him lightly on his forehead, then gently moved his head aside and left their bed.

She wrapped herself in a cloak and went to the window to look out over her city and her kingdom. She was not sure what it was she was searching for—a sign perhaps—but she was content to see that everything lay still under the moon and stars. It made her feel as if the universe had expected what had happened between her and Sendarus, and accepted it as part of some destiny. She turned back to her bed and silently watched her lover sleeping on, his mouth curved in the slightest of smiles, and then she saw her blood on the sheets. She was surprised there was so much, and then felt the stickiness between her own thighs.

Perhaps all great things begin with blood, she thought. Love and birth and death. And new reigns.

A breeze stroked the nape of her neck and she shivered. It felt like the caress of a cold hand.

Olio knew as soon as he saw his sister the next morning. He did not say anything to her but watched her and Sendarus closely during their breakfast together. The habits they had fallen into as a courting couple were still there, but changed with a new knowledge of each other. Olio wondered who else would know. Areava’s ladies-in-waiting, of course, which meant the whole court would hear the news before the end of the day. That made up his mind for him. When the plates had been cleared, Olio leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“What was that for?” she asked, clearly pleased.

Olio did not answer but smiled knowingly at the couple. Sendarus blushed.

“Is it that obvious?” Areava asked. Olio nodded. “Then it is just as well it happened with a prince,” she said dryly.

“Indeed,” Olio said. He licked his lips, and asked carefully: “Are you intending to go further?”

Areava and Sendarus said “Yes” at the same time.

“And when will you m-m-make a formal announcement?”

“We had not discussed that,” Sendarus said.

“It is something we cannot decide by ourselves,” Areava said, and sighed. “We are of royal blood. Our engagement and wedding will be state occasions. Our love is ours alone, but our marriage will be a public affair. As well, the coronation is next week. One thing at a time.”

“The Twenty Houses will not like the news,” Olio pointed out.

“Good,” Areava said simply.

“They will accommodate themselves, surely?” Sendarus asked, still surprised the royal family had not the unstinting support of the nobility. His father, with less power and authority among his own people than Areava among hers, would nonetheless never tolerate open dissent; he would force the issue and decide it in his favor, as always.

Areava exchanged glances with Olio. “Since I have no intention of accommodating them, they will have to.”

“Softly, sweet sister,” Olio advised..“They are still recovering from your ascension.”

“As am I,” she said stiffly, her brown eyes hardening. “But they must learn the kingdom’s welfare comes before their own.”

“And again I say, softly. You have p-p-problems in the north, and can do without new p—p—problems here in Kendra as well.”

“Haxus?” Sendarus asked. “I have not heard of this.”

“Nothing has happened yet,” Areava told him. “But reports from our posts in Hume indicate Haxus is moving troops to our common border. King Salokan has tried nothing yet, but may before the coronation.”

“The coronation would be a good time to announce the engagement,” Olio suggested. “Tomar and Charion will b-b-be here. And your father, Sendarus. It would m-m-make it a double celebration.”

Areava nodded. “That makes sense. If it is to be a political event, then we must use it to best political advantage. The Twenty Houses may not like the news, but the provinces will be pleased.”

“It would have been simpler had I been a scion of one of your Twenty Houses,” Sendarus said lightly.

“Then you would not be with me now,” Areava said tartly. Sendarus was taken aback by the change in her voice. She reached out and took his hand. “Forgive me. But I find little in my uncles and cousins that amuses me.”

Duke Holo Amptra found little about his niece, the queen, that amused him. He sat on a stone seat in his garden watching the birds in the trees bicker and fight, swoop and peck. It reminded him of the Twenty Houses and their relationship with the Rosethemes.

If only Usharna had had a brother, none of the Houses’ present troubles would exist. She would never have ascended to the throne, and the Keys of Power would not have been held all together in the hands of a woman. It was not right that so much power be concentrated in a single person.

For a brief moment he had believed everything had been put right with Berayma’s ascension to the throne. But then that hybrid spawn of Usharna, the despised Lynan, like his father before him, had struck at the core of the Twenty Houses. The fact that Lynan had drowned while trying to escape made up little for the crime he had committed. But at least Lynan had been a true son of Kendra, unlike this foreign prince who had so easily—so casually—plucked the new queen as if she was nothing more than ripe fruit. It seemed to Holo that things were going from bad to worse, and he prayed with heart and soul that on his death his son would come into his inheritance in a world put right again.

He saw Galen enter their grand house and a moment later appear in the garden.

“You were not at the palace for long,” Holo said.

“No need to. Everyone is talking about it. The rumors are true. Areava and Sendarus are to marry.”

“When will they announce it?”

“Probably at the coronation. That is what I would do.”

“It must be stopped.”

Galen shook his head. “It cannot be stopped. We can do nothing against Areava. Grenda Lear has suffered enough shocks the last few weeks, and Salokan will need little excuse to try his hand against the kingdom.”

“Then those rumors about Haxus are true as well?”

Galen sat down next to his father. “I think we will soon be at war.”

“You realize what will happen if the marriage does go ahead and there is issue.”

“Yes. The royal line will be separated from the Twenty Houses, perhaps forever. Once Areava marries someone not of us, a precedent has been set.”

“It is disastrous.”

“Perhaps not, father.”

Holo looked up at his son in surprise.

“Perhaps, father, what the royal line needs is new blood. Perhaps including the kingdom’s other royal houses in our own royal line is best for Grenda Lear.”

“We made the kingdom,” Holo argued, his voice almost pleading. “It is the Twenty Houses who have always provided the kingdom’s rulers, who have united almost all of Theare under one crown. We have not failed yet.”

“Our family failed in one thing; our loyalty to the crown.”

Holo turned his face away. “That was a long time ago. My brother was punished for his crime.”

“But not the Twenty Houses. We all let him thrive, Father. He was our responsibility.”

“This is not something I wish to discuss. It has been kept a secret for many years now.”

“But we cannot afford to forget.”

Holo sighed deeply. “You think Areava should marry this Amanite?”

“No. But I do not think I have the right to stop it. None of us do. And more pressure from us would only further determine Areava along her course.”

“Then we are lost.”

Galen shook his head. “Nothing is ever completely lost.”

“The Rosethemes would put a rabbit warren to shame, and Marin’s family is little better.”

“I have no doubt of the couple’s ability to have children. But royalty is vulnerable and always seeking support. We must bide our time and, when our support is called for, step back into our rightful place in the shield wall. We must win back our influence, not force it on Areava. You know how she will react.”

“So again we must wait.”

“Yes, but perhaps not for long. War has a habit of uniting the great families behind their rulers, and of binding rulers to their great families.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Primate Northam had heeded the urgent message from one of his priests in the city. It was a wet, blustery day, and his cloak did little to protect him from the weather as he made his way cautiously down cobblestone alleyways made treacherous with rain. He found it ironic that on those days when weather made poor lives even more miserable, the old quarters of the city where most of the poor lived looked at its best. Under a bright sun the leaning, two-story oak-and-clinker-board houses appeared faded and dark, but rain made the wood and peeling whitewash glisten, temporarily giving them the illusion of newness and even a kind of gaiety.

There were three chapels in this quarter, and Northam prayed he was heading for the right one. It had been some time since he had last personally inspected them. The rain forced him to keep his gaze downcast and he almost passed by the chapel sign. He knocked on the door and hurried in as soon as it was open. He threw back the cowl of his cloak and immediately smelled the stained wood of the pews, a bitter smell that always reminded him of his childhood. In the background he could also smell porridge cooking, and he heard the voices of people chatting in the kitchen. Certainly nothing seemed awry.

The priest who let him in took his cloak. He was smiling.

“Your message said it was a matter of utmost urgency,” Northam said. He pretended to look around. “I see no emergency.” The voices from the kitchen broke into laughter. “I certainly hear no emergency.”

The priest did not look remotely apologetic. “Believe me, your Grace, it is an emergency. Please come into the kitchen.”

Trying to look patient rather than cross, Northam followed the priest down the hallway, through the chapel proper and into a brightly lit room. He smelled more than porridge now. Cider and bacon, as well, and fresh bread. The priest had two guests. The primate cursorily inspected their faces and then froze.

“P-p-primate Northam!” Prince Olio stood to greet him. “How wonderful you could join us.”

“We will make a merry company,” Prelate Edaytor Fanhow said, rising as well and shuffling sideways along his bench seat to make way for the newcomer, something made difficult by the prelate’s girth.

“Your Highness! I had no idea! And Prelate Fanhow!” He looked at the priest, who was grinning from ear to ear. “This is a surprise…”

“God’s teeth, Father, sit down,” Olio ordered, and waved at the space Edaytor had made for him. The primate did as he was instructed. “We have a wonderful p-p-plan to help those in Kendra, but it needs your cooperation and… well, silence.”

“My cooperation and silence, your Highness?” he asked. The priest placed a spoon and an iron bowl filled with porridge still bubbling with heat in front of him. Northam tried to hide his discomfort. He felt like a rabbit who had been invited to tea with a wolf. He looked up at Olio’s smiling face. Well, a genial wolf, perhaps, but were they not the worst kind?

“Eat your p-p-porridge, man,” Olio commanded. “Edaytor and I want to set up a hospice.”

Northam gingerly tasted the porridge. It had been laced with honey and made him feel warm inside. He swallowed a whole spoonful. He had forgotten how good porridge could taste, especially on a cold, wet day. “A hospice? Where?”

“Right here,” Edaytor said. “This is the largest of your chapels in the old quarter.”

“But who would run it?”

“Ah, that’s where you come in,” Olio said. “We need an extra cleric. Or a lay servant if you can spare one.”

“Your Highness, forgive me. As much as I admire your wish to help the poor of Kendra, one priest cannot do much by himself, especially for the seriously ill. You need surgeons for that, and in the whole of Kendra there is only one with any skill and that is Trion, and he already does what he can at his own hospice.”

“That’s true,” Olio admitted. “But the p-p-priest would have assistance.”

“Assistance? From where?”

“From the theurgia,” Edaytor said. “I will supply magickers to deal with the healing.”

Northam dropped his spoon in the bowl. “Magickers? Since when do magickers heal the sick?”

Edaytor and Olio looked at one another as if they were sharing a private joke. “The magickers would not be healing the sick,” Edaytor continued. “At least, not by themselves.”

Northam sighed. “You are playing games with me, Your Highness.”

Olio laughed lightly, and his soft brown eyes seemed to shine. “Not at all. I will p-p-provide funds for the hospice to operate, and pay for any herbs and m-m—medicines it will need. And for the seriously ill, well…” He slowly pulled out from underneath his shirt the Key of the Heart. “… I will deal with them.”

The primate stared at the prince for a long moment. “Your Highness, you can’t be serious.”

“I have never b-b-been m-m-more serious in m-m-my life.”

“The Healing Key is for only the most sacred duties, your Highness.”

“And what is m-m-more sacred than saving life?”

“But how do you know it will work? You’ve never used it…” His voice trailed off as he saw the expressions on the faces of Olio and Edaytor. “You have used it, haven’t you?”

“A few days ago, down at the docks,” Edaytor said. “The Key worked when both the prince and I used it together. We saved a man’s life. Well, the Key saved his life.”

“I am a p—p-prince of Grenda Lear with p-p-position and great wealth,” Olio said. “And yet I have no p-p-power to assist the people of that kingdom. At least, I thought that was the case.”

“You cannot spend your life down here, your Highness. You have duties in the palace—”

“I have no intention of spending all m-m-my time in the hospice. I would only visit when the m-m-most serious cases needed the power of the Key.”

“You cannot heal all the sick and dying,” Northam said sternly. “How will you choose who to save and who to let die?”

Olio’s face darkened. “I will depend on your p-p-priest for advice on this. I know I cannot help all. The old m-m-must be allowed to die in peace, but even there the hospice can help. It will give them a place where their p-p-pain can be eased. But many die unnecessarily, from disease or accident, or worse. These I can help. These I will help. I will be a p-p-prince to them.”

Northam regarded Olio with new respect and something like awe. He sighed deeply and said, “It is one of the great burdens of our calling that we cannot do more for the poor and the ailing. Since the end of the Slave War, it has sometimes seemed to me that the church has been seeking a new cause to further its mission. Perhaps you have given it to us. You will have your priest.”

There were no shouts of joy from the others, but Northam sensed a feeling of quiet relief. “There were two things you needed from me. The first was my cooperation. You have that, and gladly. The second was my silence. Silence from whom?”

“M-m-my sister,” Olio said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “And anyone involved with the court. Can you imagine what would happen if Areava found out what I was doing?”

“She would commend you heartily!” Northam declared. “Do you doubt the queen’s mercy?”

“Of course not. But she would insist on giving m-m-me an escort. People would come from everywhere to see Olio do his m—m-magic. The hospice would become a circus, not a p-p-place of healing. My p-p-part in this m-m-must be kept secret.”

“But you will need some protection,” Northam insisted.

“Why? Why would anyone suspect I was involved with the hospice? And if I was in any danger, there will be Edaytor’s m-m-magickers around to p—p-protect m-m-me from any harm.”

“You must be discovered eventually,” Northam argued.

“I m-m-must insist on this, Father,” Olio said firmly. “I will do this m-m-my way.”

Northam nodded, but his face showed how unhappy he was with the situation. “If you insist, Your Highness, I will keep your secret, though in the end I think it will do you little good.”

Olio reached across to take the primate’s much larger hand and patted it like a child comforting his father. “We will worry about discovery if and when it happens.”

Chapter 21

It was a woman’s scream that woke Kumul. He leaped out of bed, dressed only in his linen undergarment, and rushed into the inn’s main room with his sword drawn and ready. The room was empty. He heard sobbing from the kitchen.

Ager joined him, more completely dressed and similarly armed. “Lynan’s not in his room,” the crookback said tersely.

Kumul cursed loudly, and together they went to the kitchen, fearing the worst. They found the body of Yran slumped on the floor, a thick pool of blood surrounding him like a halo, his throat cut from his left ear to the middle of his larynx. Ager knelt beside the body and touched the man’s neck and hands. One of Yran’s kitchen helpers had collapsed into a chair and was crying uncontrollably.

Kumul rushed out the kitchen door, but Ager called out: “No point, Kumul! The man’s been dead for hours. His neck and fingers are stiff as bone.”

Kumul ignored him.

Ager grabbed the kitchen hand by the arm. “When did you get here?”

“Not five minutes ago, sir! I started the scrubbing outside, and came in to get the saucepans and found Master Yran lying there! Oh, God, it’s horrible…” Her voice started rising in a scream again, but Ager shook her hard.

“Listen to me! Do you have a grieve?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get him, and quickly. And get whoever was working here last night!”

“Yes, sir,” she repeated, and scrambled out of the kitchen, her tears stopping now she had something to do.

Kumul returned, his face filled with fury. “There were three horses tied around the side of the inn, and four sets of footprints in the mud, about five hours old.”

“Was Lynan’s among them?”

Kumul shrugged. “I can’t be sure. We should never have left him alone last night!”

“There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Jenrosa and I can carry out a wider search.”

“Better get dressed first; you don’t want to frighten the townspeople. By the way, I’ve asked the women to get the grieve.”

“What if he recognizes us?”

“For God’s sake, man, what if he suspects us of killing Yran? At least by helping find out what happened, we may avoid that.”

Kumul looked as if he was about to argue the point, but then nodded and left to get Jenrosa. A little while later, a short, round man wearing the orange sash of a grieve entered, out of breath and flustered. He carried an old dress sword as if he did not know what to do with it. He ignored Ager and stooped over the dead innkeeper, sucking his teeth and shaking his head.

“Oh, dear. We’ve had nothing like this for years. And Yran of all people! Oh, dear me.” He breathed through his nose like an angry bull.

“I’ve asked the woman who found him to bring back all the people who were working here last night,” Ager said. “They might be able to tell you something.”

The grieve looked at him in surprise, as if Ager had just appeared from thin air. He quickly studied Ager’s face, then his crookback, and then his face again. “Did you, my friend? Well, that was uncommonly straight thinking. And who are you?”

“A traveler. I was staying here last night with three companions.”

The grieve immediately looked suspicious. “Strangers, then?”

“Strangers who want to help,” Ager said quickly. “It’s possible that whoever did this also harmed one of our party. He is missing from his room.”

“Or did the deed and ran in fear for his life,” the grieve said.

“He had no reason to do this.”

“Yran was not a poor man. For some, a handful of gold coins is more than enough reason to kill an innocent.”

“Then maybe you should see if any gold coins are missing,” Ager countered.

The grieve shot up as if he had been kicked. “Dear me, more uncommonly straight thinking. I wonder where Yran kept his takings?”

Just then the kitchen hand reappeared, followed by some of the cooks and servers Ager had seen last night. They gathered around Yran like pups around a dead bitch, whining and lost. The grieve tried comforting them all, but his words only seemed to make things worse, and the whining turned into bawling.

“The money,” Ager reminded the grieve.

The man nodded. “Lewith,” he said, grabbing one young man by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Lewith. Where did your master keep his takings?”

“He’s dead, Goodman Ethin,” Lewith cried at the grieve. “God’s pain, he’s dead!”

Ethin gave the man a firm shake. “Now, Lewith, you must tell me. Where did Yran keep his takings? We have to know if his killers were thieves.”

Lewith pointed under the carving table, a huge wooden block on cast iron rollers. “Under there. There’s a loose floorboard.”

Ager did not wait for the grieve, but pushed aside the table and squatted down. He used the point of his sword to test the boards. He found one that lifted, prized it up and put his hand down the hole. He scrabbled around for a moment then stood up, his hand holding a rusted metal box. He shook it, and all could hear could the jangling of several coins.

“It needs a key,” Ager told the grieve.

“On a cord around his… his neck,” Lewith whispered, pointing now at Yran’s corpse.

Ethin hesitated, and Ager impatiently bent down by the body. He slipped a leather cord from around Yran’s bloody neck and used the key on it to open the metal box. He showed everyone that it was half full of coins, some gold, most copper.

“Is this about right for a night’s takings?” Ager demanded of Lewith.

“More, sir. That’s easily the money from two nights’ trade. He would have been taking that to Master Shellwith for safekeeping this morning.”

“Master Shellwith?”

“Our magistrate,” Ethin told Ager. “He has a strongbox in his office.” He met Ager’s stare and nodded. “So if it was not for theft, why was Yran killed?”

“To keep him out of the way while my friend was taken,” Ager said. “Another of our party has searched outside the inn. There are signs there of three horses but four sets of footprints, about five hours old. Yran has been dead for about that time. You can feel his fingers if you doubt me.”

The grieve shuddered. “I believe you, sir.” He said to Lewith: “I want you and the others to go into the dining room. Get a good fire started. I will come and talk with you soon.”

As soon as they had shuffled out, Ethin turned his attention back to Ager. “Now, my friend, why would anyone want to take your companion away from you? Is he worth a ransom? Did he owe money?”

“We come from a farming village, and we are not worth much more than the clothes we wear.”

“You don’t talk and act like a farmer.”

“I was a soldier once, as was another of our company; but the one missing is not much more than a boy, callow and unused to the ways of the world.”

“Then we come back to my question. Why was he taken?”

Ager could only shrug. He could think of no story that would convince the grieve; better to shut up and see how things played out. For a man who on first sight seemed particularly unsuitable to be a town’s keeper of the peace, the man had a habit of asking the most awkward questions.

Kumul—now fully dressed—and Jenrosa came into the kitchen, their boots caked with mud past the ankle. Jenrosa’s face was pale with shock. Kumul looked at Ager and shook his head. “The main road is mucked up badly after the rain, but there are three clear sets of horse prints heading north from the town.” Kumul nodded at Ethin. “You’re the grieve?”

Ethin nodded, obviously in awe of the man’s size.

“He was about to questions the cooks and workers about last night’s guests,” Ager said for him.

Ethin nodded and made a move toward the main room. “That’s exactly right.”

Kumul grabbed the grieve by the arm. The man jumped as if he had been struck by a snake.

“God’s sake,” Kumul said gruffly. “I only want to ask you a question. Is there a place we can get horses around here?”

“We have two stable yards. I know Gereson has horses for sale at the present.”

“What do we pay him with?” Jenrosa asked.

“Can you deputize us?” Kumul asked Ethin.

“Deputize you? Why would I want to do that?”

“To catch the bastards who took our friend and killed Yran,” Kumul replied sharply.

Ethin was taken aback by the suggestion. “I’ve never deputized strangers before…”

“Who else in this town will pursue the murderers as ardently as we?” Ager asked.

“Well, no one, to be straight,” the Grieve admitted. “Pursuit of dangerous criminals is not the main objective in life for farmers and shopkeepers.”

“Then deputize us,” Kumul insisted.

“What for, sir? You intend to go after your friend at any rate. What difference would it make to you?”

Kumul licked his lips. “Because then you can advance us the scrip for our services.”

“Advance you a scrip?” Ethin looked shocked. “I have no resources for hiring deputies!”

Ager shook Yran’s money box. “You have this. Advance us enough coin against Yran’s estate to purchase horses for ourselves. We have none ourselves, and without them, we will never catch Yran’s killers.”

Ethin frowned in thought.

“Yran’s death cries out for revenge,” Ager added.

Ethin breathed through his nose and took the money box from Ager. He selected a handful of quarters and half-royals and gave them to Kumul.

“With that, you can buy four good horses, three for yourselves and another for your friend should you save him, but bugger the scrip. Yran had no family I know of, and I don’t think he would begrudge the amount if you revenge his death. You’ll find Gereson at the other end of town. While you arrange for your horses, I’ll question Lewith and company and see if I can get you more information.”

“I’ll stay with Goodman Ethin,” Ager told the others. “I’ll meet you at Gereson’s when I finish here.”

Kumul nodded and left with Jenrosa. They found the stable yard and presented their coins to Gereson, who, for that amount, said they could choose any four horses they liked and he would throw in saddles, bridles, and packs as well. By the time they had selected four mounts, fit mares with even temperaments, Ager had joined them.

“The only visitors at the inn who were still drinking last night after Yran let his workers go included Lynan, a pair of travelers, and three farmers. The grieve found the travelers still in their rooms, and they told him that when they went to their beds, only the farmers and Lynan were left in the main room and Yran was in the kitchen. Then one of the cooks said she knew the names of one of the farmers, and that he owns land in the east of the valley, on the slopes.”

“So we go there first?” Jenrosa asked.

“We follow the tracks you and Kumul found. I don’t think they’re heading back to the farm.”

“Why not?” Kumul asked.

“Because he must have known he was recognized last night, and that the grieve would come and at least ask questions, if not actually make an arrest. Besides, the farmer’s name was Jes Prado. Sound familiar?”

Kumul thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Never met the man, but he was a mercenary captain who fought for the Slavers during the war. Most captains on the other side took the queen’s amnesty and disbanded their companies after the war and settled down somewhere. I assume Prado chose this valley.”

“Well, I’ll wager he’s leaving the valley now. Most importantly, he’s not heading south.”

“So?” Jenrosa asked.

“Prado would not have taken Lynan unless he knew who he was and that he was outlaw, but he’s not heading straight for Kendra to deliver his prize to Areava. That means there’s more to it than we presently understand.”

“Maybe Areava doesn’t want Lynan to be seen in the capital,” Kumul suggested. “She may think he has support there, among the commoners at least.”

“Then why not kill him outright?” Ager countered. “I think there others involved, and Prado is on his way to meet them. More than that, Prado knows we’ll follow him, so he won’t stay on the road for long.”

“Then we’re running out of time,” Kumul said brusquely, and mounted the horse he had chosen for himself, a large roan with a black streak on her forehead.

Before the other two had mounted, the grieve appeared. “I don’t know what it is about you, Crookback, but I trust your face.”

“Thanks for that,” Ager said dryly.

“I won’t come with you. I’m no horseman and could never hope to keep up. Find Yran’s killers and, if you’re able to, bring them back here for justice.”

Kumul looked darkly at the grieve. “We make no promise on that, but we will do what we can.”

Ager and Jenrosa mounted, and Kumul took the reins of the fourth horse. They rode north out of town, each desperately hoping that Lynan was still alive to be rescued.

Lynan slipped sideways off Prado’s horse and fell to the ground. He was barely conscious, and the shock of hitting the hard earth barely registered in his fogged brain. He heard curses and then commands. Rough hands half-carried him to softer ground. He was dimly aware of an argument going on in the background. Something grabbed his jaw and pain lanced through him. His vision cleared and he found himself looking into the face of Jes Prado, his head haloed by the soft light of a damp, cloudy dawn. He moaned. He had hoped in his delirium that all that had happened to him was nothing more than a nightmare.

“I’m going to stitch you up, boy,” Prado breathed into his face. “But first we have to clean your wound.”

Lynan started slipping back into the fog when a thick unguent was rubbed into his cut. Again, terrible pain tore through him. There was a brief moment when he thought it was over and he could retreat back into his troubled sleep, nightmare and all, but it was only the lull before the storm. His whole body spasmed when Prado used a heavy needle and sinew to close his wound. Prado was sitting on his chest to stop him moving, and his thugs held onto his head and legs. Lynan screamed, then slipped back into unconsciousness.

He did not know how long he remained unconscious, but when he came to, he found his hands were tied to a pommel and Prado’s arms were coiled around his waist. Ahead, he saw Bazik, and he could hear Aesor clopping along behind. His jaw throbbed with a terrible ache, and it felt as if it was twice its normal size. His tongue filled his mouth, and he tried to ask for water but could only manage a wheeze.

“Our friend is awake,” Bazik said, looking over his shoulder. Prado only grunted.

Lynan tried turning his head to look around, but the pain in his jaw only got worse, so he twisted from the waist instead. They were following a narrow but well-worn trail that wound its way up a gentle tree-covered slope. Leaves dripped water on him. A weak sun shone from a pale blue sky through the canopy, but the light made him feel colder. He again tried asking for a drink, but was ignored.

After a while the trail leveled off and the trees started thinning out. Lynan glanced quickly at the sun and saw they were heading north. He could see the Arran Valley to his right, its broad descent ending in a patchwork of fields and orchards. To his left, the ground was largely flat and covered in long grass with occasional clumps of wideoaks and heart-seed breaking the skyline. Farther east, the horizon was lost in a green haze which he thought might be a river valley.

The Barda River, he told himself hazily. Why are they taking me this way? We are heading toward Hume and not Kendra.

As the day drew on, it got warmer, and Lynan’s drying clothes started to tighten around him. They left the shelter of the woods and headed into the plain, making their way from copse to copse, Prado obviously seeking cover wherever he could. As the sun neared its zenith, they stopped under the shade of a group of wideoaks. Lynan’s bindings were cut and he was pushed from the saddle to the ground. Prado knelt next to him and inspected his handiwork.

“You’ll live. There’s no infection and the stitching is holding. You won’t chew for a while, though.” He forced Lynan’s head back and held up a flask. Water splashed over the prince’s mouth, some of it spilling down his throat. He coughed and spluttered and his jaw felt as if it was splitting open, but Prado grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back again, forcing him to drink more.

Bazik came over and tapped Prado on the shoulder. “Captain, you should see this.”

Prado followed Bazik to the edge of the copse. They peered westward, back the way they had come. They talked urgently among themselves. Prado gave a command and returned to Lynan, forcing him to his feet with a kick to his back. Bazik and Aesor lifted him to Prado’s horse and tied his hands to the pommel again. The horses were tired and needed a rest, but Prado started off at a hard canter, heading straight east.

Lynan tried desperately to match the horse’s rhythm, but found he was bound so tightly to the pommel he could not lift above the saddle. He was being jolted with every fall of a hoof and the agony was too much for him to bear. He cried out, but was ignored. He tried to focus on the horizon. The valley seemed as far away as ever. He cried out again, and Prado cursed. Lynan heard a sword being lifted from its scabbard. Before he could react, Prado brought down the hilt of the sword against the back of Lynan’s head, and he fell into a black pit.

Kumul kept the lead, able to maintain his mount at a brisk trot and at the same time keep his eye on the road. The others followed behind, Ager deep in thought and Jenrosa doing her best to stay in the saddle. She knew how to ride but had not had much experience of it since living in Kendra.

They rode for three hours before Kumul called a halt. “I’ve lost the trail,” he told them. “The ground is drying and I can no longer tell the old tracks from the new.” He slapped his thigh angrily.

“We should keep on, anyway,” Ager said stoically.

“What if you’re wrong?” Kumul asked. “What if Prado doubled back and is now heading south for Kendra?”

Ager shrugged. “There is nothing we can do about that. We must continue and hope to pick up some sign.”

Kumul looked up and saw Jenrosa dismounting. “What are you doing? We can’t rest yet—”

“Have you anything of Lynan’s?”

“What the hell has that to do—” Kumul started angrily, but Ager waved him quiet.

“I have his sword and the coat the forester gave him,” Ager said.

“Cut me a piece from the coat.”

Ager unwrapped Lynan’s coat from his roll and did as instructed. He handed Jenrosa a strip of cloth. Kumul opened his mouth to demand what they thought they were doing, but again Ager waved him still.

“If she is doing what I think she is doing, my friend, we will soon know in which direction Lynan is being taken.”

Kumul closed his mouth and watched on impatiently.

Jenrosa squatted near the road’s edge and gathered a handful of damp grass which she rubbed vigorously between her hands to dry. She then made a small mound from the grass and the cloth and withdrew a small glass from her pocket, using it to focus the sun’s light onto the mound. For a long time nothing happened, and Kumul became increasingly fidgety. His horse felt his frustration and started pulling on the reins.

“The grass is still too damp,” Ager said, but even as he uttered the words a thin stream of smoke started from the mound. Jenrosa chanted something under her breath and suddenly the mound was afire and blazing merrily.

“Bloody wonderful,” Kumul fumed. “Now we can all roast chestnuts.”

Jenrosa and Ager ignored him. When the fire burned out, she gathered the ashes in her hand and stood up. She chanted something once more and threw the ashes into the wind, carefully watching which way they scattered before settling to the ground. Jenrosa pointed east. “That way,” she said.

“This is mumbo-jumbo,” Kumul declared to Ager. “She is only a student magicker—”

“Kumul, which way is the wind blowing?” Ager asked him.

“From the north. What has that to do…” His question died in his mouth.

“And the ashes blew east,” Ager finished. “There was a trail about two leagues back.”

“I remember it,” Kumul said, “but there were no recent tracks on it.”

“Prado would have cut across from the road to the trail,” Ager said. “I think that is the way we must go.”

“North and then east?” Kumul asked. “Where is Prado going?”

Ager shrugged. “We must follow, whichever way he goes.”

Kumul nodded stiffly. Jenrosa remounted and they rode back until they reached the trail. They had only followed it for a short while before it started to climb out of the valley, and they entered the beginnings of a wood.

Kumul pointed to the ground. “It is still wet here, and there are tracks of three horses, one set deeper than the others.” He looked up at Jenrosa and offered a smile. “You were right.”

“I’m glad I’m useful for something,” she said without humor, but was surprised to find Kumul’s words made her feel better.

“You forget you saved Lynan from Silona,” Ager told her. “You may have saved him again.”

“Not yet,” she replied grimly.

The slope forced them to a slow walk, and Kumul ordered them to dismount and lead the horses to give them at least some respite from carrying their weight. Less than an hour later he stopped suddenly and studied the ground beside the trail. “They stopped here. Someone was lying on the grass. There is some blood.”

“God,” Ager muttered weakly. “They have wounded him.”

“We must go faster,” Kumul said, and mounted. He patted his horse’s neck. “I am sorry, but we need your strength,” he said to the mare.

The trail was still slippery from the night’s rain and the going was hard, but the thought of Lynan being wounded spurred them on, and their mounts seemed to sense their eagerness. They reached the eastern lip of the valley an hour before noon and risked a ten-minute rest to give the horses a break, then went on, their pace picking up as the slope became easier and finally leveled out. By the time the sun was at its highest point they had broken through the woods and looked out over a great plain.

“That is the Barda River in the distance,” Ager said. “I have sailed along it many times when working for merchants. They use barges to carry goods from Sparro to Daavis.”

“Well, that answers Kumul’s question,” Jenrosa said.

The two men looked at her. “What question?” Kumul asked.

“Prado is heading for the river,” Jenrosa said. “Ager said he must be meeting someone. What if the rendezvous is far from here, like in Hume? He can’t ride the whole distance and hope to stay ahead of pursuit—he’s carrying royal baggage, remember?”

Ager’s eyes widened. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that? Prado is going to use the river. He’ll make much greater time! If Jenrosa hadn’t set us on the right trail, we would never have found out. Lynan could have been lost to us forever.”

“But what rendezvous?” Kumul asked. “This is making less and less sense to me. Why risk taking Lynan if not to return him to Kendra? Who could Prado possibly be meeting? Lynan’s not worth anything as hostage. Areava would pay to have him killed, not rescued.”

“He might not be worth anything as a hostage,” Ager said lowly, “but he’s worth something as a symbol.”

“What are you getting at?”

Ager shook his head. “I’m not sure yet—”

“Look!” Jenrosa cried, pointing. Kumul and Ager peered out across the plain but saw nothing. “Under those trees,” she said, almost shouting.

“Which trees?”

Jenrosa moved her horse so it was standing next to Kumul’s roan, and physically moved his head with her hands. “Are you blind! Those trees!”

At first Kumul noticed nothing, but after a moment he could see shapes moving in the shade of the small copse Jenrosa had found for him. He straightened in the saddle.

“That’s them,” he said with certainty.

By now, Ager had seen the distant figures also. “That was well seen, Jenrosa. It’s hard to be sure with only one eye, but I reckon they’re at least four hours’ ride ahead of us.”

Kumul lined up a finger with the copse, looking along the line with his right eye and then his left. He muttered a quick calculation and said: “Closer to three hours.”

“They’re moving,” Jenrosa said. “They’re riding out, heading straight for the river.”

“If we get to the Barda before they find a barge, we have them,” Ager said.

“The sooner we’re there, the better, then,” Kumul answered, and the companions kicked their horses into a ground-loping canter, trying to conserve the mares’ strength for a last dash. They left the wood behind and rode out onto the plain into the light, their hopes high for the first time since they had discovered Lynan missing.

The horses beneath Prado and his men could not continue their canter for long, and Prado slowed them down to a steady walk before they were blown.

“They will catch up!” Aesor shouted.

“We will get to the river first,” Prado told them. “That’s all that matters. Their horses cannot continue that pace for any longer than ours.”

“They could have fresher mounts,” Bazik said.

“And at least ten leagues to make up,” Prado angrily returned.

“But what if there are no barges at the river?” Aesor asked.

“The Barda bends sharply here, forming a steep bank. Pilots anchor there for the night. We’ll find something.”

“I bloody hope so,” Bazik said to Aesor in a voice low enough for Prado not to hear. “I’m not keen on tangling with Kumul Alarn.”

Aesor looked sourly at Bazik but did not reply. He fought the temptation to spur his horse into a gallop, but knew that if they exhausted their mounts too soon they were lost. He threw a glance at the prince, still slumped in Prado’s arms like a sack of wheat, and wished he was as blissfully ignorant of events. He told himself to concentrate on staying on his horse, but could not resist looking furtively over his shoulder every few minutes; each time he looked, he was sure the enemy was closer. He saw that they alternated riding between a quick walk and a canter. Bazik was right, they had fresher mounts and were pushing them to the limit.

They were over a league from the river when two things happened. The prince jerked into consciousness and groggily sat up; the sudden shift in weight upset Prado’s horse, and Prado had to pull back on the reins to stop the beast pulling to one side. Aesor cursed and for the hundredth time looked behind him.

“Prado!” he cried. “They’ve gone to the gallop!”

Prado savagely kicked his horse and it bucked, tossing its head high before breaking into a gallop and heading straight for the river, with Bazik and Aesor close behind.

Lynan had no idea what was happening, and all he could make out was the green blur of the plain and the smell of fresh water somewhere up ahead. His captors were in full flight, and he could tell from the rigid expressions on their faces that they were afraid. A deep recess in his mind figured out his friends might be the threat, but he had not the strength or the will to do anything about it. He tried closing his eyes to regain some kind of clarity, but the effect made him feel so unbalanced he had to open them again.

They were riding between trees now and their pace slowed. Lynan heard shouts behind him, distant and carried on a breeze. He recognized Kumul’s rumble and tried to shout back but could manage only a croak. The horse swerved to avoid a thorn tree, galloped forward again, then came to a halt when Prado pulled back on the reins. It stamped its feet and shook its head, foam whipping from its mouth.

Lynan could see a river about fifty paces ahead, and what looked like two broad-beamed boats at anchor near the bank. Bazik and Aesor appeared next to them, and Prado shouted, “Now! Our last chance!”

They spurred their horses forward again. Just before they reached the bank, Bazik and Aesor dismounted. Aesor ran to the barge on the right, the smaller of the two, and Bazik to the one on the left. Prado dismounted and took the reins of all three horses. Again, Lynan heard Kumul’s battle cry.

“Kumul!” he shouted, but it was a weak call, and only Prado heard. The mercenary lifted a foot and kicked the prince in the knee. Lynan cried out in pain and twisted sideways, only his binding keeping him in the saddle. He heard shouts in front of him and then screams. Prado used his sword to cut the rope and free Lynan’s hands, then hauled him off the horse. Aesor reappeared and pulled on Lynan’s hair until he stood up.

“Move!” Aesor ordered, and shoved him from behind.

Lynan tottered forward, carefully moving one foot in front of the other to keep himself from falling over. He reached the bank, and rough hands directed him to a plank, then guided him across. He felt the world shift under his feet and he remembered the last time he had tried to board a boat. “Oh, no…” he groaned, but before anything could happen he was manhandled aboard and pushed to the bottom. He tried to raise his head and received a punch in the face for his efforts. His jaw seemed to explode and he screamed. He heard the neighing and stamping of the horses as they were led on board. Twice, hooves missed his head by no more than the width of a finger. Prado was shouting orders and he felt the boat move out onto the water. Kumul’s cries were now closer than ever.

“Kumul…” Lynan tried again to lift his head, but it felt as if it weighed more than all the stone in Kendra’s palace.

Then he heard a loud crack, and he rolled on his back. A white sail flurried, fluttered, and then filled above him, and Kumul’s voice trailed behind and was eventually lost.

Kumul waited until he was sure the horses could make the distance, then lifted his head and shouted the war cry of the Red Shields, kicking his mount to the gallop. Ager and Jenrosa matched him. Kumul drew his sword and leaned over the saddle to hold it forward, parallel with the horse’s head; he had seen enough enemies peel away from him in a charge to know how formidable a sight he made in full flight, and he hoped it was enough to make Prado and his men panic and do something stupid.

They had obviously seen him, for they whipped their own horses to a gallop. It was now a race to the river, and Kumul realized with horrible certainty that unless something happened to stop them, the mercenaries with their prize would win the race easily. His heels dug into the roan’s flanks, trying to urge more speed from her tired muscles, but her head was beginning to sag and he knew she could give no more. Ager and Jenrosa had started to fall behind.

In fury and anger he shouted his war cry again and again. He saw the enemy disappear behind the trees of the river when he was still five hundred paces from them. The next minute was one of the longest in his life. He started pulling on the reins when the first trees whisked by him, and he looked for a clear passage to the river. He heard the sounds of fighting ahead and to his left, and he jerked the mare toward them. The vegetation grew more dense and at last he had to dismount. He started to run, tripped over a root, picked himself up, and rushed forward again. He burst through the last ring of trees and bushes and saw a barge starting to pull away from the bank, Prado with his men and horses aboard. He could not see Lynan, and a cold fear clogged his throat. He sprang forward, but by the time he reached the bank the barge was in mid-stream and the sail was unfurling.

He noticed the second, smaller barge and ran toward it, then stopped in his tracks. A man lay dead on the bank, his head split open from forehead to chin, and beside him were a snapped rudder oar and the torn remains of the barge’s sail.

“God’s death, no!” he cried. “Lynan!” But as he got closer he realized the dead man was too big for his prince.

Ager ran by him and knelt down next to the corpse. “A pilot,” he said grimly. He stood up and pointed at the retreating barge. “They still have him,” he added.

Joined by Jenrosa, they looked out over the river and watched the receding barge until all they could glimpse was the top of the sail, and soon that, too, disappeared from sight.

Chapter 22

Cold water splashed over Lynan’s face, and he woke with a start. The first thing he noticed was that the pain in his jaw was reduced to a dull and constant background ache; the terrible throbbing had eased, and when he realized it was night and the sky really was dark, he knew his sight had finally returned to normal. Prado stood over him like the remains of his last nightmare, a bronze ewer in one hand.

“Well, at least you’re still alive,” Prado said levelly, and then ignored him.

Lynan moved experimentally and found his arms and legs reluctantly but surely obeyed his orders. He stood up slowly, letting himself get used to the gentle swaying of the boat. It was not as bad as he remembered, but last time he had been at sea and this time the vessel was sailing over nothing more dangerous than the quiet waters of the Barda River. The boat was loaded with bales of what looked like flax and hay, and his captors’ horses were tethered to the single mast. Aesor was sitting in the bow and Bazik amidships with the horses. He himself was at the stern with Prado, and next to him was a man by the rudder. The stranger sported a nasty gash on the forehead. Lynan saw the blue stripe on one of the man’s sleeves, and realized this was the barge’s pilot.

He was a short, thin man with golden skin and hair as dark as the night; a Chett, Lynan dimly realized.

“Welcome, sleepy one,” the Chett said in a deep singsong voice, and offered a faint smile. His right foot rested on a pedal leading to the rudder oar, and his hands held sheets that led through a complex of pulleys to the sail.

“My name is Gudon,” he said. “What is yours? Ouch!”

“If you don’t want to be kicked again, cut the questions,” Prado ordered.

“A timely reminder to keep my mouth shut. Thank you, beneficent master.”

Lynan did not know if Gudon was being sarcastic or not; nor, by his expression, did Prado. Gudon stared out over the river, looking blameless.

“Where are we going?” Lynan asked Prado.

Prado ignored him, but asked Gudon: “How far from Daavis?”

“Two days to Daavis, master, with a good wind. With no wind, it will be four days or more. With a bad wind, at least seven. With a really bad wind—”

Prado cut him off. “Fine, whatever. Just make sure we’re there in two days, or I’ll finish splitting open your head and then I’ll throw you into the river.” He tapped the hilt of his sword for emphasis.

Gudon nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes. Do what I am told, make the wind obey me, and get you to Daavis in two days. Otherwise I get the point.”

“Watch them both carefully,” Prado ordered Bazik, and moved forward to talk with Aesor.

Gudon glanced down at Lynan. “You are not a villain, then?” Lynan shook his head. “And are you getting off at Daavis?”

“Enough talking,” Bazik snapped from amidships. He jabbed a finger at the pilot. “You tend to the steering, and you,” he said, jabbing the same finger at Lynan, “you just keep quiet.”

Lynan rested against the stern rail. He gingerly touched the side of his face and was surprised how thick the stitching and weal running from his right ear to his jaw felt. He wondered what he had done to deserve it, having only vague memories of his first conversation with Prado. Had it only been the night before? It seemed so distant in his memory now. He saw Prado cut into one of the bales of hay and spread it around for the horses to eat. Watching him, Lynan realized that for the first time in his life that he hated someone so much he would gladly kill him and not regret it afterward.

The wind changed direction from northerly to nor’easterly. Gudon expertly jiggled the sheets so the barge’s sail would stay full, but the hull slipped sideways for a moment before righting itself. The horses neighed and stamped, and Bazik and Aesor rushed to help Prado calm then.

Lynan saw Gudon smile at him and he wondered if the barge’s slide had been entirely accidental. “Is your wound all right?” he whispered while his captors were distracted.

“Oh, yes, master. I’ve applied my haethu potion to it, and all will be well.”

“Haethu potion?”

“A wonderful thing. It heals small wounds, adds spice to sauces, flavor to water, and if you slip it in a girl’s drink, she will fall in love with you and become more fertile than all the seas in the world.”

“Where are you from, Gudon?”

“From the river, little master. Always.”

“But you are a Chett.”

“Truth. But I was a traveler in my youth, and journeyed far from the Oceans of Grass. When I first saw this noble water you call the Barda, I was born again. So I say to you, I come from the river.”

“What tribe are you from?”

“The tribe of the pike and the trout, the silver belly and the fly-catcher, the yellowtail and the carp.”

Lynan pursed his lips. “You come from the river.”

“Truth,” Gudon said, still smiling. “And where do you come from?”

Lynan sighed. “It might as well be the river,” he said despondently.

“Then we are brothers, you and I,” Gudon said. “And to prove it, we will both wear scars on the face.”

“Thanks to Jes Prado.”

“Thanks to destiny.”

“How far, really, to Daavis?”

“Are you so eager to get there?”

“No.”

“Then maybe forever,” Gudon said mysteriously. Before Lynan could ask what he meant, the pilot nodded toward Bazik, coming to the stern now that the horses were settled. “Watch the river, little master, and watch the banks that glide by like dreams. There are worse ways to spend your time.”

His heart eased somehow by his strange conversation, Lynan was able to ignore Bazik’s glowering presence. He took the pilot’s advice and stared out over the river, its wide curves a glistening road under the moonlight. Lynan wondered if it was a road with an end, or if was just one more way to the next disaster in his life. He remembered Kumul’s voice a few hours before, calling after him as the barge pulled away from its anchorage, and he hoped his friends were all safe. He had not known before the strength of his feelings for them. A part of him wished they would stop following him, afraid for their safety, but another part—the stronger part, he realized guiltily—desperately wanted them to find him and free him from Prado’s grasp.

As the night wore on, Prado ordered Bazik to get some rest and kept watch at the stern himself. Lynan squatted down against the hull and tried to sleep, but without success. His jaw still troubled him enough to keep him awake, and his apprehension grew as the hours passed and the barge made its slow but steady progress upriver toward Daavis. His only consolation was that he was being taken farther from Kendra, and closer to the Oceans of Grass. If he could manage to escape, he might yet find sanctuary of a kind among the free Chett tribes that wandered the plains astride their tough ponies, moving their great herds of cattle from one feeding ground to the next.

Soon after midnight, Bazik relieved Aesor on the bow, and an hour before dawn Aesor relieved Prado at the stern. Aesor was still tired, and as Gudon started singing in a low voice, he angrily told the pilot to shut up.

“But your master has instructed me to reach Daavis in two days. I must sing to the wind to keep it true and steady.”

Aesor grumbled something, but said nothing more as Gudon resumed his singing. It was more like a lullaby than anything else, and Lynan found himself finally drifting off to sleep. Then Gudon’s foot tapped him softly in the ribs.

“What is it?”

“Our guardian has joined his dreams again,” Gudon said, nodding at Aesor slumped against the bales. “The other one will not hear us talk if we speak as quietly as the river.”

“You weren’t singing to the wind, were you?”

“Oh, yes. But some songs are meant to slow down the wind. I need to warn you, little master.”

“Warn me?”

“Do you wish to leave the company of these villains?”

“Very much.”

“I have a plan, but it will be dangerous for both of us.”

“Dangerous? How dangerous?”

Gudon shrugged. “Can you swim?”

“Yes, but not quickly.”

Gudon frowned. “Do you think, if you had reason to swim quickly, you could learn?”

“What reason?”

“I am thinking it is best you do not know yet.”

“When must I learn?”

“Soon. Before the sun is fully up. Before the beneficent master is awake to stop us.”

“Us?”

“Truth. It is time for me to leave the river. I have a need to travel again.”

“You would do this for me? Why?”

“There are signs, little master. We are both wounded in the head. We are both prisoner. We both wish to avoid the fate the beneficent master has in mind for us, for I do not believe he will let me live after you reach Daavis. And the river is telling me it is time to go. I listen to its waters very carefully. I told you before, it is destiny.”

“Destiny hasn’t served me too well up to now.”

“Ah, but destiny serves no one. She has her own secrets, her own plans, and although we may sometimes read them, we may not change them.”

Lynan noticed the barge was edging closer to the shore.

“You are going to beach the barge?”

“I could, but then the others would just pursue us, and on horses they would catch us.”

Lynan remembered Gudon’s questions about his ability to swim. “We are going to dive overboard and swim to the shore?”

“Yes, but not yet. It is not dangerous enough. Otherwise, the others would then beach the barge and still be able to pursue us.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of your plan.”

“It is a good plan, little master, with only small problems.”

“What small problems?”

Gudon pointed to the left bank about sixty paces away. “Those small problems.”

Lynan stood, and in the soft pink light glowing in the eastern sky he could make out drooping spear trees and tangle weeds.

“I see nothing dangerous.”

Aesor snorted and his eyes fluttered open.

“That is because you do not see properly,” Gudon answered quickly, pushing the rudder away from him and drawing back on the left sheet at the same time. The barge swung noticeably toward the spear trees.

Aesor snorted again and stumbled to his feet, blinking. His action woke Prado in turn, who stood up and stretched his arms above his head. He looked out over the river, turning in a circle. He saw how close the left bank was and gave an order for Gudon to veer away. Gudon ignored him.

“You heard the captain!” Aesor roared. “Bring us back to the middle of the river!”

Again Gudon ignored the command.

Aesor started drawing his sword. Gudon kicked hard at the rudder pedal and yanked back on the sheets. The boat lurched as its stern swung but and Aesor lost his footing. Lynan did not hesitate. He lashed out with his right foot, connecting with Aesor’s head. The man grunted and collapsed. Lynan reached for the sword and stood up in front of Gudon.

“I pray to God you know what you are doing, Pilot.”

“Just one god?” Gudon asked, keeping his eye on the spear trees on the bank. “You should be more generous, little master.”

By now Bazik had joined Prado, and together they advanced toward Lynan, their swords drawn.

“Come on, boy, don’t be a fool. You can’t take on both of us.”

“I can,” Lynan said with more confidence than he felt. In an open arena, with his own weapon and without a jaw that throbbed in pain, he was sure he could have taken on the two thugs. Right now, however, he was not sure he could take on an angry rat and win. He was relying on Gudon’s plan coming up with a real surprise in the next few seconds.

The barge drove into the overhanging branches of the spear tree. The ends of several of the branches disappeared beneath the surface of the river and offered more resistance before finally giving way to the barge’s momentum. They whipped up and over the gunwales, and Lynan saw large boles attached to each of them, with white stolons growing from them that seemed to wave like tendrils. Many of the boles flew up so rapidly they tore from the branches and arced over the barge. Prado and Bazik watched them pass and then splash into the water on the other side. Lynan saw several of them split open, releasing seething black masses that quickly disappeared beneath the surface.

Lynan quickly looked over his shoulder at Gudon. “They’re not—”

“Yes! Jaizru!” Gudon shouted before he could finish the question.

Lynan felt his blood run cold. He knew he had to find cover, but was paralysed by fear. Gudon pushed him hard in the back and he fell to the deck, the pilot on top of him. He heard sounds like whole sheets of linen being ripped apart, then the soft thwacks of things landing on the deck, and on the bales and on the horses. And then the screams started, coming from the horses and, he thought, Bazik.

“Now!” Gudon shouted in his ear, and stood up, dragging Lynan with him. Gudon pulled him to the port side. Lynan caught a glimpse of thin black strips of wriggling eels with wide, dark red fins. Most were gaping on the deck, but many had landed on warm flesh and were using their small mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth to rip and tear. Prado was dancing a macabre jig, trying to shake off one that had latched onto his sword arm. Bazik was writhing in his own blood on the deck, covered in four or five of the eels, one of them gorging in his eye socket. The horses were bucking and kicking, trying to break loose from their tethers around the mast.

“Jump!” Gudon ordered, and half-lifted him over the gunwale. The prince fell over and down. The cold, dark water punched him in the chest and face. He kicked furiously, broke the surface and sucked in lungs full of air. He saw Gudon’s face looking down at him.

“Swim for the bank!” Gudon shouted. “As fast as you can! Get out of the water!” Then Gudon disappeared.

Something bit at his hair. He screamed and splashed, swallowed water, spun in a circle. He caught a sight of the bank and swam toward it. Teeth punctured his boot and scratched his skin. He furiously shook his foot and lost his rhythm. Teeth bit into his knee—it felt as if he had been stabbed with a fork. He wanted to scream a second time, but managed to keep his mouth closed and start swimming for the bank again. He was bitten on the hand, under the armpit, on the groin. A low keening forced its way out between his teeth. He knew he could not take much more of this. His hand touched something beneath him and he jerked it away, but then his other hand touched something as well. It was soft, yielding, and he realized it was mud. He brought his feet down, took three strides and heaved out of the river.

A jaizru flapped by his face, its fin touching his cheek, and it landed on the grass about three paces in front of him, writhing as it asphyxiated. Another one smacked into his back. He ran, waving his hands about his head in panic. He slipped, got up and slipped again, and could do no more. He curled up into a ball and waited for the next attack, but after several seconds none came and he slowly looked up. He was at least twenty paces from the river, and the eels could not glide that far. A dozen of them were wriggling uselessly on the ground halfway between him and the bank, their white teeth glistening moistly in the dawn light.

Lynan started shaking uncontrollably. He tried standing, but his legs would not support him. He ended up sitting on the grass, and then he remembered Gudon. He could see the barge, rocking from side to side as the horses, which had now torn loose from their tethers, skittered and slid across the deck. They seemed to be covered in hundred of black streaks. Blood streamed down their flanks and heads. One went down, and then a second. He heard the pitiful whinnying of the dying beasts. He saw no sign of Gudon, or Prado and his men. After a while the barge settled and a dreadful silence settled over the river.

Two horses? he thought suddenly. But there were three…

He managed to get to his feet. He wiped his face with a hand and noticed it was bleeding. A savage, serrated cut jig-sawed across his palm. He felt no pain, only a strange numbness. He checked his feet and legs, and saw that he was bleeding in at least four other places.

He walked to the bank, making sure to stay out of range of the flying eels, although the water was perfectly still now. He called out Gudon’s name, but there was no answer. He edged toward the clump of spear trees, crouching down to peer among the branches that hung above the river. There was no sign of his savior. He called out his name again, and this time heard a weak reply. He glanced around but saw no one.

“Gudon?” he cried out, louder this time.

Once more, a weak reply. He was sure it had come from his left. He hurriedly made his way along the bank. There was a small copse of thorn trees in the way, and as he circled around it, he heard a man’s voice coming from amid the thickets.

“Gudon?”

“Truth, little master, that was worse than I thought it would be.”

Lynan pulled away some of the branches, ignoring the cuts they made on his skin. The pilot was lying, bleeding from several bites. His eyes were fluttering. In one hand he held a leather bag which he was trying to draw to himself.

“I had no idea the spear tree held so many nests.”

Lynan knelt down beside him. Many of Gudon’s wounds were as slight as his own, but the damage around his right knee was horrific; he could see the white of bone.

Gudon tapped the bag. “Inside. My potion.”

Lynan lifted the bag and opened it. Inside was a small wooden bottle with a cork stop wired into place.

“My haethu,” Gudon said weakly. “Pour a little on my knee.”

Lynan untwisted the wire, pulled out the cork with his teeth, and carefully spilled a few drops on the wound.

Gudon flinched and shouted between clenched teeth. “All the gods! I have never felt so much pain!”

Lynan replaced the cork and resecured the wire. “What are you doing in here?”

“It was the only place I could drag myself to that would protect me from the eels.” He pointed and Lynan saw several of the fish impaled on the branches.

“Things have quieted down,” Lynan said. “I will pull you out of here.”

Gudon laid a hand on his arm. “Not yet. Let the haethu do its work. You must find the horse.”

“Horse? You managed to get one off the barge?”

“Oh, yes. I mounted one and it was in such a panic it was easy to make it jump over the side. I had to keep tight control of it or it would have bit and kicked furiously at the jaizru and drowned. Unfortunately, it meant I could not move my legs from around its girth. I am paying for that now.”

“Where is it?”

“As soon as we reached the bank, it threw me and ran off. You must find it, otherwise we will have to walk, and truth, little master, all the haethu I own will not help me do that for a long, long while.”

“I will build us a shelter and you can rest—”

“No, no. We must leave here as quickly as possible. When the villains do not arrive in Daavis, someone may come looking for them.”

Lynan had not thought of that. “Wait, then. Which way did the horse run?”

Gudon smiled thinly. “I was in no condition to see. Away from the river.”

Lynan nodded, gingerly withdrew from the thicket, and searched the ground near the bank. He found the horse’s hoofprints easily and started to follow them. Ahead the land began to rise, gradually at first, but more steeply in the distance until it reached a crest covered in thick woods about five league away. He was praying that the horse had not run that far when he heard a soft whinny. He stopped, looked around, and saw the horse to his right, no more than a league from him. As he got closer, it looked up at him nervously but stayed where it was, occasionally lowering its head to crop at the grass. Lynan took his time and made his final approach a step at a time, making soft, reassuring sounds, his hands held out palm upward. The horse must have decided it wanted human company again, for it closed the last twenty paces between them and snuffled his hands for a reward.

“Nothing this time, I’m afraid, but if you carry me and my friend to safety, I promise you all the sweet hay I can buy.”

The animal was covered in dozens of small bites, but a cursory inspection showed nothing too serious. He wondered if Gudon’s haethu worked on horses. He took the reins and started to lead it back toward the river. At first the horse walked behind him without trouble, but as it smelled the river getting closer, it started pulling back and eventually refused to go any further. Lynan tugged experimentally, but only succeeded in losing the reins. The horse retreated a few steps and stopped.

Lynan glanced toward the rising sun. He would have to carry Gudon here to the horse. He cursed softly under his breath.

Orkid found it both amusing and satisfying to see Areava and Sendarus together in public. Amusing because no matter how hard they tried to keep their attention on whatever matter was at hand, in this case a public reception for the capital’s leading commercial lights, they could not keep their eyes off each other for longer than a minute, and satisfying because their love for each other represented the culmination of all his work since arriving in Kendra as a young man. The lovebirds’ plan to announce their intention to marry at Areava’s coronation was the worst kept secret in the kingdom, and while the reaction from most of the members of the Twenty Houses could best be described as thinly veiled hostility toward Sendarus, the rest of the court seemed pleased by it, and as far as the rest of the citizenry was concerned, it was the only bright news after the black weeks just passed.

Sendarus’ own generous nature and good looks helped the cause a great deal, of course. It was hard not to like him, and those who might otherwise have been opposed to their queen marrying outside of the Twenty Houses found themselves won over to the extent they became enthusiastic supporters of the union. People such as Shant Tenor, for example, whose prejudice was renowned, could not help clinging to the Amanite prince like a limpet to a rock. Tenor kept on talking about the commercial advantages of closer ties between Kendra and the provinces, something that would have been anathema to him only weeks before.