Shadow

Chapter 1

SALD HARL was running, running as hard as he had ever run in his life. He clutched a bulky bundle in both arms and pounded along the ornate pavement with the low sun at his back. His long, spindly shadow jigged endlessly before him, running just as hard as he.

Running in the palace grounds was forbidden. Wearing a flying suit in the palace grounds was forbidden also, but he had already broken so many regulations that a few more would not matter, and if he was going to be late for a royal summons, then perhaps nothing would matter much anymore.

If he twisted an ankle...The roadway was paved in squares of white alabaster and black basalt, but generations of feet and hooves had worn the softer alabaster into toe-catching hollows, and the carriages and landaus jolting past him set up a continuous clamorous rattle over them.

He had no time to admire the sculptures ornamenting the marble balustrades which flanked the avenue or the swans swimming on their reflections in the ornamental lake on his right. To his left the gilded pheasants strutted unseen on silk-smooth grass amid the blazons of the rose garden. Sald had not visited the palace since he was a child. Contrary to his expectations, it did not seem smaller than he remembered; it seemed much, much larger, and he was very, very late.

Splendid ladies and elegant gentlemen strolled along, pouting in haughty disapproval, as he zigzagged between them, dodged the wheeled traffic, and ran, ran, ran...

A flying suit was not designed for running. It was a great garment for keeping off the cold at the top of a thermal, up in the nose-bleeding roof of the sky. Down in the murderous heat of the rice level, swooping above taro fields or date palms, he could unfasten it down to his crotch, but not here, and it was cooking him.

Then he caught his toe against one of the basalt edges and fell flat on his face.

The bundle cushioned his fall, except for his elbows. He winced, took a couple of deep breaths, started to rise, and then saw that he was lying before a pair of very shiny boots. Military boots. His eyes flicked from side to side, and he saw more boots. He scrambled to has feet and saluted.

Oh, God! Of all the officers in the entire Royal Guard, this one had to be Colonel Lord Pontly, Commandant of Training School--Pork Eyes himself.

Sald Harl was much better at making friends than enemies. There were not many people in the world who disliked him and few whom he disliked, but Lord Pontly qualified on both counts. On the occasion of Sald's class graduation, for example, there had been the episode of the pig in the bed...

Colonel Lord Pontly was a short man, no taller than Sald himself, but twice the width and thrice the depth. His uniform gleamed and sparkled impeccably, and his puffy face bore a very thin mustache, capable of registering extreme disapproval at times. This was one of those times.

"Harl?" he murmured. "Harl, isn't it?"

"Sir!"

"And an ensign now, I see? When did that accident occur?"

"About a hectoday ago, my lord," Sald said between puffs. He blinked as sweat trickled into his eyes.

"I think we can correct the error." Lord Pontly glanced at the commander beside him, who smiled obediently.

"Disorderly conduct, my lord," he said. "Improper dress."

"Oh, surely we can find a few more atrocities?" his lordship muttered. "Stealing washing, from the look of it. What exactly are you carrying, Ensign?"

Sald was trembling with the effort of standing still when every nerve was screaming frantically at him to hurry.

"Court dress, my lord."

Pontly's eyebrows were as linear as his mustache, and they rose in graceful astonishment. "Whose court dress?"

"Mine, sir."

The colonel looked at the commander, and the surrounding troopers looked at one another.

"And why would you be needing court dress, Ensign?"

"Sir, I am summoned to the Investiture," Sald said, trying not to moan the words.

Pontly's globular face flushed slightly. "If I recall correctly, Ensign, you are not of noble birth?"

"Sir, my father is a baronet."

Sald could sense their disbelief. A commoner never received a royal summons. He groped in his pocket and produced the royal writ. He tried desperately not to fidget as Pontly read it through from start to finish.

Pontly turned very red. "You are going to be late, Ensign!"

"Sir, that was why I was running."

Pork Eyes went redder still. Running within the palace grounds was a trivial indiscretion compared to insulting the king. "You will disgrace the entire Guard! Explain!"

Sald gulped. "The courier sought me at my posting--at Jaur, my lord. I was on furlough at my parents' house, Hiando Keep. I did not receive the writ until yesterday."

At that news, colonel and commander exchanged thoughtful glances. There was little love misplaced between the royal couriers and the Guard. Sald could see the temptation fermenting in their minds. If Ensign Harl was late for the start of the Investiture, then he would not be admitted at all. There would be a court-martial. The fault could be laid to the courier.

That would not save Ensign Harl, of course--nothing would--but it might muddy the royal couriers a trifle.

"Hiando Keep is on Rakarr, is it not?" the commander said. "Eight hours' flight from Rakarr to Ramo, more or less?"

"What time exactly yesterday did the courier arrive?" Pontly demanded, a predatory expression on his rotund face.

"Just before two bells, my lord," Sald said.Get on with it!For a moment he considered an appeal to Pork Eyes's better nature: Let Sald go about his business now and report back to him later. But he knew it would not work. The sun would move first.

Pontly frowned. "And when did you leave Rakarr Peak?"

Sald could lie, of course, but if there was going to be a trial, then there would be witnesses called. "A little after three bells, my lord."

Pork Eyes's eyes widened; the charge sheet was filling up. Sald had flown from Rakarr to Ramo faster than even the couriers did, perhaps faster than it had ever been done, but time like that could be made only by detouring out over the plains, riding the giant thermals of the desert, risking immense changes in altitude, which could bring on sky sickness, crippling or even killing. The desert was very much against Guard regulations. The desert was death.

"Six hours?" the commander muttered. The surrounding troopers were pursing lips and exchanging looks.

"Well?" Pontly barked. "Why did you delay so long after you received the writ?"

"Court dress, my lord," Sald said desperately. He tried to explain quickly that he did not own court dress. Only the nobility ever needed it. Boots, hose, breeches, doublet, cloak, plumed hat--some of those he had scrounged from neighbors in a hasty flight around the local manors and castles, and the rest his father had rummaged out of the attics. But the coat of arms--his mother and sisters had worked all through third watch, while the rest of the world was abed, sewing, embroidering, cutting, and stitching.

"Why would His Majesty summon a--a mere ensign in the Guard to an Investiture?" the commander asked softly.

That was a very good question, and Sald would dearly have loved to know the answer. He could not expect an honor or a title or an award, certainly; therefore he must have been called for an appointment of some sort. The courier had told Sald all he knew. The Investiture had been a surprise to the whole court, but Prince Shadow was dead, killed by a wild in the line of duty. His most probable replacement was Count Moarien. That would leave a vacancy in the king's bodyguard...and so on. Obviously the required shuffle had turned out to be large enough to justify a General Investiture, and when everyone had rolled one place up the bed, there was going to be a gap at the bottom, some very humble slot into which Ensign Sald Harl would apparently fit. Assistant Bearer of the Royal Chamber Pot, perhaps?

Pontly looked at the commander. The commander looked at Pontly.

"I think he might just make it, my lord, on wheels."

His lordship's mustache curled in anger. Reluctantly he nodded: His prey was going to escape him. The couriers were evidently not at fault, and if there was a court-martial, then he might be asked why he had delayed the accused.

"Get him there!" he barked.

The next passing landau was halted, and its protesting occupant summarily evicted. Sald Harl went roaring off along the avenue, wheels drumming on the paving, hooves clattering, coachman's whip snapping, and pedestrians bounding to safety. Sald leaned back, clutching his bouncing bundle, sweat still running down his ribs. He looked at the commander, who had boarded beside him.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

He knew the commander also. An elderly man, close to retirement, he lectured on pathfinding in Training School; Sald had flown with him a few times. He was studying Sald now with a quizzical expression. "How many hops?" he demanded.

"About twelve, sir," Sald said uneasily.

"And who chose the thermals--you or your mount?"

"I did, sir."

The commander hung on tight as the landau went around a corner. He looked thoroughly disbelieving. "Six hours from Rakarr?"

Sald hoped that his face was already red enough that a blush would not show. "Er...I did let him give me a few hints, sir."

The commander shook his head angrily. "I warned you about that a dozen times, Harl! And just because he didn't kill you this time, don't think he won't try in future!" He scowled. Then he smiled admiringly. "Six hours, huh?"

"More or less, sir," Sald said.

It had been much closer to five.

He made it with minutes to spare, reeling into the robing room with his bundle, heart thundering and the inside of his head hammering like a smithy.

The room was packed with nobility being groomed and preened in front of mirrors by teams of valets. The only space he could find was next to an elderly and obese duke, whose cloak was being arranged by his attendant as though it were a priceless and timeless masterpiece of sculpture. Sald started to strip, ignoring both amusement and disapproval among the onlookers. Full court dress was not designed to be put on without assistance; tight hose would not pull over sweaty legs. He grabbed a passing page, a spotty youth a full head taller than himself, and ordered him to fasten the buttons on the back of his coat.

Then he crumpled his flying suit into a bundle and stuffed it behind the mirror and looked at himself.

It was even worse than he had imagined, from antique boots and wrinkled hose all the way up to tousled curls and a hat which fortunately he need only carry, as it fell over his ears if he tried to wear it. And the coat of arms--not all the red in his face was from hurry. The workmanship would probably pass, but the heraldry it displayed was ludicrous in this company: He had only two quarterings. The fat duke next to him had at least thirty, his coat a kaleidoscope of minute armorial symbols, an ancestry stretching from the Holy Ark itself.

Two quarterings! He was a molehill among mountains. His left side was just passable, four quarterings. His mother had once been a lady-in-waiting to the queen herself, qualified by that breeding, but on the right, his father's side, there were only two. Sald Harl was privately convinced that this whole horrible experience must be the result of some error by a palace scribe who had somehow put the wrong name on the writ. Even Lady Harl had admitted that she had never heard of a man with only two quarterings being presented at a formal court function.

He was apparently the youngest man summoned to the dubbings, which could be a source of pride if the summons were not an error. He was also the shortest, which was equally gratifying. But he was by far the most lowly.

Mirrors did not normally bother him. He was young, slim, and fit--and short. But what he could see in this mirror was going to create a scandal if it were allowed into the Great Courtyard. He had not even thought to bring a comb.

The valet beside him had a portable table littered with all sorts of equipment, including at least three combs. Sald braced himself to address a senior peer, and at that moment the duke decided that he was perfect. He turned from the mirror in Sald's direction, and Sald bowed.

It was as if he were not there. The noble eyes passed right through him as their owner continued his turn and then moved off toward the center of the room. The mirror showed Sald's face turning even more furiously red than before.

The valet was an elderly, wasted, and elongated man, but he had noticed. Watery old eyes gleaming with amusement, he produced a damp cloth and silently wiped the goggle marks from Sald's face; Sald had not seen those. Then he splashed some liquid into his hands and applied it to Sald's hair, briskly and efficiently.

A door opened, and the noisy hubbub died a lingering death. Out of the corner of his eye Sald saw that Feather King of Arms had entered with followers. God! They were ready, then. The valet started doing hasty things with a comb--evidently this ramshackle young trooper was an interesting challenge for him.

And all this for what? Ever since the courier had burst in on the Harls' dinner, Sald had wrestled with that problem, and he kept coming back to the same answer: He was about to be named equerry to some snot-nosed juvenile aristocrat, some duke's grandson who fancied himself as a skyman and wanted a private instructor on hand. Yes, my lord, no, my lord, may I kiss your arm, my lord. Royal appointments could not be refused.

Yet such a trivial indenture would normally rate only a line in the court gazette, not a dubbing at a General Investiture. It just did not make sense!

King of Arms was lining them up by rank.

The valet was struggling with the coat, pursing his lips and still not saying a word. Then he stepped back, his face inscrutable. Sald opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he heard his own name spoken.

"Ensign Harl?" It was Feather King of Arms, supreme heraldic officer of Rantorra; with parchment face and glacier eyebrows, he was stooped and ancient and dignified as death itself. His livery outshone anything else in the room.

Sald bowed and received a barely visible nod.

King of Arms swept his eye over that despicable coat. He could have recited every family represented after that glance, minor though they all were.

"Five, four, three, king, queen, prince, king again, one more; the reverse on the way out?" King of Arms said quietly.

"Certainly!" Sald was not that ignorant.

King of Arms motioned his monumental head toward the end of the line of nobles and was about to vanish into the crowd.

"A question, my lord," Sald said brashly, this man being a relatively safe target for his bitterness. "There has not, perhaps, been an error?"

The faded old eyes flamed. "Did you sayerror, Ensign?"

"Yes!" Sald snapped. "I always understood that presentation at court was reserved to persons of higher lineage than mine."

"So did I," King of Arms said icily, and walked away.

The valet had started to tidy his equipment. Sald reached for his money pouch, but of course it was in his flying suit, behind the mirror. "You have been most kind," he stuttered.

"It was an honor, Ensign," the old man said, beaming down at him.

The line had started to move. "No, it was a kindness," Sald insisted. "Hardly an honor, after a duke."

The valet's smile became cryptic. "An honor to help those who serve our beloved sovereign and his family."

With his mouth still open, Sald dashed to take his place at the end of the fast-vanishing line. What had that meant? His mother, he recalled, always said that the servants knew more than anyone else in the court.

He stepped out into sunlight--and the vastness of the Great Courtyard. Trumpets blared barbarically. Finely groomed ladies and elegant gentlemen, the high nobility of the realm, the elite of Rantorra glittering in splendor, rose with a hiss of silk and brocade as the noble appointees came into their midst. A matching line of ladies emerged to join the men, and together they paraded down a center aisle toward the distant and empty thrones.

All around the high walls, on tiered balconies, the lesser nobility and some of the commonality stood in silence to study their betters. Even men with less than two quarterings, perhaps.

There were more men than women in the procession, so only the men near the front had partners. At the end of the line came Ensign Harl: youngest, shortest, loneliest.

When the fat duke reached the open space before the thrones, he stopped. The next man moved to his right, and the next to his. When Sald arrived, he paraded along the whole line of highborn hindquarters and found barely space to squeeze between the last man and the wall, turning to face the dais and the thrones. The fabrics whispered again as the audience sat down.

The thrones faced the assembly and also faced sunward. High above, on top of the wall, a fixed mirror jutted out at an angle so that the rays of the unchanging sun were reflected downward and the thrones glowed, brilliant in the shady courtyard.

There were a few minutes of expectant silence.

Unnoted in his edge position, Sald gaped around like the hick country boy he was. The Great Courtyard was the largest enclosed space he had ever seen. High above, slowly circling in the azure sky, were four--no, six--guards. What happened, he wondered, to a trooper whose bird crapped on the court? A posting to the hot pole to make ice cream, perhaps?

Far beyond the courtyard wall he could see the distant craggy top of Ramo Peak, but it could not compare with the view he had had from the desert, a view few men had ever seen: the Range in all its splendor. Even his home peak of Rakarr he had never seen so well, set off by the hazy backdrop of the Rand itself, a crumbled rampart rising miles above the plain, glowing bright against the midnight blue of the sky over Darkside, itself glittering with the distant reflection of ice. But Rakarr was a tiny peak, barely high enough to catch rain, and hence poor for cultivation. Ramo Peak, as he had seen it from the desert, had been breathtaking--its immense vertical extent from airless, waterless rocky uplands, faint and remote, down through pastures and then all the crop levels, barley and wheat and the others, to the lowest habitable, rice; and below that the useless jungle, and then the barren foothills clothed in the dense and poisonous "red air" of the desert and the crucible plains.

The congregation rose again.

The royal fanfare was played.

The entourage entered: guards and priests and court functionaries.

The king and queen followed.

It had been a long time since Sald had been close to the king, but he could see little change. The famous flaxen hair might be turning to silver in parts, but when the king stepped into the carpet of sunlight around the thrones, his hair blazed as brightly as the gold circlet it bore. The fair-skinned face was the same, the darting, penetrating eyes. Diamond decorations sparkled on his royal-blue court dress. No quarterings there; the front of his coat bore the eagle symbol only. Aurolron XX, King of Rantorra, tiny and immensely regal.

But Queen Mayala! Sald was stunned. Where now was the legendary beauty which had once been the toast of the kingdom? Like a woodland sprite, Mayala had floated on the edges of his childhood, a fairy-tale queen with trailing honey hair and a smile for which men would cheerfully have died. She floated no more; eyes downcast, hunched, shrunken inside her royal-blue gown, no taller than the king himself, servile even, she shuffled along beside him. Her hair looked dyed, her face waxen. If this was the best they could do with her for an Investiture, how did she look in private? He had heard no rumors.

Side by side, the royal couple advanced toward the thrones. Immediately behind the king walked King Shadow, wearing identical clothes--minus decorations, plus a black baldric--a portly yet a somber man.

Then came Crown Prince Vindax.

He had not changed--the jet hair, the beak nose, the easy athlete's walk were just as Sald remembered. His eyebrows had grown perhaps even bushier. No quarterings for him, either--he wore sky-blue and the talon symbol of the heir apparent. Prince Shadow was dead, so Vindax's brother, Jarkadon, walked directly behind him, filling the post until Count Moarien's appointment became official. The king and queen settled on the thrones, and Vindax took his place at his father's side, Jarkadon still at his back. The senior officials moved smoothly to their appointed places.

Vindax's eyes scanned along the waiting fine of hopefuls and found Sald. There was no change of expression, but the royal eyes noted the shabby boots, the baggy hose, the despicable coat. Then the study ended, and Vindax looked away.

But his interest had been observed, and necks craned to see who had been so honored.

There, thought Sald, was his problem. His mother had been a lady-in-waiting. As a child he had attended the palace school, and he was the same age as Vindax--few ensigns in the Guard had ever been on first-name terms with the crown prince. Later they had met again, when Vindax was learning flying from the Guard trainers. So when some young courtier had mentioned that he wanted an equerry who was a good skyman, the prince himself would have graciously mentioned the name of Harl. Amusing type, knows his manners, clean about the house...

The anthem was played, then the archbishop prayed, inaudibly to mortal ears.

Vindax looked no more at Sald, but Sald studied him. The prince was amazingly unlike the rest of his family. Could flax and honey produce jet? Certainly that thought must have been mulled over a million times by thousands of people since the prince's birth, but to speak even a hint of it would be treason. Jarkadon, by contrast, looked more like the king than the king did.

The lord chancellor read the proclamation, finally bidding all those etcetera draw nigh. Nobody moved.

A herald removed the scroll from the chancellor's hand and substituted another.

"...know therefore that it is our pleasure..."

There must be forty dubbings to come. Three or four minutes had to be allowed for each to be called, to advance, to receive a few gracious words from the monarch...it was going to be a long time until they got to Sald Harl.

And the chancellor reached the end of the first citation:

"...our right trusty Sald Harl, Esquire, ensign in our Royal Guard."

It was like hitting a sudden downdraft. He hardly registered the shocked bubbling of the court around him.

First? He had been planning to watch the others.

His feet moved by themselves, and he floated balloonlike above them, along the line to the center. Turn. Bow. Five paces. Bow. Four paces--make them longer. Bow again. He was within the hot circle of sunlight...

Shadow? Had that proclamation said "Shadow"?

Oh, Great God Who Guided the Ark!

Bow to king, queen, prince, king again. Take one step. Then he stood at the edge of the dais, white-faced and sick to the roots of his soul.

Aurolron XX rose and paced forward, King Shadow at his back.

The penetrative power of the royal gaze was legendary. It was said that no man in the kingdom could face it. But that was not true when the kingdom had just crumbled into rubble and buried you up to your ears, when every muscle had frozen with shock. The twin sapphire flames burned above Sald, and he stared back into them with no trouble at all--an easy feat for one whose life had been totally ruined without warning. Chosen career, skymanship, private life, family, friendships--all had been snatched away in an instant.

For a lifetime the blue eyes and the black stayed locked, and the king's eyebrows rose in mild amusement.

"And how is NailBiter?' the king asked softly.

"Well, Your Majesty." They had researched him, of course.

The royal brows frowned at the brevity. "Out of DeathBreak by SkyHammer." The king's interest in his bloodstock was famous, and his knowledge encyclopedic. "We had great hopes of that pairing--yet there has been but one chick, and it seems that only one man in our entire Guard is capable of handling him."

Five minutes ago, that royal compliment would have sent Sald Harl into delirium.

"An exaggeration, Majesty. And I am teaching him better manners."

The long eye contact ended as the king blinked. He almost seemed to smile. He spoke even more softly. "Perhaps you can do the same for our son?" But no answer was expected to that.

The king raised his hand, and a page paced forward with a black baldric on a scarlet cushion. Sald's knees found the edge of the dais. The king laid the baldric in silence over Sald's head and across his chest--and by that royal act turned a man into a shadow.

Sald rose. He moved one pace back and was about to bow--

No! Up from his childhood, from classes in protocol in the palace school, seeped a long-forgotten maxim: Shadow bows to no one. He froze.

Should he play it safe and begin his new job with a major display of ignorance before the entire court? Never! But if he was wrong, then he would be guilty of lese majesty at the very least. He looked to King Shadow and got the merest hint of a head shake.

So the commoner awarded the king a barely perceptible nod, the sort of nod a fat duke might so easily have given an ensign, and moved one pace to the side. Appointments took effect immediately. He looked to Vindax, and this time the signal was positive. Certain he was dreaming, he stepped up on the royal dais and walked toward the two princes. Jarkadon backed away for him, smiling sardonically.

Sald moved into place behind Vindax: his place now. The place from which nothing must remove him, save only death.

There were more appointments, honors and decorations and awards. The peacocks and the butterflies strutted and fluttered in the sunlight, but Sald saw almost none of it. Only once did he take notice, when his fat neighbor from the antechamber waddled forward to be inducted into the Order of the Golden Feather: His Grace, the duke of Aginna. It was a travesty! That great slob could not have ridden a bird in his life.

He thought of the news arriving at Hiando Keep. His father would swell with pride. His mother would be horror-struck, his sisters full of tears.

The court whirled in iridescent grandeur.

The end came. The royal party withdrew--and the fifth person in that party was Sald Harl.

No, it was Shadow. Prince Shadow, if he need be distinguished from King Shadow, but normally just Shadow.

He must adjust to life without a name.

The procession proceeded along corridors. Without warning, Vindax turned to a door, but Sald had been expecting that and did not miss a step. As he pushed the door shut behind them, he noted crystal and silver on carved sideboards, and one small window; this must be some sort of pantry. A cowering little man was waiting.

Vindax walked to the nearest wall and then swung around, black eyes glinting with amusement. "Welcome, Shadow!" he said.

"Highness..."

The prince's eyes said that he had made an error.

"I don't know this stuff!" Sald said angrily.

"Then you've forgotten it! Shadow is never presented, so you know nobody. Rank only, rarely title. Never formal address--not even names unless you must."

"Thank you,Prince."

Vindax raised a cynical eyebrow. "It isn't quite that bad."

Sald knew that his resentment was obvious, that he was therefore showing ingratitude, and that he was being mocked because of it. He liked to remember Vindax as a childhood friend, back when they had both been too small to appreciate the chasm between a baronet's heir and a king's. He tried not to remember the adolescent Vindax of flying classes, when a commoner struggling to get by on ability alone must never upstage the heir apparent.

"Why me?" he demanded.

The prince shook his head and leaned back against the wall. Except in the security of the royal apartments he must always have a wall behind him--or Shadow. "Strip," he said. "We haven't much time."

The timid little man was fussing with clothes. Sald reached up to remove the damnable black baldric.

"We're the same size, more or less," Vindax said. "You'll wear my second best until we get some for you."

Cloak and coat...Shadow would wear the same garb as the prince, except for the decorations. He would taste his food, possibly sleep in the same room.

"But why me, Prince?"

"Many reasons, for many people. My father, for example?"

He hadn't changed a fraction--he was still all arrogance, mockery, charm. And wits.

The breeches went next, and the valet had produced underwear, to show that this was to be no half effort. Sald must start matching wits again. It had never been easy. "You would tell the king that I am nothing, so I am your creation and owe everything to you. You alone have my loyalty."

He had scored. "Close."

"You would have told the queen that I am an expert skyman."

The prince smiled. "Right reasons, wrong parents. Chief of protocol?"

"You told him that the appointment of a nobody would not disturb the balance of court factions." Obviously he was right again. "And the truth?"

"You're the best man, of course."

Sald could not believe that. "I heard Count Moarien--"

"Moarien sniffs. Sniff, sniff, all day long. Probably snores."

He was being mocked again.

The new breeches were silk, the softest material he had ever handled. "Many don't sniff. Why me?"

The dark eyes studied him carefully. "You're my second Shadow. You heard what happened to the first?"

"A wild struck him."

"It wasn't a wild. Idiot Farin Donnim had been feeding his bird batmeat. He lost control. It took Shadow in an instant."

Half into a coat which proclaimed him to be crown prince of Rantorra, Sald paused. "What happened to Donnim?"

"Nothing--his uncle's a duke. But you do it to me and they'll cut you into meatballs with blunt scissors."

NailBiter must learn his manners quickly, then. Every time he flew now, he would have a prince stretched out under his beak, a tempting royal breakfast within easy reach of a quick strike.

But they would take NailBiter from him. How much flying did Vindax do, anyway? A few state visits here and there, a bit of hunting. Sald Harl's sky days were apparently over.

The valet adjusted the black baldric with care.

Vindax was still studying him with sardonic amusement. "My father's on his fifth Shadow. One tried breathing through a hole in his back, the second was heard to remark that the soup tasted bitter, and two were mistaken for rabbits."

"You're trying to scare me."

"I want you scared." Vindax lacked the king's penetrating gaze; his eyes were a blunt instrument.

The valet bundled up the discarded clothes as though planning to burn them. He probably was. The trooper flying suit was back in the anteroom--it didn't matter. Sald's money was still in the pockets, his keys...None of those mattered. His two quarterings did not matter. He had no name and no rank.

The valet bowed and vanished, never having said a word. Vindax straightened up.

"My duties?" Sald asked.

Vindax looked at him with fake astonishment. "My life, of course. At the cost of your own, if necessary."

"I know that bit," Sald said.

The prince shrugged. "You are seen and silent, that's all."

"Do I have any authority?"

Vindax smiled faintly. "Normally, no. But in any affair which pertains to my safety, you are paramount. You can even give orders to the king, although I don't recommend it. No limits at all."

So he could keep NailBiter, but he would have no time for training. "King Shadow?"

"You outrank him."

If a choice must be made, the prince's life would take precedence. The arrogance was understandable.

"The flying part I can handle," Sald said. That had been the original purpose of Shadow. "It's the stiletto and strychnine part."

"Today is the banquet," Vindax said irritably, anxious to be off. "I've set aside tomorrow for learning. As Shadow you're head of my bodyguard. You have a staff--hire and fire as you please, but some of them have been at this for kilodays. King Shadow will give you pointers."

"That's still not the truth, Prince," Sald said. "You're wearing exactly the expression NailBiter does when he's snatched a mutebat and thinks I haven't noticed."

The prince flushed. "And what do you do then?" he asked, dangerously.

"I make him as mad as I can. If he gets mad enough, he spits it out."

The black eyes glared, and Vindax reddened further. "Get insolent with me, fellow, and I'll have your head!"

"That's what NailBiter thinks."

The prince gasped audibly and then burst into a roar of laughter, but laughter with a curious metallic ring to it. "All right! I'll spit. Back when we flew together, how would you rate me?"

Sald--Shadow, now--hesitated and then saw that flattery was certainly not part of his job. "Potentially good. You had the courage, the reflexes. Not patient enough. Inclined to be reckless. That's my fault also, so I can't judge it. But you never got enough practice."

"Of the twenty days before Shadow's unexpected resignation," Vindax said, "I flew nineteen. I expect to fly every day for the next thousand, with a few exceptions. Some days only a couple of hours, true, but some are going to be long, long hops."

Now it was Sald who gasped, and Vindax nodded with pleasure at the effect.

"I'm going to explore my inheritance, Shadow," he said. "From one end to the other, from salt to ice, Range and Rand. My father never did, but he agrees that it is a good idea. Far too much this court does nothing but gossip, and knows nothing. So I'm getting my practice in now, and the jaunts start soon. You were chosen because you're a damned good skyman, and I need one."

Sald sighed with relief. "Then I am truly grateful--and honored. And I swear that I will gladly serve as Prince Shadow, and to the limits of my ability."

When NailBiter had spat out the mutebat, he was rewarded with a tasty morsel. Vindax smiled in satisfaction at the speech. "And for a start," he said smugly, "we'll do the big one: the Rand. All the way!"

For a moment Sald did not comprehend. Leftward, the Rand led only to Piatorra, and relations between the two kingdoms were supposedly strained at the moment. Rightward lay wild, poorly settled country: frontier. He knew almost nothing about it, for Rantorrans normally thought only of the Range. But the Rand there was habitable, for it roughly paralleled the terminator. And "all the way" must mean all the hundreds of miles to where it swung abruptly darkward and vanished into the ice layer on Darkside.

He gasped. "To Allaban?"

A black glare barbecued him. "To Ninar Foan!"

Of course. The rebels still held Allaban--Sald had forgotten his history as well as his protocol. The siege of Allaban...the keeper of the Rand...Queen Mayala...

It was curious that Aurolron had never even attempted to recover Allaban. Was Vindax planning a war, now or when he came to the throne?

"Reconnaissance?" Sald asked cautiously.

"Partly." Then the prince grinned. "Also the duke of Foan is premier nobleman of the realm, and he has a daughter."

A long way to go for a date!

"And no son," Vindax added. "So if she has buckteeth or one tit bigger than the other, then we'll marry her to my brother and he can be the next keeper at Ninar Foan. Don't tell him that! Politically she's the obvious match for me. We'll see if she's beddable. Now we must go mix with the rabble."

Sald needed to know what he was required to do--where to stand, when to sit, how much to drink when he tasted the wine--but his mind was still caught up in the thought of the Rand. "How long?"

"About a hectoday, there and back."

A hundred days in the air: new country and watch after watch of soaring, finding the thermals, analyzing the terrain--his heart began to pound at the thought. It would be the adventure of a lifetime and the best thing NailBiter could get. It would not give Sald back his freedom, but it would help.

Vindax had apparently misread his expression. "Don't worry--you cover me, but the others will cover you."

"Why?" Sald demanded, and his stupidity provoked royal impatience.

"Because otherwise you'll crack like an egg."

Sald bristled. Was his courage being questioned? Or his skill? He was as alert as any, and NailBiter would see danger long before he would. "NailBiter can dodge anything in the sky," he said--and stopped.

Shadow's job was to not dodge: a great honor and a very short life expectancy.

Vindax read his expression correctly this time and nodded in grim satisfaction. He headed for the door without another word.

The crown prince's enforced absence from public view was ended. He walked out to play his role in the life of the court, followed one pace behind, as always, by Shadow.

Chapter 2

"

ELOSA? Elosa! Wake up!"

Elosa opened her eyes and blinked up at her mother. Jassina, on the cot in the corner, awoke with a scream.

"Quiet, you stupid girl!" the duchess snapped. "Leave us!"

Jassina scrambled to her feet and ran, stumbling, to the door. It thudded shut behind her.

"I don't believe I heard you knock," Elosa said.

"Very likely not," her mother agreed. "Put your wrap on and come with me. It's important."

There was only one important thing around Ninar Foan at the moment. "The prince? You've had word?"

"Yes. Hurry!"

Obviously the duchess was not about to explain. Elosa put on an expression of wounded, dignity and took her time. The dingy pink lighting did nothing to improve her bleary-eyed feelings, nor did the gray stone walls and threadbare carpet. She had been evicted two days before from her own room, which was much larger and more fancy--and sunside. She found it hard to sleep without sunlight shining in her window; her father took the church's precepts seriously and required that all the castle drapes be closed during the third watch, but even as a child, Elosa had sneaked out of bed when her parents had left and let the sun back in.

She slipped into her blue vicunya wrap, which was conveniently lying on the chair by her bed, then sat before the mirror and started to brush her hair. Normally Jassina did that for her. She was hoping that the delay would annoy her mother enough to make her say what all this was about, but the duchess had moved over to the window, a brooding, angular figure in moody brown colors. What her father had ever seen in the woman was a constant puzzle to Elosa--too tall, faceted in flat planes and sharp joints, her colorless hair pulled back in a bun, and a constant air of suppressed despair. Although perhaps that was worse lately?

Elosa herself had inherited not only her father's glossy black hair but also his trim skyman frame--she was deliciously tiny and proud of it. In her leather flying suit she looked like a boy, very fashionable among the aristocracy, and she came from the very highest levels in the aristocracy. Her mother, a mere earl's daughter, did not.

"There was an eagle in the sun today," the duchess muttered. "That always means bad news."

"I expect if you were feeling less liverish you would have seen an onion or a floor mop," Elosa retorted, tossing the brush away. Obviously the hair strategy was not going to work. "Now, do I get an explanation?"

Her mother strode to the door, tapped, and opened it. That tap gritted in Elosa's ears. She had not merely been evicted from her own room and forced into sharing with Jassina, but the anteroom which should have been her maid's was now occupied by aman,and she had to pass through it to enter or leave her own.

At least he was awake and dressed. Sir Ukarres rose with difficulty, leaning on his cane and bent sharply at the hips. One side of his wrinkled ocher face was permanently pulled down, giving him a quizzical expression; the eye on that side was blind. He was as ancient as the Ark, but also impossible to dislike for very long at a stretch. As well as being a distant relative, Ukarres was seneschal, and it was he, not the duchess, who was making arrangements for the crown prince's visit; that lady had no excuse at all for her bad temper and frayed nerves.

"Elosa!" he said in his whispery voice. "Please forgive this imposition. It distresses us greatly to disturb you like this, and before three bells, too."

"I had not noticed that so far," Elosa replied.

"Are you going to leave him stand there all day?" the duchess demanded, closing the door.

"I thought you were in charge," Elosa said. "Uncle, please sit. I shall be quite comfortable here." She perched on the bed.

The old man eased painfully back into his chair. The duchess stepped over to the window and stared out at nothing once more. Ukarres leaned both hands on his cane and studied the floor for a minute, as though uncertain how to begin. He did not even have a carpet over the flagstones, Elosa noticed.

"Elosa, my dear," he said at last. "You are very close now to your seventh kiloday, and therefore adulthood. I have regarded you as an adult for some time now, and I hope I have treated you as such? What I have to tell you is very much adult business. We are relying on you for discretion."

That was more like it. "Of course I shall respect your confidence, Uncle."

Ukarres nodded and gave her his scanty-tooth smile. "Good! We have just had word that the prince is making better time than expected. He has sent word that he will reach Vinok today. If the hunting is good, he will remain there a day or two. Otherwise he will be with us by first bell tomorrow."

Elosa's heart started a little solo dance in fast time. "That is good news."

Sir Ukarres hesitated. "Yes...and no. Of course the whole place is in a panic now--we were not ready."

He seemed to dry up, and Elosa felt a twinge of uneasiness. "What's wrong?"

The old man glanced at the duchess, who was still looking out the window, and then back to Elosa. "Have you not noticed? You remember when the royal courier first brought the news that the prince was coming?"

Elosa would never forget that excitement, that moment. They had all been dining in the great hall when that scarlet figure had appeared in the doorway. She would never forget--he was the first royal courier she had ever seen. "Of course, Uncle."

"I don't think your father has smiled since."

What? But it was true that her father had seemed strangely preoccupied lately. And her mother was certainly bitchy.

Now it was Elosa who glanced at the duchess's back and found no help there. "You mean he doesn't welcome the prince's visit, Uncle?" she asked.

"It is a grave responsibility," he said. "And not only have we just had news that the prince is almost upon us, but there is also word of danger. Remember, this is in confidence." His voice dropped, although it was never much more than a whisper. "There will be an attempt made on his life when he is here--here at Ninar Foan."

Elosa gasped. "The rebels? They wouldn't dare! And how could they? The castle is impregnable! Uncle, you are joking."

He shook his head. "We have clear warnings of treachery, Elosa, within the castle itself."

"But..." The idea was too absurd, and yet surely he must be serious. "Then you must guard him!"

"Oh, he is always well guarded," Ukarres admitted. "I do not for a moment say it will succeed. But even the attempt would be a disaster for the honor of your father's house." He shuddered. "Think of the king's vengeance!"

"Vengeance?" Elosa snapped. "Uncle, you forget your history--the king owes Father an eternal debt."

"It is not history to me," Ukarres said sadly. "And debts, being orphans, die young."

"But..." she said again. "But the castle servantry are all father's thralls and have served us all their lives! Who?"

"We don't know. Your father does not know."

"Elosa," her mother said, wheeling around. "He is worried to death. You must have noticed how ill he looks? Or don't you even see--"

Ukarres held up a hand to silence her. "Your parents--and I--are extremely worried. We take this very seriously. Your father has decided that Vindax should be warned--advised not to come here."

Not come? It was unthinkable. All her life she had known that her destiny was to marry the crown prince. After all, she was the daughter of the premier noble, and there was a great dearth of eligible girls within Rantorra and even in the adjoining kingdom of Piatorra. She had all the qualifications: breeding, rank, age, beauty. When that royal courier had appeared, she had been certain that he was bringing the invitation to court which she had long dreamed of. And instead the prince himself had been coming to Ninar Foan. No crown prince had ever done that--nor any king of Rantorra, either, without an army. His reason was obvious. And now he was to be stopped?

"Obviously," Ukarres said, "such things cannot be said in public. Nor can they be written--the honor of your house is involved, my lady. It is a shameful thing, but less shameful than the alternative. Your father will take the message himself."

Just for a moment she was suspicious. The problem with Ukarres, Vak Vonimor said, was that he did not know a bowstring from a knot; but her mother would not engage in trickery, and she could think of no motive for the old man to make up such a story.

"When?" she demanded.

He looked surprised at the question. "After two bells, when everyone is asleep...and the meeting with the prince will be more private while most of his party are asleep also. Nobody else knows this, of course, my dear. The preparations are going ahead, but tomorrow there will be word of some crisis in Ramo which demands the prince's return."

"Why are you telling me this?" she demanded.

"Because I know how disappointed you will be," he said. "I thought a day to prepare yourself..." His wrinkles deepened in an understanding smile; somehow the lopsidedness made his smiles irresistible. "I know it must be a blow for you, my dear. I am sure that the prince will send for you to come to court, afterward."

She was about to say that she would go to Vinok with her father, and then stopped in time. Her father would refuse. "Peddling my wares?" he would ask, and she could hear his scornful tone quite clearly. No, she had a much better idea.

"Thank you, Uncle," she said, rising.

He struggled to his feet. "My sorrow, to be the bearer of bad tidings. And now it is almost three bells. I shall be prompt for breakfast, for the first time in memory."

"I must go and see about the flowers," the duchess said.

"And I must get dressed," Elosa said.

She hurried toward her room, worried that her face might reveal her excitement. As the door closed behind her, Ukarres and the duchess glanced at each other and exchanged nods.

Elosa scrambled into her flying suit without even summoning Jassina to assist her. She, not her father, would warn the prince! Her father had rescued the queen; she would warn the queen's son! Poetic! Ironic! And she knew she looked best in a flying suit--first impressions were important.

She would soar in over the hills, lonely, heroic. She would kneel to him, her raven hair falling loose as she pulled off her helmet. If he was any sort of man at all, that would stun him.

How to stop her father, though? She could leave a note for Ukarres, but that might be discovered too soon, in time for pursuit. No, she would lay a false trail.

She headed for the aerie. Three bells had not yet rung, and she met no one; all were asleep, she assumed, until she neared the top of the stairs and heard the noise.

Normally the aerie was a peaceful place, four walls of stout bars supporting a high pyramid roof. A man could step between those bars; an eagle could not. Around the central stairwell, within the caged area, was the piled litter of generations--tables and bins and bales and discarded harnesses and helpful clutter which would always yield up a useful scrap or gadget when required.

Beyond the bars on all four sides lay the terrace, flanked by a low wall whose top provided perching for the birds. Always fifty or so of them stood there, still and silent giants, their backs to the room, staring out over the world like enormous silhouetted gargoyles. The wind blew gently from darkward, even and constant, stirring small motions in the birds' feathers, swirling tiny ripples in the mute dust which coated the floor and gave the aerie its distinctive musty, bitter smell.

Silent giants, the birds preened themselves, and they preened their neighbors' heads, but mostly they just stood. Once in a while a bird would shift from one foot to the other, clanking the rungs of its leash, or bend its head to snatch a pebble from the range pot, or feak its beak against the parapet; but mostly they just stood, staring out into the world as though thinking grave thoughts. Their eyes glared fixedly, but sometimes their heads turned to try another view. Much of the time they showed no movement except the eternal restless ripplings of their scarlet combs. As a child she had wondered greatly what they thought and what they watched. The castle and town were spread below them, so they could know everything that happened in the world of men--if they cared. Certainly no one moved within the aerie but the birds knew; nothing could creep up on an eagle. At times all the heads would line up, and it was likely then that goats or sheep were moving on the distant hills. A bird could see a smile farther than a man could see a man, so it was said.

Once in a while a mutebat would swoop down from the rafters to snatch up a pellet and whir back again. Once in a long while a bat would fly too close to a great waiting beak and then--snap!

There were browns and bronzes and silvers. The browns wore the livery of their country cousins, the wilds, the original stock. Bronzes were common, and she had heard tell of some that verged on gold. Silvers were very rare, and Ninar Foan had worked for generations on its silvers; her own IceFire was almost pure, the best silver in Rantorra, her father said. Only a few dark pinions marred her blue-white splendor, and the scarlet comb shone above it like a ruby. IceFire had been Elosa's sixth kiloday present. Breeding birds was a long-term task; they were likely to outlive their owners and their owners' grandchildren.

Her happiest childhood memories were of this aerie, playing in the litter, watching the birds. How excited she had been when one arrived, a vast spread of wings obscuring the sky! And even more excited when one departed, its gallant rider aboard, leaping off into space and suddenly not there. One of the first things she had been taught was that the bars were the limit; step through the bars onto the terrace and the birds would eat you. She had not really believed that then, although she did now, but within the cage she had played until that day when her father had first taken her into the sky. She had been barely past her second kilo, and yet she remembered every moment. That day the eagles had stolen her heart.

The aerie was not peaceful now. Elosa stopped at the top of the long stairs in astonishment. The place was total bedlam, men and boys running around with loads and getting in one another's way. A line of boys was sweeping up the dust, raising hideous, choking clouds of it, turning everything gray. The familiar junk pile had almost vanished, being systematically dragged over to darkside and hurled. Vak Vonimor, the eagler, was loud in argument with several helpers, apparently rehashing yet again the best method of ridding the aerie of mutebats, and tempers were rising. Men were tidying and stacking equipment: saddles and harnesses and hoods. As fast as one group formed a neat pile, it seemed, another would move it. The birds were twisting their heads back and forth, disturbed and fretting.

The prince was coming, and Ninar Foan's aerie was getting its first real reorganization in a megaday. Typical of men, she thought, to leave it until almost too late.

She surveyed the chaos for a few moments in silence and then took the bird by the beak. She marched over to Vak himself.

"Master Vonimor!"

He glanced around, rolled his eyes, and muttered something which Elosa decided not to have heard.

"My lady?"

"Be so kind as to have IceFire dressed at once," Elosa said firmly.

"My lady..." Vak Vonimor was not a patient man, and it was said that he feared only the keeper himself--and his daughter. Today perhaps only the keeper. "His Grace instructed us to move the birds, my lady. And to make the place ready. He assured us that no birds would be flown today." His round face was picket-fenced with dust and sweat; it did not, however, look too convinced of victory.

"I have decided--he has agreed that I may fly," Elosa replied.

"IceFire is not due for a kill today," Vonimor muttered, yielding to the inevitable.

"I was not planning to hunt her, merely to get away from all this...this mayhem."

He rolled his eyes again. "Very well, my lady. Cover?" He glanced around. "Tuy! Dress IceFire and take...take ThunderClaw."

The youth addressed broke into a wide grin and dashed away before Vonimor could change his mind. Elosa scowled, but it had no effect. Vonimor knew very well what she thought about Tuy Rorin. He had been a young hellion when she was a young hellion, only slightly older than she and more hellionish, given to pulling hair and jumping out at girls from dark corners. Now he was more inclined to pull girls into the dark corners, scything a promiscuous swath through the chamber and scullery maids. His mother was a cook, his official father the gateman, but even as a child he had obviously belonged elsewhere, and he had announced his arrival at puberty by developing the charm, the great hooked nose, and the bushy black brows that were unmistakably of the House of Foan. Her father had sown several such around the town and castle in his youth, and Elosa preferred not to be reminded. None of them resembled him as Tuy Rorin did, fortunately. A cook's son...half brother? Ugh!

ThunderClaw was a perfect choice for Elosa's purposes, though: very old. No match for IceFire.

"Where are you headed, my lady?" Vonimor asked. The duke had strict rules. In these wild hills, all fliers must report plans and destination before departing.

"Going to meet her princey," a voice muttered, and there were snickers. Elosa swung around furiously, but she could not tell who had spoken--and she got grinned at.

"To Koll Bleek," she snapped. She developed a convenient cough from the dust and beat a retreat to windward. The perching wall there was empty, so she went out and leaned on it, staring up at the Rose Mountains glimmering against black sky, half-concealed in equally ruddy clouds. Clouds and ice and no air, or not enough for humans. The birds could fly there, it was said, although why they should want to she could not guess. There was certainly nothing to eat on the High Rand.

Koll Bleek was rightward. She would head that way, lose Rorin, and double back alone. He would have to report her missing. The search would keep her father occupied. Dangerous, true. Not very kind, true; but she would not be a very convincing messenger if her father turned up a few hours later with the same message.

Or a different message? There was an interesting thought!

Then Tuy Rorin was back, wearing a battered old flying suit with more patches than IceFire had feathers. He was setting to work with a hooding pole. She marched back into the melee to watch. "Never trust a groom unless your eye is on him." So her father had told her a hundred times. One loose girth is enough.

Rorin, though, knew what he was doing. IceFire and ThunderClaw happened to be neighbors, so he need hood only them and the two on either side, dropping the big bags on them from a safe distance. The birds turned their heads and glared angrily when the hoods appeared, but they froze like mountains as soon as the bags were on--only then could they be safely approached. He clipped a safety belt to the bars, scrambled nimbly onto the wall, and reached under the hoods to strap on the helmets. Her father said it was even safe to touch the great raptor beaks under the hood, as a hooded bird would not move. She did not intend to try, ever.

At first Tuy could not find Elosa's own saddle and offered her another, which she declined. She would be sore enough after a trip to Vinok and back.

When he had the birds saddled and unhooded, Rorin fetched two bows and quivers, grinning impudently. Her archery was notorious.

"Ready, my lady."

"Thank you, boy," she said graciously. The birds were blinkered and safe to approach. He gave her a hand to scramble onto the wall and then up into the saddle and stirrups--a hand too helpful to be respectful. Impertinent wretch! She heard the leashes clatter loose, and he swung up easily onto ThunderClaw at her side, ignoring the envious jeers from his dust-smeared comrades left behind. The bird settled slightly on her haunches under his weight. Elosa, stretched up as far as she could, was just able to reach IceFire's comb. She stroked it and felt the bird rumble with pleasure. She was suddenly very nervous at the start of this adventure, but Tuy was waiting, eyeing her expectantly.

"Ready!" She pulled back on the reins, and the blinkers flipped open. As always, IceFire instantly swung her head around to the left--it was an annoying trick of hers. Perhaps she merely wished to see who had mounted her. Perhaps her intent was more sinister, for a bird could easily bend its head far enough to bite its rider. Whatever IceFire's motive, it was always balked, for the left rein went slack at once and the blinker sprang back over the huge golden eye.

IceFire straightened and then launched, and Elosa felt once more the vast surge of excitement and dread as she fell into the void, the rush of cool air, the secret fear that perhaps this time the wings would not open--it was simultaneous terror and exhilaration, the sensation that made flying the greatest thing in the world. If love was greater, then she had yet to find out and would be much surprised at the discovery. With her free hand she signaled for wings and got them; a slight easing of the right rein swung her mount toward the left updraft. Rorin had expected the other and was already turning. He shouted angrily and corrected. She'd show him!

She streaked down over a great darkness and felt the surge of cold wind, as familiar and constant as the castle corridors. She banked IceFire, glided across into the warm thermal, and began to circle. Where was Rorin? She looked around, puzzled, and saw that he had taken her air, was already above her, and close enough that she could see the grin under his goggles. That was his post, of course, but she was annoyed that he had managed to get there so easily.

In graceful stillness, the eagles soared upward above town and castle. The sun stood clear on the skyline now, a bloated red egg blotched with magenta dust clouds--if that was an eagle her mother had seen in it, then it was seriously diseased.

Elosa swooped without warning to catch the stronger thermal from Grassy Ridge. Rorin held formation as though he were tethered. ThunderClaw might be old, but she was experienced, and Rorin had inherited his real father's skill at flying. Even an old bird like ThunderClaw could fly all day if need be. The birds' wings never seemed to tire, unless they had to beat them, and that was a sign of very bad guidance.

They rose higher and higher yet. Ninar Foan was a tiny scab of buildings on its spur, and even the spur was dwarfed now by the jagged hills around. The sun was clear of the horizon, almost white, smaller and much too bright to look at.

"That's high enough, my lady!" Rorin shouted. He was getting nervous, and truly the air was thin. Her chest was heaving with the strain. Obviously she would not be able to elude Rorin. So a future queen of Rantorra would have to meet her prince in the company of a cook's bantling. That thought burned.

They were almost into the cloud cap, and her head was about to burst. She crested IceFire and dived.

In a moment, the air felt better and her eyes cleared. She twisted around and saw that ThunderClaw was still in position. Damned good flying, she admitted grudgingly.

At this height the sun was fierce in a blue sky, the horizon below it blazing white beyond the shadowed edge of the Great Salt Plain which ran all the way to the hot pole. Ahead and below her lay the giant's jumble of jagged blocks and mountains that formed the Rand--browns and reds mostly, speckled here and there with welcome patches of green near springs and at the base of ice falls, tumbled down in divine chaos from High Rand to Salt Plain, a giant's staircase, the shadowed sides featureless pits of sterile blackness.

To her left the Rose Mountains glowed pink beyond the terminator, tips of ranges buried in the great petrified ocean that covered Darkside. Darkness and vacuum on one side, deadly heat and thick red air on the other, and the barely habitable harshness of the Rand between. Yet it was only the coincidence of middle elevations and terminator that made even Rantorra habitable at all.

Could she reach Split Rocks? She wasn't certain. If she fell short, then she would have to swing over to Gimaral, and that would be a wide detour. She toyed with the idea of asking Tuy's advice and rejected it. Go for it! She held her course, stretched prone along IceFire's back, glorying in the cool caress of the wind, watching the jagged peaks rising on her left and seeming to creep closer.

This was living.

Even the greatest thrill in the world can pall after many hours, and Elosa was truly grateful to see Vinok ahead. She had made good time, only once falling short of the thermal she was aiming at, having to glide sunward and find another and then backtrack. But she was stiff and cold and very thirsty, her canteen long emptied. Rorin was puzzled by the unexpectedly long journey. At first he had brought ThunderClaw in close and tried to make conversation, but she had deliberately refused to explain.

Always the great slope of the Rand lay ahead, climbing higher to bright peaks against dark vacuum on her left, falling away on her right into black velvet, adorned by the silver horizon under the sun. From time to time she passed over areas with springs, green blessings in a rock desert, most marked by solitary cottages of the herdsmen who guarded livestock from the wilds. She saw some of them at their lonely work; it took much meat to feed the duke's eagles.

Then she saw Vinok, a minute tower, square and pointed, standing on the lip of a cliff with a good thermal. Behind it rose a long, barren, rubbly slope leading up to yet another great cliff. There was no sign of the prince's party, and the tower was deserted, one tiny work of mankind in a vast wilderness. A narrow green gully nearby told of a small spring.

She glided down and guided IceFire in to the perching; she thought that the bird seemed grateful also. Tail and wings spread to brake, then the talons rasped on the wall and the wings folded. There was silence and peace from the long, long rush of air.

"Well, turn around, silly!" she snapped, for there was no one there to hear her. Birds were deaf and mute, and to speak to them was a mark of a beginner.

IceFire moved her head slightly, scanning this new place. Then she raised one foot and pivoted around. Elosa released the reins and unstrapped her harness. Gratefully she slid down to the terrace, staggering with stiffness. She picked up a chain and shackled the bird, then stepped through the bars.

Vinok was a smaller version of the castle aerie, one of the innumerable bird posts established generations ago by Vindax IV along the length of the Rand. In theory they were for the use of royal couriers and the Guard, but there were few couriers and the Guard never came. The more isolated tended to fall into ruin and neglect or were adopted by wilds, but many were maintained by local landowners for hunting lodges, as her father maintained this one. It had been recently tidied and made respectable, she noticed--undoubtedly for the royal visit.

A shadow flashed past the tower, wheeled, and flashed past again--then swooped off to regain air in the thermal for another attempt. Tuy Rorin was having trouble making ThunderClaw come to roost, and Elosa found that amusing. At the next attempt he succeeded, and the eagle settled down close to IceFire and turned at once.

"Everything all right, my lady?" he called, twisting around in the saddle.

"Seems so," she replied, wondering why he was not dismounting.

"Then..." He pushed up his goggles and regarded her hopefully, the clean patches around his eyes giving him a comical expression. "There are some goats on the hill, there, my lady. And ThunderClaw seems to think she's earned one."

Elosa was about to snap a refusal, then reconsidered. Rorin's opportunities to hunt wild game would be few--taking out the birds to pick up domesticated feed animals would be all the hunting he would know. She could be gracious and give him the chance. More important, it would be poor skymanship to fly ThunderClaw home right after a kill, and that would give her an excuse to remain longer at Vinok, perhaps even through third watch, for a return tomorrow. She knew that there were ladies in the prince's party, so it would be quite proper.

"Go ahead!" she said--and ThunderClaw was gone.

Then she stamped her foot in anger, realizing that she should have made him undress IceFire first. Suppose the prince arrived and her bird was still saddled, sitting on a perch? She would have to do it herself. It would be valuable experience, she decided nervously, with no one around to see if she made a mess of it. No one around to help if she lost a hand, either.

"Don't be morbid, Elosa," she could hear her mother saying.

The hooding poles were clearly visible, and hooding was no problem. She found the safety belts and put one on. The wall was high for her, but she managed to climb up, remembering how easy it always seemed to Rorin and the other men. There were disadvantages to being small.

Then the heart-stopping part: She must reach up under that black bag and unfasten the helmet. She had to climb back into the saddle to reach the front strap, the one near the beak. She was not sure which strap should be done first, or if it mattered. Her fingers brushed the underside of that steely beak, and she shivered; she fumbled quickly with the buckle. Done! The neck strap was easy. She pulled gently, and the helmet slid over the comb and fell loose. Well, that wasn't hard at all!

Aware that Rorin would have been finished long since, she set to work on the front saddle girth, then jumped down and did the thigh girths. The saddle slid to the floor with a satisfying flop. She picked up the equipment and slipped back through the bars with it--and was stopped short by her safety belt. There was no one there to see, but she felt herself blush at the laughter of those nonexistent watchers. Anything else? No! It was all done, and she could remove the hood.

"There you are, Icey," she said proudly. "Thought I couldn't do it, didn't you?" A real skywoman!

IceFire was probably wondering why it had taken so long.

No. IceFire was studying the cliff above the hillside. ThunderClaw was barely visible, but her shadow was flashing and leaping along the rocks as she stooped on her prey. The goats were hard to see at this distance, tiny bouncing dots fleeing in terror and yet somehow clinging to that nearly vertical surface in the way that only goats and flies could. Rorin would never do it, Elosa decided. She certainly would not attempt it, and she was fairly sure that Father would not either--the rock was too steep, and if a wing were to graze it, bird and rider would be instant raven meat.

ThunderClaw broke off her attack and swooped away, far below the escaping goats, gliding down the slope toward the tower, heading into the thermal to find altitude once more.

Lesson for you, Master Rorin! Would he try again? The herd had reached a vertical face and was cowering on a narrow ledge. He might try an arrow and hope to pick up the meat from the bottom of the cliff, but it was very difficult to make a bird strike at a motionless target--too difficult for Tuy Rorin, she thought.

Another shadow streaked across the cliff face, much faster. At that speed it must be a wild, and Rorin was now prey himself. Then she saw that this bird also had a rider and that he certainly knew what he was doing. An incredible stoop! One moment she had noted the shadow high above the goats, and the next instant bird and shadow and herd had merged and parted and the eagle was far below, spreading wings and curving out of its dive, clutching a goat that had surely died without ever seeing what was coming.

Unbelievable! Her father would not have attempted an attack at that speed, certainly not against a quarry on an almost-vertical cliff. She would have been impressed had it been done by a riderless wild. The men at Ninar Foan had been sneering about the palace fliers of the Royal Guard, but if that performance was typical, then it was the locals who had much to learn.

The royal party? She ran out to the terrace, safely far from IceFire, and peered aloft. There they were, eighteen or twenty of them, minute specks floating in the thermal. She could see no others, apart from the solitary hunter, and he now came rushing in on the tower, still gliding on the momentum of his dive: more fine judgment! Tail spread, talons reached--and an enormous bronze was sitting motionless on the parapet, the goat dangling from his beak, fierce gold gaze studying the aerie. It was a huge bird, bigger even than IceStriker, IceFire's father.

"Turn around, featherbrain!" a male voice roared. Elosa jumped and then laughed to herself. If an expert like this talked to his bird, then she certainly could--and would do so in future. The bronze did not turn at once; he started sidling along the parapet toward IceFire, the goat swinging limply.

"Oh, cut out the flirting!" the voice said laughingly. The blinkers snapped shut, and the bronze stopped--and then turned! The rider had made a blinkered bird turn with foot signals, and she had never seen that done. The rider unbuckled, jumped down, and shackled his bird. Then he reached up and tied the reins back to the saddle, opening the blinkers. That was a calculated risk, she supposed, for the bird had its beak full, but her father would not have allowed it, and she noticed that the newcomer moved swiftly to the safety of the bars.

It was the prince! The prince himself!

Elosa's knees started to shake. He was very short, trim and moving easily, although he had probably spent a whole watch in the saddle. He pushed up his goggles and smiled across at her, but headed swiftly toward the staircase. What a wonderful smile! And what a skyman! She had heard that the prince could fly well--he would hardly have attempted this journey otherwise--but she had not been told that he was a master. She ought to be curtsying--no, dummy, bow in a flying suit--but he was obviously heading for the stairs.

Perhaps he needs a pee, she thought, and suppressed a giggle.

"Who are you?" he called.

"Er...I bring a message...Your..."

But the prince had vanished down through the floor, boots clattering on the steps.

Elosa's heart was trying to fight its way right out of her chest. To think of the crown prince in the abstract was one thing, but actually to see him was quite another, to see him as a flesh and blood human male. And what a male! For the first time she realized that she had been dreading this moment, fearing to have a real face superimposed forever on the ideal face she had conjured for her ideal prince, real bones and meat to replace her dream. There was only one crown prince, and she was quite prepared to accept whatever her destiny sent her--physical attraction was something she had not been counting on. That would be a bonus.

What a handsome couple they would be!

She pulled off her helmet and shook out her hair. She told herself firmly to calm down and stop trembling. With a smile like that, he was nothing to fear. Ladies of her station married for dynastic and political reasons; she should not allow sex to intrude.

Why had he come on ahead, leaving his entourage aloft? Perhaps, being prince, he got first shot at the game.

The prince came trotting up the stairs again, went over to the terrace, and looked up. He waved his arms in some sort of signal.

He wore a plain blue flying suit with no insignia except the talon that was his symbol and a black diagonal stripe. She ought to know what that was for--she would have to brush up on her heraldry before she got to court. Perhaps he was in mourning for some distant relative.

Now he came back through the bars and walked over toward her, studying her with surprise. He was carrying his helmet now, as she was, and his hair was dark and curly.

"A woman!" he exclaimed. Then he smiled. Oh, that smile! "I beg pardon...a lady." He did not bow--but then, he was royalty, so that must be correct. "A lady bearing a message?"

She dropped to one knee and bowed her head so that her hair fell over one shoulder.

"I...I am Elosa, daughter of the keeper, Your--"

"The devil you are!" the prince said.

She looked up in surprise. His eyes had narrowed in sudden wariness. "And what message can possibly require so highborn and so beautiful a courier?"

No, she was not going to tell him about Ukarres's stupid plot. He had plenty of guards with him; he could not possibly be in any more danger at Ninar Foan than he was always in at court. He was her destiny! She would not be cheated. Her father would not come--he would be too busy searching for her around Koll Bleek. The prince would not send her home alone; he would order her to stay here over third watch, and tomorrow he would see what a fine skywoman she was. If her father wanted to warn him away again afterward, well, at least he would have had a chance to get to know her properly.

"I just came to say that you are indeed welcome to Ninar Foan, Your Highness."

CHAPTER 3

THE crown prince was ten days ahead of his official itinerary when he arrived al Vinok. He had been eight days ahead of it at Gorr and five behind at Sastinon. His progress, in short, had been unpredictable--and that was Shadow's doing.

Flying in itself was dangerous. A flight along the whole length of the Rand was especially perilous because of its duration and because much of the country was poorly settled by men and well inhabited by wilds. For a prince to attempt such a trip was very close to folly; the inhabitants of savage lands tend to have long memories for injustice, real or imaginary. Rebels might plot political advantage; brigands might dream of ransom.

What was needed, Vindax had long since decided, was something he had flint met as a child in the palace school. He had not then known what it was, only that a few of the more humbly born seemed to have already developed some different way of thinking. He ran into it again when he went through the motions of enlisting in the Guard in order to gain flight training. No one was deceived into believing that he was an ordinary recruit, but one benefit was that he came to know a few young men from outside the aristocracy.

Once again he discovered this unfamiliar way of looking at the world, that he eventually analyzed as an ability to see it as it really was and not as it should be, plus a willingness to make it into what it might be, not what it ought to be. Eventually he put a name to it: common sense. And he discovered also that common sense did not flourish among the rituals of courtiers or the rule books of their bureaucrats.

Just knowing that it existed did not impart it, however. He was an aristocrat himself, and he could not think that way. But when he conceived his journey to Ninar Foan, he knew at once that he must include some of that common sense among his baggage. It was for that reason that he had scandalized the family, the council, and eventually the whole court by insisting on appointing a commoner as his new Shadow.

Tongues wagged and heads were shaken, but he had his way. At the banquet that followed the dubbings, the topic displaced even the queen's health.

And the very next day, that same commoner set the court on its ear a second time.

Shadow had spent an entire exhausting watch absorbing information under the restless eye of the crown prince. He had greeted first bell with relief, expecting that the worst part of his day must now be over, but it was not to be. Now he was living the life of a public personage, one which could not be divided as neatly as that of lesser mortals into periods of work, play, and sleep. The next item on the agenda, he learned with horror, was dinner with the king and queen.

The monarch lived a very public life, and such private gatherings were rare. How the two Shadows fared at them depended on the king's mood--they might be excluded, or ignored like furniture, or treated as family members--but this occasion was designed to evaluate the new appointee, and there were six places laid around the table. It was an intimate affair, employing only six footmen, two butlers, and enough gold plate to establish a barony. The table stood on a secluded terrace, well shielded by shrubbery and flowers, shaded by tinsel trees. It overlooked the palm garden but could not itself be overlooked by anyone. In Ramo, most events took place outdoors, in the constant gentle sunshine.

The king was being gracious, dressed in the plain white garb that he preferred. The queen was being even more gracious in a gold gown which did not suit her pith-hued complexion; she inquired politely after Shadow's dear mother, whom she had obviously confused with some other lady. She also tended to drop things and forget what she was saying in midsentence.

Jarkadon was a younger version of the king and an older version of the obnoxious child Shadow remembered, wielding a humor like a skinner's knife. His seventh kiloday was only six days off, and there was some discussion of the state hall, but the diners had barely reached the soup course when the king displayed his interest in birdflesh by remarking, "And what mount will you fly on your journeying, Vindax?"

The crown prince glanced sideways. "Shadow? Your advice?"

Shadow choked in the process of tasting Vindax's soup. "I think agility would not be advisable, Prince--it would merely make it harder for the rest of us to cover you. A flying rock--probably a mature female. Certainly nothing which could outfly NailBiter."

"NailBiter?" The king's frown chilled the air. "You do not propose to fly cover on our son with that terror?"

Awash with despair, Shadow faced that gaze of blue ice. "Yes, Your Ma--King. He and I are a good team. I should be less comfortable on a strange bird, and I can hardly practice now without neglecting my other duties." But he had just lost hope.

Vindax was amused. "Which is more important, Shadow?" he asked. "NailBiter or your lunch? I shall remain here. The palm garden is directly below us. If you think you can convince us?"

Shadow rose and left in silence.

By the time he had visited the prince's apartment and donned a flying suit, he had worked up a heady dose of anger.Show the bastards!He stormed into the aerie, and NailBiter, he thought, brightened at the sight of him, turning his head to glare even more ferociously than usual. His comb rippled and reddened, and he fluffed his glassy bronze plumage, but he was not pleased at the unusual tightness of the saddle girths.

Bird and rider plunged from the roost. The palace was well located on a rocky plateau flanked by no less than three updrafts, and Shadow had no problem gaining altitude, as he studied the royal palm garden far below and planned his trajectories. Then a simple knee movement folded NailBiter's wings, and they dived...open wings to level out...skim between palms...off into the far-side thermal. A few such passes and he had the trees well placed and could start being fancy, folding in the bird's wings for narrower passes, until he was flashing at full attack speed between trees which he could have touched with outspread arms. It was simple insanity, and yet he felt strangely unmoved by the danger. He had already lost his life the day before, had he not? Word was spreading, courtiers pouring into the palm garden to watch this spectacular suicide.

On one pass he banked NailBiter and looped back the way he had come, flying his eagle like a sparrow. Show the bastards.

Then he tried a couple with his hands in the air, NailBiter blinkered and blind, guided only by his rider's legs. He was running out of ideas. Should he try to steal the dinner off the royal table?

How many passes did they need? He had made his tenth or twelfth and was climbing once more in a thermal when a guard challenged him. Shadow recognized the heraldry on the uniform--this was the Honorable Ja Liofan, a cocky young bastard who couldn't put an arrow in a barrel if he was leaning on it, and obviously the only guard not smart enough to recognize Shadow or ignorant enough to interfere.

Liofan was higher and behind and had his bow drawn, but troopers were trained to escape from such predicaments, and NailBiter could identify the threat by instinct. A swerve, a few beats of the bronze wings, a bank--and the positions were reversed.

Shadow was unarmed, but his mount was not, and a touch of boots against thighs was enough to bring down the great talons and launch an attack. Liofan gaped in horror and dived, NailBiter close behind. The two birds hurtled over the palace, less than five lengths apart, Ja Liofan probably measuring his life in seconds. He twisted around to shoot--and the arrow went ludicrously wide. He swerved again...lost air...and the deadly talons were closer still...back down across the palace rose garden, barely skimming the trees...Any guardsman who tried what Shadow was doing would be instantly cashiered. If he lost control, then he was going to commit a very fast murder.

Now Liofan was in full flight, his bow discarded, his screams quite audible. NailBiter's comb was dark crimson with the rage of bloodlust, and Shadow no longer needed to direct him, was rather fighting to hold him back from closing, the bird throbbing in frustration, bewildered by the conflicting signals. Far out above the city, Shadow drew ahead and turned his prey and drove him back over the palace once more. NailBiter closed within a length, and Shadow was almost ready to blinker him and pull off, but then the gap widened slightly--NailBiter had seen the joke. He was still just young enough to enjoy the sort of game that young wilds played. His comb faded to a more reasonable color and began rippling gently--and the astonished Shadow could relax. Suddenly it was easy. All he needed to do then was keep the contest as close to the palace as possible. He drove his hapless quarry a half dozen times over and through the palm garden until finally the devastated Ja Liofan ran out of air, landed his bird in a bush, and the game was over.

NailBiter had shown he could be controlled. Back at the aerie, Shadow rubbed his comb until the eagle quivered like an earthquake, and then broke more rules by rewarding him with a mutebat.

When he returned to the royal quarters, the king rose and shook his hand--an extraordinary honor. "Magnificent, Shadow," he said. "We have not seen a display like that in many kilos." He was about to pull off a ring, the standard royal gratuity, and then paused. "No, we shall issue a renunciation, freeing Hiando Keep from taxes for a kiloday."

Shadow stammered his thanks; his father would bless him with raptures. It was astonishing that the king would remember the name of his father's house. Vindax was frowning.

"Such an anticlimactic ending," Jarkadon mourned. "After all, it was only a trooper."

Vindax made no comment on the affair, not even when he and Shadow withdrew. Even now the prince did not retire for private relaxation or recreation; he sent instead for Lord Ninomar, vice-marshal in the Guard and hence the third-ranking military officer in the kingdom. He was also commander of the crown prince's flight. A ruddy, wiry little man of about fifteen kilodays, with the self-confidence of impeccable ancestry, he sported a bristly red mustache which clashed oddly with his thinning brown hair. He had apparently been called from table, for there were crumbs in the mustache, but his uniform was a tailor's masterpiece, glittering with decorations. Shadow wondered how good his flying might be, but then, breeding was more important than skill.

This was a formal audience. The three men remained standing in a corner of another terrace flanked by mosaic walls and a marble fountain, with guards, aides, and other observers safely out of earshot behind windows.

"You have had time to prepare your plans for the journey to Ninar Foan?" Vindax asked.

"Certainly, Your Highness." Ninomar smugly produced a sheaf of papers and proceeded to read them. He read them as though he had never read them before.

Vindax listened with an impassive face, Shadow with steadily increasing horror. His estimate of his own life expectancy slid from a hectoday to almost zero. This would be self-inflicted carnage.

At the end the prince nodded. "Impressive," he said. "You seem to have thought of everything." He turned his head slightly. "Shadow, have you any comments?"

For a moment Shadow was not sure if this was a mere formality, and then decided he had better not treat it as such.

"A few, Prince. The twelve spare birds...even the Guard never attempts to move more than three spares at a time."

"That is not in the regulations!" the vice-marshal snapped, reddening.

"Nevertheless it is the practice," Shadow replied. "And even three are too many. Spares are the commonest cause of accidents. I should take none. The size of the party...true, the Guard will sometimes fly in troops of fifty, but control is hard to maintain in an emergency."

Vindax was still silent, so Shadow plunged ahead. "We shall not be a flight of skilled troopers, for--with all respect to your entourage, Prince--many will be civilian. To fly in drill spacing..."

"Perhaps hunt spacing," Ninomar conceded.

"Wider still--range or greater. Space is our best defense for the prince. And that is my business, Vice-Marshal."

Ninomar's face grew as red as his mustache, but Vindax remained impassive. Shadow tore and savaged the marshal's plans to a shower of feathers. The problems of provisioning and perching so many in a poor countryside...no more than six troopers, and not the moguls and scions named by Ninomar, but able young archers, competent also to tend the birds...paired birds so far as possible, with only a few singles for communications if needed...one lady's maid was plenty...the itinerary to be flexible and not advertised except in general terms...

No point remained unblunted, no facet unscratched. The marshal was crimson and beyond speech by the end--he knew what rank this insolent stripling had held until the previous day.

"Thank you, Shadow," the prince said. "I had envisioned a larger retinue, though. The numbers were mine."

"Then divide it into three, Prince, flying a watch apart."

"No," Vindax said thoughtfully. "A small group may even impress more by demonstrating confidence, and your point on provisioning is good. What of baggage, if we have no spares?"

Shadow was beginning to feel more hopeful. "I was thinking only of your personal safety," he said tactfully. "Certainly we could use a small advance party, perhaps several, two or three men in each." That was so obvious that he hadn't thought of it himself until then. Damn, he had had no time to plan! "They of course could take spares, inspect accommodation and security..."

Vindax nodded gravely. "My Lord Marshal, I accept your proposal..."

Lord Ninomar took a deep breath.

"...with the few amendments which Shadow has suggested. Possibly he may offer further advice in future."

The crumbled remains of Ninomar departed--even his decorations seemed to have lost their shine. Then Vindax broke the rules by spinning right around to look at Shadow, still frowning.

"Feel any better now?" he snapped.

It was trust absolute: Shadow was to have supreme command.

Yes, it felt better. All in all, Shadow decided, that interview had tasted as good to him as the mutebat had to NailBiter.

Chapter 4

AND so, sixty-four days later, Shadow had brought Vindax safely to Vinok and almost to Ninar Foan--

"What rank is Shadow?" the girl demanded. She was red as a half sun, raging at having mistaken him for the prince, and he wondered how so tiny a form could contain so much anger.

"No rank, lady," he said. "I fly cover for the prince. But NailBiter needs to eat sometimes, so today I was advance scout." He tried a smile, but it died unanswered. "We saw two unexplained visitors arrive ahead of us--"

"How can you have no rank?" she snapped. He thought that in calmer moments she would be quite attractive, almost a beauty, and she had none of the buckteeth or other deformities which had worried Vindax. She qualified politically; physically she might very well satisfy his need for a royal breeding partner.

"I am just Shadow. I fly cover for the prince, bird fodder." She opened her mouth to argue, so he added, "By birth I am a commoner, lady."

That helped not at all--she had knelt to him. Why the rage? She was not the first to have made the error, for the subtleties of court insignia were little understood in these remote parts, but no one else had taken it so hard. And the starry eyes had not been for him, obviously.

The horizontal sunlight was cut out momentarily as an eagle came in to perch. This was the second stranger, then, the failed hunter, and he had found easier prey, for a vicunya hung from the great beak.

"Who's this, lady?" Shadow demanded.

"My groom. And you address me as Lady Elosa, or my lady: not just lady!"

"Not me," Shadow said. "They have special rules for me. Come along, I must check him for weapons before the prince gets here."

She stalked along beside him angrily. The groom had come through the bars and was looking for a hooding pole so he could pull back his bird's blinkers to let her eat. He flashed Elosa a huge grin.

"Got one!" he crowed. He was very young and no obvious threat.

Then he saw Shadow. He shied, whipped off his helmet, dropped his goggles, and made a deep bow.

"Who the hell are you?" Shadow demanded. The nose, the eyebrows, the whole face and the build--it was uncanny.

The lad went pale under his dust streaks and windburn. "Tuy Rorin, Your Highness, groom to His Grace--"

"I am not the prince," Shadow said, and almost added,"But you are!"

Of course there were innumerable royal bastards floating around Rantorra. Perhaps one of those by-blows had been banished to the far end of the realm and this was some impoverished descendant, a royal cousin.

"Oh! Beg pardon, my lord," the boy said, but his eyes flickered momentarily toward Elosa and then downward to hide a smile.

"Attend to your mount, groom," Shadow said. Then he roared:"NailBiter!Oh, crap!"

Elosa uttered something very like a scream.

NailBiter had decided it was cawking time.

Lady Elosa's magnificent silver had agreed.

The two were side by side, with a futile length of chain dangling from NailBiter's ankle. His comb was fiery and thrashing with excitement, his plumage blown up until he looked twice as large as normal. Holding his kill with one foot, he had ripped off a leg and was offering it, and at the exact moment Shadow noticed what was happening, the silver accepted. NailBiter seemed to swell even more; he tore off the head and offered that. And that was accepted also.

"Stop them!" Elosa wailed.

"Ha!" Shadow said ruefully. "You stop them, lady! It's too late. Much too late."

"IceFire! She's priceless! And a bronze! Father will kill me!"

Eagles mated for life, and those two had just signed the contract.

"Do something!" Elosa demanded, stamping her foot in frustration.

"There's nothing we can do," Shadow said. "Except decide what to call their firstborn--IcyFingers, perhaps? Or Hotfoot?"

The groom guffawed, and Lady Elosa switched from woe back to fury.

Shadow walked over to the courting couple; they were much too intent on each other to be a threat to him. He checked to make sure that his bird had not injured his leg, and he removed the useless leash--the ancient staple had come out of the wall. NailBiter offered a tasty beakful of offal; IceFire gulped it and nibbled playfully at his comb.

Shadow refastened NailBiter. The bird needed no special liberty for his wooing, for it would be a long time in human terms before the two got around to consummating their union. Then he slipped back through the bars as more birds came soaring in.

Lady Elosa was still raging. "Careless oaf! Why did you not check that staple when you tethered your bird?"

"Did you check yours?" Shadow asked, tiring of this tantrum thrower.

She gasped. "Insolence! My father will have you flogged!"

Shadow was not afraid of the duke, but the king was another matter. "Will he so? But it is your father's responsibility to maintain this aerie. NailBiter belongs to His Majesty, who has breeding plans for all his birds. He will certainly judge the case himself. Perhaps he will have your father flogged."

She was too outraged to reply.

More birds arrived, carrying a couple of troopers and the countess, Lord Ninomar, and the lithesome lass who professed to be his wife. Those two had both caught goats. Where was Vindax? The aerie was filled with laughter and the clattering of shackle chains.

The groom was openly grinning now--with Vindax's grin. "My lord?" he asked diffidently. "That was a magnificent kill you made, if I may say so." He had Vindax's charm, also.

"I'm not a lord," Shadow said. "And you certainly may say so." He smiled. "I didn't see it myself--I had my eyes shut."

The kid looked at him carefully, wondering if he was serious. "Would you mind explaining how you did it, sir? How can you control a bird at that speed?"

"I don't try to," Shadow said. "His reflexes are so much faster than mine that it would be stupid, like fighting with the flat of an ax instead of the edge. That's my opinion, anyway. We saw you try and fail, and the prince asked if I could do it. Well, I could barely see the cliff from that height, but NailBiter obviously thought he could make the strike. So I gave him the signal and let him try."

NailBiter had dropped like a house.

Elosa frowned. "Father says that an eagle carrying a man is very different from an unloaded one. If you don't keep control in the heat of the chase, then its instincts will fly you both into the ground."

Ninomar and the others had started to approach and then stopped to stare in astonishment at Rorin.

Shadow shrugged. "I'm sure your father is very knowledgeable, lady, and I admit that most trainers follow him. But some don't! After all, NailBiter has never flown without a burden. Even on his first glide, I suppose he bore a pack. So I have always just made sure that I chose the prey and the locale, and then let him teach himself to hunt. He hasn't gone after moles yet." But he had almost turned his rider's hair white a few times. "Perhaps you or your groom can answer a question for me, though."

"What?" Elosa demanded.

He nodded to the cawking pair. "How do eagles tell unpaired females? Could NailBiter have known? Did he do what he did just to impress your IceFire?" They had been very high, and it seemed incredible that even eagles could have eyesight that good. And how much risk had NailBiter taken?

Before he was answered, Ninomar and the countess came over. The prince's WindStriker landed at last, and three others. The troopers were removing saddles and helmets.

"Lovely kill, Shadow!" Ninomar said.

"Thank you, Vice-Marshal," Shadow said. "Countess, may I have the honor of presenting..." He was unpracticed at formal introductions but eager to unload this minx. The countess took charge. Rorin stepped back, noticing now how he was being studied, uneasy at the untoward attention. More birds came in to perch.

Then, at last, Vindax. "Beautiful kill, Shadow."

"Thank you, Prince." Shadow moved into place behind him as the countess began her introduction.

"Your Highness, may I--"

"Bastard!" Lady Elosa screamed, and fainted.

"It isn't possible!" Vindax said for the fourth time.

The floor below the aerie was divided along three sides into stalls for humans, primitive stone boxes, most containing only a leaf-filled mattress. Someone had attempted to furnish one in a style more fitting for royalty, with a bed, a small rug, and drapes on door and window. And even that was remarkable, thought Shadow, when all of it had probably been flown in on birds' backs over the wild and barren landscape. Now the prince was slouched on the bed, glaring furiously, and Shadow leaned patiently by the doorway.

They had put the hysterical Elosa in the care of the women. They had interviewed the terror-stricken groom and sent him off under guard. Now they were trying to make sense of it all.

Tuy Rorin had admitted to being the keeper's bastard and to looking very like him. He had gone so far as to give an opinion that the prince was even more like him. Elosa's shock was now explained--but how to explain the explanation?

Laughter drifted in from the stairwell. The courtly gentlefolk of the royal party had scorned the little castles and towns they had met at the beginning of the trip; they had complained and grumbled. As the habitations had grown more humble and conditions worse, the complaints had increased. The first of the lonely and primitive post aeries had shocked the courtiers speechless, but thereafter their attitude had changed. They saw themselves then as heroes, pioneers. The journey would not last forever, and they could dine out at court on the strength of their stories; they would be experts in hardship, seasoned campaigners. Now they seemed almost to relish the worst, greeting each new privation with black humor and joyful predictions of even bleaker things in store.

"It is just not possible!" That was the fifth time.

Then Vindax looked up at Shadow. "My parents were married on the kiloday of Father's accession, of that I am certain. I was born on 1374. The siege of Allaban was somewhere around 750 or 760..."

"745 was the day Foan reached the palace," Shadow said. "I heard Ninomar saying so when we were talking about it in Gorr."

"So they got back to Ninar Foan around 765 or thereabouts? It doesn't matter..." Vindax was very pale, a gleam of sweat on his forehead. This was no ordinary paternity problem they were discussing--this was the succession. "I'm sure Mother has told me that she stayed about a hectoday there, so say 865 was when she and the others set out for Ramo. Foan went with them for a very short way..."

"That's still five hectodays before I was born!" he shouted.

Shadow put a finger to his lips. "He has never been to court?"

Vindax dropped his voice. "Never! I asked why, of course. All I was told was that his post was here, defending the frontier." He frowned. "It is odd, isn't it? The frontier's been quiet ever since--Karaman has never tried to attack Ninar Foan. You'd think the premier noble of the realm would have visited the court at least once in...in my lifetime."

His distress was painful, and Shadow wished he could think of some comfort to offer. "Isn't Foan a relative, a distant one?"

Vindax shrugged. "Just about every peer in the kingdom has some royal blood in him." He pondered for a moment. "He's the great-great-grandson of Jarkadon IX, my great-great-great-grandfather. That makes us third cousins, once removed."

He went back to glowering at the floor. Shadow wondered why he had been chosen as confidant in this crisis; he felt both flattered and worried by the honor. "How about the royal portrait gallery?" he asked.

There he scratched gold--Vindax brightened. "By God, Shadow! This beak of mine--it shows up in some, but a long way back. Before Jarkadon IX, anyway. So, if it's the sort of thing that jumps generations..." Then his black mood returned, and he brooded for a while. "You ever heard of fair-haired parents having dark-haired children?" he asked.

"Yes," Shadow said, "but it always causes gossip."

"Gossip!" The prince lowered his voice to a whisper. "It isn't gossip that bothers me, Shadow. It isn't illegitimacy. It isn't Jarkadon IX. It's Jarkadon X."

Shadow knew of no Jarkadon X, so he raised an eyebrow, and Vindax nodded. "He's an ambitious bast--he's not notably scrupulous. If he thought he could make a case, he's quite capable of starting a civil war."

But who was the legitimate heir?

Shadow decided to take some risks. "Prince, I think you're overreacting...and being very unfair to your mother. And your father. They wouldn't have concealed...I mean your mother wouldn't have..."

He dried up and got a mocking smile. "Hard to put into words, isn't it?" Vindax said. "Why did they never summon Foan to court? Why was my mother so frantically against my making this journey? She raised every objection she could think of, even bad dreams. She's been failing ever since I suggested it--I thought she had some serious disease. I wanted to get the trip over with and get back as soon as possible. Now I think it was the thought of the trip doing it to her. You realize that until now almost no one else in the kingdom has met both him and me?"

"What did your father think of the idea?"

"He never met him," Vindax said grimly. Then he laughed harshly. "I was told to invite him to court! He'll be a sensation!"

Boots stamped outside, and Shadow reached over to lift the drape, unveiling Vice-Marshal Ninomar, soldierly, precise, and utterly brainless.

"Yes?" the prince said wearily.

"The men have been unable to locate any fuel, Your Highness," his lordship said. "We have virtually no provisions except raw goat meat. I wondered if you still wish to remain here over third watch or press on to Ninar Foan?"

He did not say that the countryside was barren for hours in all directions, that he had been against stopping at Vinok at all, that he had recommended bringing spares which could have carried supplies--food, perhaps, but hardly firewood, thought Shadow--or that the aerie might have been properly prepared for the royal visit had Shadow not tampered with the schedule.

Vindax sighed at this petty interruption and looked to Shadow--he seemed to be doing that more and more.

"There are spare mattresses," Shadow said. "Dry mute pellets burn very well, and I believe that the roof is made of timber."

He dropped the curtain without another word and was pleased to see a smile on Vindax's face.

"How do you do that?" the prince demanded. "The trooper found no fuel. So he reported to the trooper who was going to do the cooking, I suppose, and he told the ensign and he told the colonel...it works its way up through six or seven men until it reaches the heir to the throne. Then you solve it with a snap of your fingers! How?"

It was not a subject Shadow would have chosen, but anything was better than letting Vindax brood on his own paternity.

"From my father, I think," he said. "The Guard doesn't teach men to do thing; it teaches themhowto do things. You build a fire with kindling and logs. No logs, no fire."

"So?" the prince asked, puzzled.

Shadow smiled. "The locusts eat my father's crops, one corner of the Keep is subsiding, the wilds and the Guard steal the livestock, the neighbors deepen their well and his dries up, the serfs don't work if they're not watched, and the royal tax collectors demand more than he's got. But if he doesn't solve those problems, his serfs will starve, and he feels responsible. So he finds another way. No one tells himhow."

Vindax nodded. "Practical! That's the sort of thinking I want in my staff, Shadow. I want to meet your father. When we get back--"

The drape rustled aside to admit the countess.

The countess of Dumarr was not a person, she was an office. Appointments to that office were neither gazetted nor bestowed at dubbing, although they might as well have been from the speed at which they were known around the court. The countess of Dumarr was the crown prince's current mistress, a position of some importance in palace politics. The present incumbent was a sweet little cuddly blonde with a heart of steel and a very practical attitude to her work--Shadow approved of her. Normally there was no count of Dumarr, but the chief of protocol had been told to use that name for the duration of the trip. Some of the country gentry may even have believed that he was her husband.

She slipped by Shadow, sat down next to the prince, and looked him over appraisingly. Then she cuddled, getting little response.

"It's more complicated than we thought," she said.

"I thought it would be," Vindax said sadly.

"She's a woolly-headed spoiled brat, full of romantic notions and her own importance, but I don't think this jaunt was truly her idea. She was put up to it by her mother and someone called Ukarres, an uncle." The countess glanced up to include Shadow in the conversation, then back to Vindax. "She was led to believe that her father was coming here--to warn about a plot on your life."

Shadow stiffened.

"Her father knows this?" the prince asked.

"I would guess not," the countess said. "He can certainly deny it. She didn't want to be cheated out of meeting her dream prince, so she came herself."

Vindax frowned and looked to Shadow.

"Then her father will be coming also?" Shadow asked.

The countess shrugged. "She told them she was going off in the opposite direction, so he will probably be starting a search for her about now."

"Considerate little bitch!" the prince muttered.

The countess nuzzled the side of his neck.

"Was she told to bring that Rorin kid with her?" Shadow asked.

The countess was smart enough to have seen that point. "No. That seems to have been chance."

"Why does that matter?" Vindax asked sharply.

"Because that chance sort of scrambled the egg," Shadow said. "Without him along, this would have come out in private, even if she did faint at the sight of you."

But the egg had been scrambled--the whole royal party knew now. Vindax could turn tail and run back to Ramo, but the court would still hear how he looked so much like the duke of Foan's groom.

"Should I see her?" Vindax asked.

The countess shook her head. "Not yet. She's still in deep shock. She equates you with Rorin."

"Thanks."

She kissed his ear. "Silly! I mean that ever since childhood she has been dreaming of marrying the crown prince--and now she's discovered that he looks like her half-brother."

Vindax drew back his teeth in a snarl and looked up at Shadow.

"You will have to marry her now, you know," the countess said cheerfully. "It will be the only way to squash the rumors."

"Think of the wedding," Vindax snapped, "and the jokes about the father of the happy couple. I suppose you will now forbid me to visit Ninar Foan?" he demanded of Shadow.

"Who's behind the plot?" Shadow asked, needing time to think. "The rebels? Karaman?"

The countess said that neither Elosa nor her mother knew.

"Oh--hell!" Vindax said. He went paler than ever. "The duchess of Foan did visit the court once. I remember her being presented. I must have been about four." He stared in horror at the countess and then at Shadow. "So there my be no assassination plot at all--just a plot to keep me away from the keeper. Perhaps the duchess of Foan has been playing the same game as my mother?"

And that nasty question raised even more nasty questions.

"You could send for the duke," the countess suggested.

"Shadow? Advise me, dammit! What do we do?"

Shadow shrugged. He was not sure who was playing what games, for he knew he could never understand these prickly aristocrats with their convoluted principles of honor. Security, however, he thought he could handle, and unless someone launched an open assault, the lonely aerie was safer than anywhere. "We send Rorin back to explain that the girl is safe. We'll send one of our people along." Not a trooper, he decided. They had better keep the armed strength up. "The chief of protocol, perhaps? Have him ask the duke for reassurance--he'll probably come himself. Meanwhile you stay here. You can't avoid the scandal now. The damage is done."

Vindax nodded. His arm had gone around the countess, apparently of its own volition. He smiled at her, and she wiggled her tongue at him. He looked up and dismissed Shadow with a nod. "See to it!"

Shadow slipped out and closed the drape carefully, knowing that he was leaving the prince in good hands.

Chapter 5

IT was his birthday. He was sixteen kilodays old today, and no one in the world knew it. Probably no one knew his name, either; he often wondered if even the king remembered. For almost five of those kilodays he had been Shadow, and his real name had not been spoken in all that time. He had probably established a record, for it was very unlikely that any previous King Shadow had lasted five kilodays, certainly not in recent reigns.

He was standing in the royal cabinet, staring out a window and brooding on being old: sixteen.

At the far end of the cabinet the king was sitting at his desk with the royal breeder and the deputy royal breeder, talking bloodstock. Birds! Shadow hated birds and had never flown in his life.

The cabinet was an egg-shaped room, high and huge, decorated in white and gold and blue. Normally the king worked outdoors, but he was very careful not to establish a pattern. He changed his work place at random and never announced in advance where he was going unless there was some big formal function planned. Today he had chosen the cabinet--and he seemed to use that only when he had some particularly dark purpose in mind. Shadow thought of it as the spider's parlor, for the tiny king in his white clothes always reminded him of one of the nasty little bleached spiders that turned up under rocks. From the very nature of his position, Shadow must know all the royal secrets, but the cabinet provided an exception. What the king said or heard there was not overheard by Shadow.

Or so the king thought.

That day the king had talked taxes with the chancellor and honors with Feather King of Arms, and now he was wasting hours with the royal breeder, which was what he seemed to enjoy most of all. Nothing nefarious had hatched so far.

The doors were at the wide end of the egg. Anyone coming in was first faced with a big wooden chair, almost a throne, elaborately carved, high-backed and winged and imposing. That was Shadow's seat. The arrangement was deliberate. A would-be assassin who had eluded the guards outside would certainly be in a hurry and probably nervous, and he would see that chair and an occupant dressed like the king--chances were, he would strike there in error. That would give the real quarry a little extra time.

To see the king it was necessary to step around that chair, for the royal desk and a group of flanking chairs stood at the far end of the hall, the narrow end, a long way from the doors.

There were other exits from that room, two of them, behind the desk: hidden doors. One led up to a makeshift aerie on the roof. Aurolron never used it and had had it netted over, but some of his predecessors had kept birds there. Another exit led down to the labyrinth of secret passages which wormed through the palace like giant termite tracks.

Five kilodays as Shadow--it was time now to give him an honorable retirement, a better peerage, an estate, and the royal thanks. Any decent monarch would have done so long since, but not Aurolron. And Shadow did not dare suggest it. A hundred times he had almost broached the subject, and always he had backed away. He feared that his retirement would be arranged to a wooden box.

He knew too much.

And he knew a lot more than the king thought he knew.

He was not a brave man. He often wondered what he would do if he saw the flash of the sudden stiletto, whether he could ever find the courage in that split second to move in front of it. If he had time to think, then he probably could, for when a king of Rantorra died by violence, then Shadow was guilty of high treason and the penalty for that was much worse than a stab wound.

The king made a joke, and his companions laughed heartily.

There were eight windows along both sides of that big room, carefully slanted so that the sun did not shine in directly but caught instead the sides of the deep embrasures and illuminated the room by reflection. The king could see out the windows from his desk; a visitor coming in saw no windows, only the royal dais glowing brightly ahead of him, subtly magnified by the taper of the egg shape. Whoever had designed this place had been full of little tricks like that.

Shadow was standing on the darkward side, staring up at the mountains behind Ramo. He had a good view of the palace aerie and the birds that came and went constantly. Horrible, savage monsters!

Ironically, it was his very dislike of the brutes which had landed him in his terrible job. Almost five kilodays earlier his immediate predecessor had died in an attack by one of those terrors--not a wild, even, but one of the royal stock which had escaped from the aerie and then launched a deliberate attack on the royal party returning from a hunt. With a peculiar irony, it had chosen the king himself for its target, almost as though it knew. Shadow--the previous Shadow--had acted in the heroic tradition of his line, blinkering his mount and steering it into the attacker's path. His bird had fallen with a broken wing, and the fall had broken his neck.

The court had been loyally horrified at the attack and loudly joyful that His Majesty had escaped. Baron Haunder--there! he had thought that name--Baron Haunder had rejoiced with the rest of them and had been discussing the matter with a group of friends when he had been summoned to the Presence.

The king had been badly shaken. Never before or since had Shadow seen him show fear, but that day he had been trembling.

Baron Haunder had begun his congratulations on the royal good fortune; the king had cut him off with the terrible words: "You are to be Shadow now."

He thought briefly of that eager, fresh-faced kid who had been made Prince Shadow less than seventy days ago. He had looked ready to die of shock. He wondered if his face had looked like that. Probably.

"But why me?" the horrified baron had demanded.

"Because you know how to keep your mouth shut," the king had said.

In his terror, he had argued. "I have never flown a bird, Majesty!"

"And we never shall again," the king had said. "It is an unsafe practice for a reigning monarch. If Shadow cannot fly, then we cannot, so we shall not be tempted to change our mind." He had meant it, too. Before that day he had been a keen skyman, but thereafter he had confined his interest in the eagles to their care and breeding. He had flown no more.

Baron Haunder had been heard of no more. Only Shadow.

The royal breeder was gathering up the papers--the schedules and the genealogies and the lists. The audience was almost over then, and Shadow wondered who came next. Perhaps now he would discover what unsavory matter had provoked the king's choice of the cabinet for this day's session. He walked across and sat himself quietly in his high-winged chair.

"...progress in pairing SaltSkimmer and RockEater?" the king asked.

Shadow knew one secret which the king did not. Any word spoken at that royal desk was clearly audible in Shadow's chair at the far end of the hall. It was another of the clever tricks built into that room, a brilliant use of freak acoustics stemming from the curves of the walls. Perhaps it had been an accident and some long-dead Shadow had discovered it and suggested putting a seat for himself in that exact spot. More likely it had been deliberate and the kings had once known of it. Aurolron certainly did not, and if he ever discovered that he had been overheard there for five kilodays, then there would be a new Shadow within the hour.

The conversation about pairing droned on.

What sort of a man had he been, King Shadow wondered, when he had been a man and not merely a shadow? Not like that dashing young trooper the prince had chosen, that was certain. Not handsome, even then, when he had had hair. A politician, an impoverished noble with a minor title and a real need for a favorable marriage, a schemer. He had lacked looks and charm to win such a marriage by romance--women had never liked him. To be honest, he had been planning a little blackmail as soon as he found the right key. A great collector of gossip, a fair manipulator, he would have worked his way up in the murky world of court politics quite well, given a little more time. One day he would have found a suitable heiress with a suitable secret, and then he would have proposed and been accepted.

Five kilodays! Any decent king would now retire him with a better title and an estate and marry off one of the royal wards on him, some supple maiden aged about six, with firm little conical breasts.

Once he had recovered from the initial shock of being appointed Shadow, he had rather fancied himself as chief of the secret police. If the king never flew, then Shadow's duty must be to become familiar with the palace jungle and know what stirred in the undergrowth.

Wrong! He had quickly discovered that there was already a chief of the secret police: the king himself. His knowledge and the extent of his spy network had astounded Shadow. Two assassination attempts had been made on Aurolron early in his reign, but none since. Would-be conspirators were invariably outconspired by their intended victim and died to the dirge of their own screams and the savory smell of themselves cooking. Shadow was merely the last possible line of defense, the human shield, and his longevity had been due to Aurolron's skill, not his--the dangers had never reached so near.

Little white spider.

The royal breeder and his deputy retired at last, bowing. They did not even glance at Shadow as they opened the door and went out.

He got a clear view of the anteroom through the doors, and he knew at once who was next. The equerry came in, stepped around the chair, and bowed.

"Your Majesty, His Royal Highness Prince Jarkadon awaits your pleasure."

Shadow turned his head. In the prisms hidden in the wings of the chair he could see the king at the far end of the room, and he saw the royal nod. The king did know of those spy holes; indeed, it had been he who pointed them out to Shadow. Any visitor would believe himself unobserved when he was beside the king's desk--if Shadow was in his chair, as he usually was, out of sight and mind. But the visitor would not be unobserved, so no silent overpowering could succeed.

Jarkadon stepped in, jauntily dressed in green and blue, a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed younger version of the king. He paused for a moment as the doors were closed behind him, and he eyed Shadow thoughtfully as one might eye a watchdog or a drawbridge. Shadow decided he was tense and trying not to show it. Then he walked around the chair and bowed toward the king.

He was nasty. Jarkadon had been a nasty child, and now he was a nastier adult. His father could still handle him, but he would be serious trouble for Vindax when he succeeded. Shadow trusted him even less than the king, if that were possible.

Queen Mayala, now, was a human being. Too nice a person for her position and hopelessly ground down by her husband, but basically decent. She never failed to give Shadow a smile when they met, and no one else did that. Yes, he could have liked Mayala were she not queen; her recent deterioration pained him.

Vindax was headstrong, too inclined to clash with his father in ferocious arguments that he must inevitably lose. He was smart, and charming when he chose to be. He was not truly trustworthy--none of them were--but certainly a better prospect for future king than Jarkadon would ever be.

Shadow made himself comfortable and prepared to enjoy a juicy royal outburst. The court was agog with a new scandal--and here was the prime suspect.

No! Jarkadon was going through a full ritual approach, with bowing and gestures, which was a mockery when father and son were alone, an impudence almost. But it was a petitioner's ritual, meaning that he had asked for this meeting. Curious! Aurolron took ceremony seriously and did not interrupt, although he frowned. Then the prince had reached the desk.

"What was all that for?" the king snapped, pointedly not inviting his son to sit.

"I come to crave a boon, sire," Jarkadon said. "Did I make any mistakes?"

"You have three minutes."

The prince nodded inquiringly toward the back of Shadow's chair.

"He can't hear," the king snapped. "What do you want?"

"My birthright," Jarkadon said.

Shadow wondered if he had heard correctly. Perhaps the king did also, for there was a long pause.

"Sit down."

"Thank you, Father." The little bastard was always cocky, but his impudent manner was even more marked than usual. He was being given the famous royal stare and not wilting at all.

"Talk," the king said.

"Well," Jarkadon said, leaning back. "It began with Mother, of course, and her curious reluctance to let her favorite son visit Ninar Foan. She thought she was being subtle, but it was obvious. I even mentioned one day that you had changed your mind, and she dropped two kilodays in front of my eyes--and put on three when I confessed I was lying."

"You little bastard," the king said quietly, and the prince chuckled.

"Hardly me, Father! But it made me curious. When you sent a courier off with news of the impending visit, I decided to have a chat with him as soon as he got back. He seemed to take a long time returning, so I investigated the aerie and found a bird wearing Foan's anklet. Of course the courier would have exchanged mounts."

"Of course," the king said.

"But the rider was nowhere to be found. Sir Jion Paslo? If Vindax can associate with commoners, I assumed I could. But he had vanished. I was told he had gone to Hollinfar, a very dull place, from all accounts, given over to sheep raising and similar obscene practices."

"You found him, though."

"Yes," the prince said. "The fourth cell on the right as you pass the thumbscrews."

Never, in five kilodays, had anyone spoken to the king like that, and his response was ominous. "The jailors you bribed are now in the third and fifth cells, respectively."

Jarkadon merely shrugged. "An occupational hazard of the corrupt. Yes, I did talk with poor Jion--implying that I might secure his release, of course. I gather that the resemblance is incredible."

The king's angry glare was perceptible even to Shadow at the far end of the room.

"If you studied bloodlines, in birds or in people, as I do," Aurolron said, "then you would know that such resemblances can turn up in quite distant relatives, and they are related, distantly."

"Closely, I suspect."

The royal fist thumped on the desk, and then both men turned to look at the back of Shadow's chair. The king half rose and then settled back uneasily. To order Shadow out of the room would be unprecedented, and therefore cause for speculation.

"You realize," the king said, "that any other man who said that would be guilty of high treason. However, I suppose that it does concern you, so I shall be lenient--just this once. We will discuss it, and then the subject will never be raised again! Is that clear?"

"Certainly," Jarkadon said. "If I may make a couple of comments afterward? Please explain, Father."

Now the king's face was white with anger. Anyone else in the kingdom would be groveling at this point. Shadow was shaking and perspiring as though he had a fever.

"I also talked with the courier. Of course your mother knew, and that is why she is so upset. Obviously there is going to be gossip when it becomes known. I have never doubted your mother's honor--and I am appalled that you would. I have accepted Vindax as my son, and I shall continue to do so. Resemblance or not, I can assure you that it was physically impossible for the duke of Foan to have fathered him. Your mother is notoriously unpunctual but even she could not carry a child for five hectodays. She was a virgin when we married, anyway. Foan has never been to court. Yes, there will be gossip when Vindax and his party return. But not in my hearing."

The king leaned back and glared.

"Why did you let him go?" Jarkadon asked, still unruffled.

"Because it must come out eventually. It is a miracle that it has not already done so." The king paused and then spoke reluctantly. "He was born blond; his hair grew in dark. The facial resemblance became obvious only when he reached adolescence, although the duchess came to court when he was a child, and she noticed even then, I think. She could not take her eyes off him. That was when I...when I suspected."

Jarkadon nodded. "You have met the duke, though?"

"Never," the king said.

The prince chuckled. "And you didn't warn Vindax, did you?"

"No." Again the king paused. "Perhaps it was unfair, but it is his problem, and I thought it would be a good test for him. He, I am sure, will not think evil of his mother. But then, he is a man of honor."

Jarkadon's fair-skinned face reddened.

"I am the fount of justice," the king said. "I try many cases myself, and invariably I try cases dealing with inheritance among the nobility. The law is quite clear and quite universal: A child born in wedlock is legitimate unless the husband can prove beyond doubt that he could not have fathered it. In this case, I can prove beyond doubt--should anyone have the temerity to ask me--that Foan could not. There is nothing left to discuss."

Shadow was paralyzed with terror and yet more fascinated than he had ever been.

"Oh, we are not talking certainty," Jarkadon said. "I do not claim so. But we are talking of a direct male line unbroken for forty generations--on so polished a scutcheon, even a fingermark will show up. Especially one made by the wrong finger."

"Be careful!" his father warned between clenched teeth.

Yet Jarkadon seemed to relax even more, and clutched his knee with both hands. "Around day 1108 of your reign would be the fateful moment, wouldn't it? 266 from 1374: I have been doing research, you see. Or later, possibly--he was a small baby."

The king did not speak.

"Schagarn," the prince said. "And Kollinor?"

There was a long silence while the monarch stared at his son and Shadow wondered who or what or where Schagarn and Kollinor were. Obviously the king knew and they were words of power--the silence was very long, and when Aurolron broke it, his tone had changed.

"How did you find out about those?"

Jarkadon slipped a hand into his doublet and produced a piece of paper. "All those interminable records you keep of your feathered pets, from egg to pillow. I never could see the point of them--until now. This is a copy, of course, but you can call for the original. It is an extract from the journey record on a bird called DeathBeak, one of your mounts in those days, apparently, I see that you rode it to Schagarn and then it went to Ninar Foan. It returned later--with a message, I suppose, or else it had started pining. The name of the rider who took it from Schagarn has been scratched out, but it must have been a very short name. 'Foan,' perhaps?"

He laid the paper on the desk, and the king stared at it. Then he almost snarled. "Your mother was never at Schagarn," he said. "And the duke never went to Kollinor. I know that for granite fact!"

"Quite possible," Jarkadon agreed. He pulled out a second paper and laid it beside the first. "Another copy, of course. WindStriker. Remember her? Day 1165?"

Aurolron was always most dangerous when he was quiet, but now the silence dragged on, and it seemed to be the king who was at a loss for words.

"I think you did meet the duke, Father?"

There was an even longer silence, and then Aurolron sighed. "Yes. But you will not report that to anyone--anyone at all, is that clear? Many men have died to keep that secret."

The unseen eavesdropper shivered, but the prince was undeterred.

"Is it fair to me, Father? Look at me. Look in a mirror. When--in a long time, we all hope--you die, you are expecting me to kneel in homage to a bastard, sitting on your throne? I am your son! Would you do that?"

"What are you suggesting that I do?" the king demanded in a low voice.

"Obviously if you disown him, then you would have to put Mother to death," Jarkadon said, "which would certainly provoke gossip. Also Foan, which would mean a military campaign to catch him. I think you already found an easier solution."

Shadow shivered again.

"What are you hinting?" the king asked.

"Ingenious and simple, Father. All you had to do was say yes! But you are a perfectionist for security," Jarkadon continued. "Yet you let Vindax go off along the Rand, and you putNinomarin charge. He sent out proclamations announcing the plans! His family tree is very solid, but his head was carved from the trunk. You were not in character there, Father! And Mother--she detests scandal, I know, but even scandal could hardly upset her like this. She suspects!"

The king was still looking down at the papers. "She fears for his welfare, naturally."

"Naturally? But it would solve the problem, wouldn't it?" The prince was looking very pleased with himself. "However, they have been gone a long time, and they have singles. We should have heard. I began to wonder if you had overlooked something, Father, so I thought I would point it out."

"What?" the king asked, without raising his eyes.

"Harl."

"Harl!"The reaction seemed to astonish even Jarkadon.

"He's good!" the prince said. "I went along on a few of their practice flights, and I admit that I was impressed. And Vindax has put Harl-the-churl in charge. He lets him overrule Ninomar."

"Shadow?" the king muttered thoughtfully.

"Shadow," his son agreed. "Obviously he has kept Vindax alive this long. Perhaps he is too good for you."

A trace of the earlier anger flamed at that, but it was the prince who was in command now. King Shadow had never seen anything like this before.

Then Aurolron seemed to make an effort to assert himself. He picked up the two papers and started to tear them into small shreds. "You are a meddlesome, snooping busybody--but I suppose you inherit some of that from me. Your paternity, at least, is not in doubt. You will find curiosity useful. Who else knows of this? Have you discussed it with that rat pack you favor?"

The prince flushed. "With no one, Father."

"Good," the king said. "Very well, I congratulate you. I agree that I may have overlooked something. Forget this conversation. I shall take steps to uphold my honor, and I suggest that you now be more concerned with your own. You may withdraw."

Jarkadon rose and bowed low, but as he turned for the door, his face broke into a wide smile. Hastily Shadow closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wing of his chair, feigning sleep, afraid to meet the prince's gaze. His clothes were soaked with sweat.

He did not hear the equerry enter across the thick rug, and he jumped quite genuinely when the man spoke. He saw a few grins out in the anteroom. Shadow asleep on duty! Why had he never thought of that before? He must start dropping such hints, and perhaps he would win his retirement yet.

No more audiences were scheduled, only a few petitioners.

The king would not see them.

The equerry withdrew, and the door was closed. For an endless time the monarch sat at his desk and stared at Shadow's chair, making its occupant melt with terror.Did the king know?Had he been pretending ignorance all this time? If he as much as suspected that Shadow had overheard, then Shadow's death was very near.

And which story was correct? The king's mind was infinitely tortuous, and he had switched positions like a moth. Obviously he was betraying one son or lying to the other, but which? Or both?

Aurolron ended his brooding. He reached for the bell rope and summoned his most trusted secretary and another man, whose name was enough to send shivers down Shadow's back--ostensibly an armorer, he also applied his skill with hot iron as one of the royal torturers. The door was closed and then opened almost at once as the secretary scuttled in.

The king waited until the man was ready and then began. "To the crown prince: usual greetings...

"By our royal command: Terminate your journey at Gorr and do not continue to Ninar Foan. Return with all your companions as fast as practical. You may give your mother's health as a reason, but she is well.

"While you are in Gorr, a man named Ovla will seek audience with you. Admit him privily and receive him in private, with only Shadow present. You may allow a day or two for him to appear.Usual ending. Also, prepare a warrant for the arrest of the holder of Hiando Keep--a baronet, last name Harl. Look it up. And his wife. To be held incommunicado during our pleasure. We will receive the aerie archivist after lunch."

The secretary rose.

"Wait!" the king said. "There is more." He paused until the man was ready once more. "Add this to the prince's letter:I know that this revocation will distress you greatly, but I have good reasons for it, and the man Ovla knows them and will disclose them to you. Then you will understand that I am acting in your best interests only. We have much to discuss when you return, my son, and I regret that I have not taken you into my confidence sooner.That's all. Bring the private seal; I shall have another."

Shadow watched the secretary's stooped shoulders hurry through the door and puzzled on what all that had meant. Even after five kilodays, he could never unravel the spider's webs, the depths of his duplicities. Aurolron prided himself on never having to cancel an order. The feint of a recall, the double feint of that apparently sincere and personal addition to the impersonal command, the irresistible hint of secrets to be disclosed by Ovla...then what? What else would the mysterious Ovla bring?

Now the king had taken pen and parchment himself and was writing--and that was rare indeed. Only the most contrived machinations ever provoked him to use his own hand. For what seemed a long time he sat and wrote, while Shadow cowered in his chair and listened to the pen scratch like a fingernail on a coffin lid.

The king finished, read it over, folded it carefully. He rang once more, and then received the armorer, who smiled at Shadow as he went past. The man enjoyed his work.

"There is a Jion Paslo in the cells," the king said quietly.

"Yes, Majesty?"

The king sighed. "He is very stick."

Not expected to live.

"Any questions, Majesty?"

"None," said the king. "Quick and painless. I expect the warden's report within the hour." He passed over a ring as payment.

The man bowed. "About one hundred breaths, sire."

He paused at the door and gave Shadow another friendly smile. He always did that, and Shadow always wondered if he were being measured for a griddle.

The secretary returned, and the two letters were sealed.

"Both to be sent by the bird from Ninar Foan," the king said. "Take them to the aerie yourself and see that the lord eagler attends to the matter in person."

He rose and wandered along the room behind the secretary, looking amiable.

"Well, Shadow," he remarked cheerfully. "I think we have earned some lunch--are you well?"

"A touch of the grippe, Majesty, perhaps."

Aurolron frowned. "Then we shall send you to bed. We should not want you to become very sick."

Shadow shivered convulsively, as though he had an ague.

Someone was going to be very sick, he was sure, when that letter reached its destination.

Chapter 6

WHY did the world always feel colder when a man awoke from sleep? Shadow climbed quietly up to the top floor of the aerie, shivering and wondering. The sun was the same and the wind was the same, but he had not shivered when he had arrived at Vinok. The two troopers on sentry duty straightened when they saw him; nineteen eagles paid no attention.

The primitive toilets were on ground level, a long way down. No one else was awake, so Shadow moved to leeward and relieved himself over the perching wall.

A desolate place! The Rand here curved away from the sun, almost across the terminator. The lower hills were sheathed in perpetual shade, and the higher peaks glowed against a somber sky. The air was thin and bitter, the sun a bloodstain on the horizon.

He had slept badly, his mattress stretched across the door of the prince's room. That was an excess of zeal, perhaps, but that was no fault in a leader, and everyone in the party knew who made the decisions. Zeal, unfortunately, was little protection from either drafts or frequent giggling and rustling sounds--the countess had been working overtime at cheering up her prince. Raising the spirits by raising the flesh, she called it.

It was now forty-five days since they had left Ramo, and Vindax was still alive. The wild birds--and they had seen several flocks--had avoided so large a group. If wild men were planning violence, Shadow's precautions had confounded them so far.

His business ended, Shadow wandered over to the nearer guard.

"Good sky, trooper."

"Good sky to you, Shadow." It amused the troopers that he need not be saluted and yet could overrule a vice-marshal.

NailBiter and IceFire had stopped nuzzling each other. Shadow stared hard along the ridges rightward, seeing nothing but barren rock and rare wind scrub. "We are about to have visitors," he said.

The trooper blinked and turned to look. "I see nothing, Shadow."

"Nor do I. But I'll go and warn the others. Make spaces, in case they have spares."

Smiling to himself, Shadow headed for the steps. The eagles were all gazing rightward, and their combs were flickering as they did when they got excited. They could see something, and the timing was right--it must be the reply from Ninar Foan.

The trooper was still staring blankly at the hills.

It was a uniformly shivering and rumpled party that assembled on the aerie floor shortly afterward: gritty eyes, hunched shoulders, and--with four exceptions--bristled faces. A scent of wood smoke and scorched goat meat was drifting up the stairwell. Shadow's stomach knotted at the thought of more goat, and he was pleased to see that the newcomers did include two spares. The duke had thought to send supplies.

A spare would follow its mate without trouble--usually--but landing was tricky. Many a rider had been savaged on the perching wall before he could dismount. Shadow felt a quiet satisfaction at having ordered the troopers to clear spaces--the only safe place to land when there were spares loose was between two other birds, both safely hooded. The spares circled a few times, angry at not being able to perch next to their mates, and then settled down as close as possible.

Five eagles; three men. The first man rode a spectacular male silver; he must be the duke, Shadow decided, and his guess was confirmed when Elosa ran forward to hug him as soon as he cleared the bars.

But the duke did not merely return her hug momentarily and then gently set her aside so that he could approach the prince--which would have been proper. Nor did he boot the young lady all the way to Allaban--which might have been a natural parental reaction. He held her for a few minutes as though he were comforting a small child. Or were they getting their stories matched? The back of Vindax's neck began to grow hot as he waited.

Then the duke stepped away from Elosa, pulled off goggles and helmet, and advanced.

And the welcoming party froze like the ancient rocks of the Rand.

Tired and dusty in his flying suit, this man was Alvo, duke of Foan, keeper of the Rand, hero of the battle of Allaban, premier noble of the realm--and possible traitor, seducer of his sovereign's wife.

It was bitterly unfair, Shadow thought. Rarely do two men truly look alike, be they brother and brother, father and son, or cousin and cousin. Family resemblances are usually subtle, a feature here and a mannerism there. A skilled and keen skyman, the duke had retained his trim, athletic figure; even appproaching middle age he still looked youthful, and his body and his face were the body and face of the prince. There were differences: lines on the forehead and slight sags below the eyes. His neck and shoulders had thickened, he held himself with the greater authority of age, and he lacked the quick restlessness of the younger man, but the similarities far outweighed the differences. The beak nose, the bushy brows, the dark, deep eyes--seeing that astonishing identity, it was suddenly very hard to believe in a freak throwback in third cousins once removed.

Even if they were father and son, then nature was being infinitely ironic: Shadow had never seen father and son look quite so much alike. Remembering Jarkadon's resemblance to the king, he wondered if Queen Mayala had some curious property of not imparting anything of her own looks to her sons--and realized that he was now a believer.

"Your Highness," Elosa mumbled to the dusty floor, "may I have the honor of presenting my father, His Grace, the duke of Foan."

The two men bowed. Normally they should then have embraced, being relatives, but neither seemed capable of moving his feet. The duke's windburn showed like red blotches on white paper; his face was rigid. Shadow could see little of Vindax's face, but he suspected it was no more relaxed.

"Well met, Cousin," the prince said at last.

The duke took a deep breath and then made an appropriate speech. Vindax replied in a monotone. Neither took his eyes off the other.

Then Vindax seemed to shake himself. He proceeded to present his companions.

Prince and duke and Shadow stood in the tiny bedroom cubicle. Vindax had passed from shock into quivering rage. The older man had recovered his composure and seemed to be totally at ease.

"I deeply regret the misunderstanding, Highness," he said. "My wife and Sir Ukarres agree that they spoke with her, but only by chance meeting. The rebels were mentioned in passing, but there was certainly no talk of plotting or treachery. Young girls sometimes come up with strange fancies. They have romantic ideas."

The back of Vindax's neck turned pink--he did not like that obvious fiction. He did not reply.

The duke smiled cheerfully. "And your royal parents, they are in good health? The queen? It has been a long time since she illuminated my halls with her beauty, since I said farewell to her--at Gorr."

Deny, deny!

"She has been failing lately," Vindax said. "I think she was distressed at the thought of my journey. She may have thought that I would fall in with questionable characters."

The duke ignored the barb. His voice had a rough, country sound to it; the prince's carried the softer lilt of Ramo, but the two were one voice.

"And His Majesty?"

"Well, thank you, when we left. You have never met my father?"

"No," the duke said. "I never had the honor."

There was the obvious moment to extend the king's invitation to court, but it did not come. Instead Vindax suddenly snapped, "We are strangely alike, you and I!" Tension raised his voice above its normal pitch.

The duke laughed. "So I was informed by the royal courier,Cousin.He was quite astonished."

"He did not inform your daughter; she was very astonished."

That shaft struck; certainly the duke would have dragged all the details out of Tuy Rorin. He colored.

"I repeat, Highness, that she has romantic notions. You are most welcome to my home. You will be quite safe--as prince and as relative. Our hospitality is genuine and heartfelt, although conditions will be more humble than you are used to."

There was a pause, and then Vindax obviously came to a decision--anger was useless, and the situation must be resolved with at least a public display of fellowship.

"So humble that you and I must share a dressing room, Your Grace?"

Foan blinked. "Certainly not, Highness. Why?"

"We could save on a shaving mirror," Vindax said.

And so Crown Prince Vindax flew on to Ninar Foan, a bleak and forbidding castle looming over a drab town, its rough stone walls swept by the chill winds of the Rand and lit by a reluctant red sun.

The proprieties were observed--there were formal presentations and a dinner in the great hall. The participants went through their paces like puppets, royal party and castle dwellers alike. It was unfair! Even an unusually close resemblance could have been tactfully ignored in public and passed off with a wink in private but not this twinlike identity. There were eighteen in the royal party. They would not all remain silent; they could not all be put to death. There had been others; thinking back, Shadow could remember looks of shock and disbelief from some of the gentry they had visited, the near or far neighbors who knew the Keeper. Already the word must be working its way back along the Rand like an infection, heading for the court.

The scandal made his job harder, now and in the future. If Jarkadon did not already have a faction of his own, then he certainly would soon, whether he wanted it or not. He would. The death of Vindax might seem like a very logical and desirable solution to many people: the duke, the queen, the king, Jarkadon, the duchess, Elosa...the list ballooned in his mind. Surely none of those was capable of murder, but the thought must be there, and there were always fanatics and overeager supporters.

Three days of festivities were three days of vigilance. In one sense, Shadow had an easier time than the rest, for his attention had to remain fixedly on the problem of safety and he had no time for brooding about politics, no need to edge around verbal precipices.

There was a reception for the local gentry, who stared aghast at this younger reflection of their duke.

There were discussions of crops and taxes, of justice and order, and those were safe subjects.

There was a tour of the aerie to examine the celebrated Ninar Foan silvers. The duke was gracious over the problem of NailBiter's illicit seduction; he had more serious problems than that to worry about.

"She made an understandable choice," he said. "Your bronze is a big, handsome fellow. The silvers need an outcross, anyway, to restore the vigor of the line. Elosa must console herself, and I most happily give IceFire to you, Highness, as a memento of your visit."

"You are very generous, Cousin," Vindax said. "I shall accept on behalf of my father, who is the enthusiast in our family. He will be overjoyed; and I am sure that he will send you the firstborn, as is usual in such cases."

"Your father is a great expert," the keeper said. "The priests uncovered much relevant material in the sacred texts for him. As you know, he can talk on the subject for hours. The progeny will all be bronzes, but breed one of those bronzes back to the silvers and..."

They were at the precipice again.

"And the recesssive characteristics reappear," Vindax snapped. "I have heard my father lecture. I always have a problem knowing which features are recessive."

The duke's face flushed equally red, and they exchanged identical furious glares.

But how, Shadow wondered, did the duke know that the king would lecture for hours?

Late on the third day, close to two bells, the duke and his royal guest sat and drank mulled wine by a roaring fire in the duke's study, a shaggy, incoherent room full of trophy heads and faded frescoes and mismatched furniture. It was a friendly, informal place, reflecting the varied tastes of generations of dukes, all of whom seemed to have added and none subtracted.

Perhaps Vindax thought he could drink his host into indiscretion, but the two of them seemed to share the same remarkable capacity for alcohol as they shared so much else. Ukarres fidgeted on a chair between them, while Shadow sat beside and a little to the back of Vindax, sipping sparingly and bone-weary from the continuous tension. WindStriker was overdue for a kill, and Vindax suggested a hunt.

The duke agreed with enthusiasm and promised good sport--he kept a couple of peaks as his own reserve, he said.

"Not Eagle Dome, though?" Vindax asked.

Earlier that day they had peered out at the distant shape of the great massif which broke the normal slope of the Rand and marked the boundary between Rantorra and the lost realm of Allaban. Sun-bright and faint, more like a cloud than a rock, it had obviously tantalized Vindax.

The duke laughed. "Hardly! Shadow would not approve."

"No-man's-land," Ukarres said, "but not no-bird-land!" It had earned its name in remote ages, he said, from the number of wilds inhabiting it, and now the wilds had taken it again. Its slopes were too steep for cultivation but were well watered and therefore rich in game. The eagles of Eagle Dome had become peacekeepers between human factions, for to attempt a flight around that great jutting mountain was certain suicide.

"Whose side are they defending?" Vindax asked, amused.

"Both, I suppose," the keeper said. "I scouted that way about a kiloday ago, I think it was. They flocked by the dozen--I fled faster than I ever have in my life. Allaban was never an integral part of Rantorra, as you know. In theory it was a vassal kingdom, but in practice it was always more or less autonomous, with its own royal family. Had it not been for the rebels, then your dear...your honored mother would be reigning there now."

They could never stay away from the precipice for long.

"Eagle Dome has always been something of a barrier," he concluded weakly.

"The rebel, Karaman," the prince said. "Have you ever met him?"

"No," the duke said, "but Ukarres has."

The old man looked up from his forward-hunch position and smiled, revealing his scattered teeth. "He's an interesting character, Your Highness--if he's still alive, of course. A religious fanatic, but with a certain charm. He was what you might call a low-key fanatic, I suppose...underpowering? On normal subjects he came across as a quiet, rather earthy man. But not to be underestimated. And a fantastic trainer of birds."

"So the eagles of Eagle Dome stand guard," Vindax said thoughtfully. "To retake Allaban, we should have to fight our way past them first and then take on the rebels."

The keeper frowned. "Are you considering such an attempt, Your Highness?"

"Not seriously at present," Vindax said. "Maybe someday. After all, I am heir to Allaban...also."

The precipice again.

At last Vindax declared himself ready for bed; the duke had drunk him to a draw. Neither man seemed more than tipsy, although they had each downed enough to have laid Shadow on the carpet. The prince hardly wavered as he headed to his room.

There he flopped on a chair, folded his arms, and glared blearily at Shadow. "What would he say, do you suppose, if I asked for his daughter's hand in marriage?"

"He might say yes," Shadow said, wishing Vindax would go off to bed and end the day. "Would you like that?"

Vindax pulled a face. "Never! I know what she'd do. She'd marry me fast as a stooping eagle--and then refuse to consummate the affair on grounds of consanguinity."

Shadow thought that seemed likely. "Let Jarkadon have her, then?"Damn!

Vindax did not seem to notice the lack of tact. "Why not? She had the gall today to ask me what color his hair is."

Shadow decided to change the subject. "Let me warn you of something, Prince? When you tell a lie, your right ear twitches."

"Oh, great!" Vindax said, scowling. "Try not to stare at it, will you?" Then he smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate knowing that. But I haven't been twitching too much today, have I?"

"You told Elosa she looked charming in that outrageous dress," Shadow said. "No, there's something else. When you asked the duke if he had ever met Karaman, he said no. But his ear twitched."

"Yes," Vindax said quite soberly. "I think His Grace has been twitching the truth quite a lot lately."

The hunt was to be restricted to a small party: the prince and the countess, the duke and Shadow, and four troopers as escort. When they assembled after breakfast, however, Lady Elosa was already supervising the dressings of Icefire. The duke frowned but did not intervene. Shadow almost exerted his unlimited authority to order her away, but relations were strained enough without making a scene over a badly spoiled brat.

Shadow dressed WindStriker himself, checking every scrap of harness twice. True, the story of a plot seemed to have been unfounded, but few things were easier to arrange than a hunting accident. NailBiter was sulking, not wanting to interrupt his dalliance with IceFire--they preened each other and nibbled combs by the hour, a parody of honeymooners.

Standing in the high aerie, overlooking the drab and pinkish countryside, the duke pointed out the local thermals and upturns, warned of downdrafts, and suggested a route to the higher, sun-bright locales with a good chance for goats, the most sporting of quarry.

Or perhaps, he suggested, the prince would like to try some archery against game birds, leaving the goats for later.

"No!" Shadow said firmly. The troopers must be armed, but he would not have unnecessary arrows flying around his ward.

The duke frowned in astonishment at such insolence; the prince merely smiled and agreed.

They mounted. The troopers launched and took up station. They were followed by the hunters: the duke, the countess, Shadow, the prince, and finally Elosa.

Shadow soared over the town, sparing a passing thought for the frozen poor in this bleak place, then turned into the updraft and began circling, watching as the prince settled in below him, as always. Upward they floated, and then he thought he heard a shout--and saw to his astonishment that Vindax was breaking out of the thermal, as though heading back.

Then WindStriker seemed to balk, beating her wings furiously, and in a moment had taken Shadow's air. What the hell was His Royal Crazy Highness up to?

Reluctantly he urged NailBiter upward, knowing that powered flight would soon exhaust the mounts. Still he could not reach the prince--indeed the gap was widening. An old relic like WindStriker outclimbing NailBiter? Then he knew.

WindStriker swayed and veered above him, and momentarily he had a clear view. Her blinkers were shut, and the prince's face was white below his goggles. He shouted, and Shadow heard the word he expected: "Bat."

A single mutebat would send an eagle into an hour or more of ecstatic intoxication, hunched down on its perch with its eyes closed, drooling and quivering, its comb blue and rigid. But batmeat took time to act--get a bird into the air before the effects appeared and it was a flying maniac. The drug produced visual hallucinations, so that blinkers had no effect, and the bird would fly where and how it liked, soaring in downdrafts, beating its wings, turning upside down. It was capable of flying straight into the ground. It was also capable of heading to heights or depths where human lungs could no longer cope--and Ninar Foan was already very high for men.

The castle aerie had been cleaned of mutebats; Shadow had noted that with approval. This was human doing--treachery--and there was no recourse. He could only try to follow and hope. WindStriker was old, and NailBiter young and unusually powerful, but NailBiter could not match the frenzy of a batted bird.

Even if he could approach, there would be nothing he could do. No bird could carry two men; there was no way to move the prince to Shadow's mount and no way to exchange mounts. The only help he could offer was to keep in view--and watch Vindax die.

WindStriker locked herself into a soaring mode and rode the thermal, higher and higher and higher. Shadow followed with his lungs heaving, his ears popping constantly, his nose starting to bleed. He was gradually closing, for NailBiter had the greater wingspread, but dark spots began to flow in front of his eyes.

He remembered what a guard was taught to do in the prince's predicament: "Tie your reins, close your eyes, and pray loudly."

The thermal was dying cut. Its curve had carded them over darkness, the lower slopes of the Rand, the mountains and chasms below showing only as wrinkled, indistinct patterns of shade. It would be deathly cold down there, where sunlight never shone.

Then the prince vanished into the cloudcap. Shadow felt his senses slipping and knew that he could do no more. Choking for air, he put NailBiter into a dive.

Vindax was gone.

Chapter 7

THE castle commons was a vast, dim hall with a barrel ceiling darkened by the smoke of centuries. The tables were of stone, for lumber had never been plentiful near Ninar Foan, but the great ovens and hearths kept the place warm, and the smell of food made it cheerful. Shadow shuffled in across the worn stone flags. He collected a giant tankard of steaming coffee, a large black roll, and a bowl of stew, without looking to see who gave them to him. Then he limped to a convenient stool.

He gulped the coffee, burning his mouth and throat and feeling the lip of the tankard rasp on his unshaven face. His face, raw from the constant wind, burned also, and his eyes were so loaded with fatigue that he could hardly focus. His head throbbed like a drum. All around the room there were others in the same plight, humped by the tables, many being anxiously tended by wives or daughters and some already asleep, head and arms spread out among the dishes.

He laid down the tankard and blearily regarded the stew bowl. He ought to eat, he told himself firmly, but his gut rebelled at the thought.

He had never been so tired in his life.

A cool hand ran its fingers through his tangled hair, slid down the side of his face, and came to rest in the neck of his flying suit. He looked up with a sad smile and leaned his head back against softness.

"Anything I can do?" asked Feysa, one of the royal party.

He shook his head. "It will be a long time before I can call on you," he said. "But thanks for a kind thought."

"You are going to get some sleep, though, aren't you?"

"One more patrol," he said.

Frowns did not suit her lovely face. "Sleep first, Shadow. You'll go to sleep in the sky."

"No," he said firmly. He picked up the spoon and forced some of the meat into his mouth. Then more. He started gulping it down, suddenly aware of being famished.

Feysa vanished as silently as she had come.

"Who is that, Shadow?" It was a boy sitting across from him who spoke, but when he focused the face out of the background haze, it was Elosa, chalky and hollow-eyed in her flying suit. He had not realized that she was there.

"That's Feysa," he said. "You haven't been to bed, either, have you?"

She shook her head. "If you can do it, then I can."

He slowed his eating, partly from table manners and partly because he knew he was being stupid to hog so fast.

"You fly like a man, lady."

"Is that a compliment?" she asked.

He could still smile, apparently; he hadn't known that. "It was intended as one. I'll rephrase it. You're a wonderful skywoman, lady. You look in better shape than any of us."

She smiled back coyly. "Then I'll accept the amendment and thank you. Now, who is Feysa?"

He bit into the tough roll. The coffee was beginning to work. "She's a lady's maid."

"She doesn't act like a lady's maid," Elosa said, frowning.

Shadow took another bite and chewed to gain time, studying her. She was obviously exhausted, as they all were, but he was honestly impressed by her courage and stamina--those could compensate for a lot of woolly-headed romanticism. Elosa was hill-bred--there was granite inside that elfin form. Perhaps he owed her a little wisdom.

"At court, and under her own name, she outranks both the countess and Lady Ninomar," he said.

Elosa studied his face gravely. "Explain."

He shrugged. "The countess is the prince's mistress, right?"

Obviously she had not known that, and a trace of color crept into her pale cheeks. He outlined a little palace politics.

"And Lady Ninomar?"

"Well, the countess obviously could not travel alone, so Lady Ninomar came also. Not his real wife, I shouldn't think."

Elosa bit her lip and said nothing.

"And two ladies cannot travel without a lady's maid. So Feysa. There happen to be three main factions in the palace at the moment, and each one got to place a lady in the party. It was all carefully planned."

"Spies?"

"Certainly," Shadow said. "Reporting what the prince says, who he favors, spying on each other. Some of the men are spies also, of course."

"I see." She looked very prim and suddenly very young again. "And whose mistress is Feysa?"

"Mine."

Now she truly turned pink. "Nice for you."

"Yes and no," Shadow said. He was deathly tired, and suddenly his bitterness overflowed in a torrent. "I had no say in the matter. I was told that the lady in question was coming and I would service her as required. Very practical--if she were assigned to anyone else, there would be arguments over precedence. Furthermore, I have no time to myself, as the others have--I attend the prince three watches out of three. So the others can find their own entertainment. Vindax was quite blunt--he did not want his bodyguard getting too horny to think straight."

"That's disgusting!" Elosa snapped.

"I agree," Shadow said. "At the palace it works the same way. The countess--whoever she happens to be at the time--comes at third watch to the royal bedroom. She is always attended by a maid, who sleeps in the anteroom--where I sleep. I tried to complain and was told to shut up or I would cause a scandal. Sometimes they're very pretty. I understand that I'm regarded as a great improvement on my predecessor, so now they roll dice for me. Flattering, isn't it?"

Elosa turned very red and said nothing.

"As Shadow I have no life of my own, lady. My body functions are part of palace politics, I'm a naive little country boy, and I don't approve. I rapture the ladies provided, but I don't approve."

"Why are you telling me this?" she demanded angrily.

He took a long draft of coffee, watching her. "Because I think you could benefit from some truths about the court. If you get the choice--stay away from it."

She tossed her head, but before she could speak a voice behind her said, "Leave us, Elosa."

Vindax!Shadow's heart jumped and then sank again. It was only the duke, bristly and sore-eyed like all of them, hair tangled and clothes filthy. He sank down on the stool his daughter had left and nursed a mug of coffee. Vice-Marshal Ninomar materialized at his side. Then a tapping noise sounded behind Shadow, and Ukarres hobbled up. Some days he seemed more crippled than others, and this day he was using two canes. Despite his haggard senility, he alone looked as though he had slept within living memory.

That left only one missing, and in a moment Vak Vonimor, the rubicund eagler, hurried in to join the meeting.

"Rorin's back, Your Grace," he said. "That's the lot."

Shadow's stew bowl was empty, polished, and he thought he could eat more, but it would put him to sleep.

"I suppose the big question," he said, "is whether we extend farther or quarter the same ground yet again."

The others glanced at the duke.

"No," he said. "First we're going to take a break. The men are past their limits; we all are. Why we haven't had accidents, I don't know. Even the birds are exhausted, and I've very rarely seen that in my life. Sleep for men, rest for birds. In another watch we'll start again."

"I have to agree," Ninomar said in his fastidious, military fashion. His close-trimmed mustache was drowning in encroaching stubble.

"And I say we fly one more patrol," Shadow said firmly. "He's been two days out there. If he's lying injured, then every hour counts. While we sleep, he dies. No, we keep going."

"Shadow?" said a voice like leaves blowing over stone.

"Seneschal?"

"Have you ever known a man to survive a batted bird?"

"No," Shadow admitted. "But it can happen, and this is no ordinary man."

"You're looking at one," Ukarres whispered. "It happened to me. I survived. No--half of me survived...sky sickness. They said I was lucky; I have often wondered about that. I have very few parts that work properly. I hurt all the time."

"But," Shadow said, and then stopped.

"It was my fault--I should have noticed. SkyBreaker was his name, appropriately. He went down. Then up. Then down. Then he sauntered back to his roost as though nothing had happened, and they lifted me off and I screamed for three days. Believe me, lad, you may be doing your prince a kindness by not looking anymore."

Shadow was carefully not thinking those thoughts.

"Look at the odds, Shadow," the duke said quietly. "You almost blacked out in the first few minutes. Most likely he died in that cloud, and we don't know which direction WindStriker took out of it. If the prince was alive after the cloud, he almost certainly died in the next hour--up and down as Ukarres says. The bird probably dropped from exhaustion when the batmeat wore off--she's old, remember, and had been thrashing hard. In that case he was killed on impact, or else he's been lying unattended for two days. There are very few places around here where a man could survive that, even if he was uninjured to start with."

Shadow banged his fist on the table, but the stone made no sound. "We have to find him! Dead or alive!"

Foan nodded patiently. "But admit it--we're looking for his body. We can't risk living men to find a body. We must break it off for at least a full watch."

"If someone saw him come down..." Shadow began. But that was a futile thought. The country was almost a desert. Near Ramo no one could fall out of the sky without being seen, but there were few peasants on the Rand, at least not here.

"We've asked at every cottage," the keeper said patiently.

More than half the men in the room were now asleep, slumped on the tables, and some were even stretched out on benches, snoring.

"You will send a second message, then?" Ninomar asked while Shadow was struggling to find words.

The duke nodded. "I reported the accident and warned that there was very little hope. I think now we should say that although we shall continue to search, chances are almost nonexistent and he must be assumed dead. Perhaps you will wish to add your own report?"

"Did you tell them it was murder?" Shadow asked angrily.

He got four very steady, very cold stares.

"No I did not," the duke said. "Have you evidence of that?"

"There were no mutebats in the aerie. I had looked." He turned to Vonimor. "You cleaned them out. What did you do with the bodies?"

The eagler hesitated and then said, "Threw them over. There's a megaday of junk at the dark side of the tower. Go and see."

"Somebody did," Shadow said. "It is possible to get to that junk pile?"

"Yes."

"Then somebody found one and took it up to the aerie. When no one was watching, he threw it past WindStriker. Any bird will snap up a mutebat--we all know that."

The silence was deadly. Then the duke spoke. "It must have been done within minutes of our departure. There were very few of us there. Whom do you accuse?"

Shadow dropped his eyes. "I don't know. But it was one of us."

"I think we might have missed a couple of the bats," Vonimor muttered. "They're hard to see...hard to get every last one..."

"It was murder," Shadow said.

This time Ninomar broke the silence. "If the prince dies by violence, Shadow, or is even injured, then you are automatically guilty of high treason, I believe. Is that not so? Whereas if he had an accident, then I expect a court would be lenient."

And yet another silence. Again Shadow said stubbornly, "It was murder."

Ninomar and the duke exchanged glances.

"You are the civil authority, Your Grace," the vice-marshal said. "You now believe that the crown prince is dead?"

"Yes, I am afraid so."

Ninomar nodded. "Then, Shadow, you are no longer Shadow. You are Ensign...Harl, wasn't it? You are therefore under my orders. When we have all had some rest, the search will be resumed--and His Grace and myself will be in charge. You may continue to fly NailBiter, as no one else seems to be able to. There will be an inquiry--"

"I am Shadow!" Shadow shouted, scrambling to his feet. "The king appointed me!"

"The king will kill you," Ukarres muttered.

"I am Shadow!"

Ninomar waved an arm, and two sleepy-looking troopers hurried over.

"Take this man to his quarters," he said.

"I am Shadow! I give the orders!"

As they dragged him from the hall he was still half weeping, half shouting: "I am Shadow."

Chapter 8

"I will see that bet," Aurolron XX said, "and raise you three."

The baby-faced trooper licked his lips. "I believe I shall have to fold," he muttered hoarsely.

The king's eyebrows rose. "With a pair of queens showing?" he murmured. "Where is the courage we expect in our Guard?"

Ensign Rolsok turned even paler--if that were possible--and pushed five gold royals toward the center of the table. It was a kiloday's pay for an ensign. He lived on his family's money, not on his stipend, but the tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip shone like fine jewels in the sunlight.

It was a long, long time since Shadow had enjoyed himself so much. Even sitting behind the king, he could not view the royal hand, for Aurolron played all cards close to the chest, but that did not matter--the king was playing with a marked deck, and Shadow could read all the other hands as well as Aurolron could. They had been at it since dinner, and the king was systematically, progressively, and mercilessly ruining his opponents. It was a vintage performance by the royal spider.

The balcony was crowded round by heavy trees, sheltered and private. Two bells had already rung, yet the game showed no signs of ending. It was an unusual group, the king and five youths: Prince Jarkadon and four others. The only persons close were Shadow and an elderly secretary whose job was to keep track of debts, while waiters and guards hovered at a distance. There was heaped gold, shining and clinking; there was fine wine; there was gracious conversation--a little strained at times--and there was gambling. There was no mercy. Perhaps there was even a smell of justice.

The court might gossip and censure, but it was rarely shocked. Certain things were a known peril for scullery maids and other minor menials--no one was interested in those private lives. Yet even the court's tolerance had its limits. When the daughter of a baronet was grievously abused, then full-scale scandal erupted.

A half-wit gardener was arrested, tried, convicted, and impaled.

The court was not deceived. The girl's family was displaying sudden new wealth, so silence had been purchased--and that was not done for dead gardeners. Stories were whispered of a group of young sadists who called themselves the Lions. The Lions, it was said, included representatives of some of the best families. The Lions had been indulging their peculiar taste in recreation for some time and had only just started to seek their victims among the better classes...and so on.

The royal spies brought all of the rumors and most of the facts to the king, and so to Shadow. Shadow knew very well who were the Lions and who was the leader of the pride. He knew who had bought the silence.

For a while the atrocities must have stopped or returned to the kitchens. Then a second case occurred among the gentry: this time two girls, one so damaged that she might never recover. The king defended his own--a couple of minor lackeys were hauled into court and duly found guilty. Again money and sinecures were dispensed to the families.

But this time the king had decided to act. Four young men were unexpectedly invited to a game of cards with His Majesty. Such an invitation was never refused, although each of them must have been surprised by it--they were friends of Prince Jarkadon, not of the king.

Surprise turned to terror when they saw who else had been invited. They waited grimly for mention of their sadistic diversions--and it did not come. They were there to play cards. The cards and coins were produced. The play began.

Understandably, the guests were not at their best. The king was. He could probably have beaten them handily without the marked deck. He was charming and courteous and lethal.

"Five?" muttered the next boy, the one they called Crusher. He moved his lips as he counted out the coins with massive peasant hands, although his cards were quite worthless. His family was rich also, but four young men were going to have to crawl to their respective fathers bearing news of sudden incredible debts.

Bills from merchants could be ignored. Not a debt to the king.

By Shadow's rough calculation, the king had already won enough to run his palace for thirty days. The families would be crippled, forced to sell estates to pay for this evening.

Aurolron had shown that he knew exactly who were the Lions, and brutality had never been mentioned.

"Son?"

Jarkadon was eyeing the cards thoughtfully. He had been as shocked as his playmates when he arrived, but he had recovered his poise as soon as he saw the nature of the plot. The king might keep his son on a slack rein, but he could hardly bankrupt himself, and he was obviously not about to go public with his knowledge, so Jarkadon at least was immune. The chief Lion was safe. Yet Jarkadon was also in a trap. Two cheaters working together could manage a crooked game much more easily than one. Whose side would the prince take? He had made the wiser choice.

"I'll see your raise, Father," he said, smiling, "and raise you another five."

Four pairs of eyes turned to him in agony. Treachery! The stakes were becoming even more colossal as the game proceeded, with no sign of an ending.

The next young man had some trouble speaking, but he asked the secretary for another hundred.

It was a vintage performance.

Then a herald came running out the door and was intercepted at once by a hovering equerry. Shadow saw the document passed, saw the glance toward the king. The equerry approached. As a welcome relief from long sitting, Shadow rose and stepped over to intercept in turn. He recognized the seal as he carried the letter back.

The king muttered a polite apology to his guests, but he had noticed also, and he read the letter as close to his chest as he had played his cards. His expression did not change by an eyelash, but one does not stand by a man for five kilodays without coming to know him well. This was the high one, Shadow decided. He glanced over at Jarkadon--and the young devil was watching him, not the king. Damn!

The king read the letter through a second time, then folded it up. He put his hands on the arms of his chair to rise, and the whole group was on its feet before him. Wild relief shone in four young faces.

"Our regrets, gentlemen. Perhaps we can continue this another day?" Still no trace of expression, but the mere lack of it was ominous. They were courtiers; they could vanish gracefully and yet quickly. Jarkadon stood expectant, eyes gleaming. The king beckoned the equerry. "Find Her Majesty. We believe she is attending a chamber concert somewhere. We would meet with her --in the cabinet, we think would be best. At her convenience."

He eyed Jarkadon and nodded. Jarkadon was trying very hard to conceal excitement, and not succeeding. The king walked toward the door; by the time he had reached the corridor beyond, he had collected guards before and behind and was moving within a convoy. Shadow could feel the emotional temperature rising steadily and the palace web beginning to quiver: The king has received a message from Ninar Foan and has summoned the queen--and to the cabinet, not the private quarters.

They moved through corridors and cloisters and passages...

The great egg-shaped room seemed hot and airless after the balcony. The doors closed silently on the curious faces outside. Shadow stopped beside his chair; Jarkadon followed the king to the far end.

"Bad news, Father?"

Aurolron did not reply until he was seated. "I think it must be, because of the odious smirk on your face. Remove it."

Jarkadon flushed in silence and did not presume to sit until invited to do so. He was left standing.

The king read his letter again and then laid it face-down on the desk. Then he stared at it in oaken silence, and nothing seemed to happen for a long time.

At last the doors opened and Queen Mayala stood in the entrance. Shadow rose. She looked at his face, and for once she did not smile.

She wore a high-necked gown of dark green which merely emphasized the pallor of her face. The dull-dyed hair was coiled on top of her head and surmounted by a tiara of emeralds, her hands concealed in a white muff. Muffs had suddenly become fashionable because the queen had taken to using them--probably, Shadow thought, to conceal the constant tremor of her hands.

He saw at once that it was one of her bad days.

Then she swept past his chair and the door closed again, but the antechamber was filling up with ladies who had come with the queen and men who had sensed the tremors in the web and heard the tap of drums.

The king rose and held out a chair for her. He remained standing on one side, Jarkadon on the other.

"Vindax?" she said.

"It is bad news, my dear."

"He has not reached Ninar Foan yet, though?"

"Yes," the king said. "He arrived on the thirty-third--sooner than we had expected. There has been an accident."

The queen made a dry sobbing noise and said nothing. Shadow was trying to watch Jarkadon also, but he was too distant to see the young man's expression clearly.

"He went hunting. Apparently his bird had taken a bat."

"Oh, my God!"

"They have not found him yet. The letter was written the same day, so the search had just started. There is still hope."

"Hope?" she said. "In that country? Up that high? Those hills?" She doubled over and buried her face in her muff.

Silence.

Aurolron put a hand on her shoulder. "We must have faith, my dear. It is bad, but there is still hope."

The queen straightened up and leaned away from him, dislodging his hand. She looked at Jarkadon. "Why are you smiling?" she asked quietly.

He was startled. "Mother...of course I am not smiling. It is terrible news."

The queen lurched to her feet, facing the king, and suddenly screamed."You did it!"

Shadow rose also; he could have heard that without the trick acoustics, and screaming near the monarch was his business. He hurried over toward the desk.

"Mayala! Control yourself!" her husband snapped.

"You planned this. Taken a bat! How often does that happen? You expect me to believe that it was an accident?"

"Mother..." Jarkadon said.

She ignored him, glaring at the king. He reached for her shoulders, and she backed away.

Shadow slipped into position behind the king, and they did not even see him.

Now Mayala's face was suffused, her eyes wild and rolling. "You did it! You put one of your foul assassins in his party. You have murdered my son!"

"Our son!" the king said angrily. "Don't be absurd?"

"You have killed Vindax!" she insisted. "You want to put thatperverton the throne?" Jarkadon turned almost as red as she.

Aurolron was startled also at her vehemence, but he paused to glance at the prince. "That is another decision entirely," he said. Jarkadon went just as suddenly ash-white.

"Monster!"Queen Mayala hissed. She pulled a knife from her muff and struck at the king. He yelped and jumped sideways, tangling with a chair and half-caught by Shadow. Jarkadon grabbed the queen, who was screaming wordlessly.

Then the king's knees buckled, and Shadow lowered him to the rug. Blood was spreading hideously over his white doublet; Shadow ripped it away from the wound.

High treason!

"Get a doctor!" the prince shouted.

"No!" Aurolron snapped from the floor. "It's only a scratch."

Shadow's ripping had exposed the skin--a gash on the king's ribs was pouring blood, but it did not look deep. He wadded a corner of the cloth and pressed it against the wound.

"I think it is superficial," he agreed, "but it needs stitching."

He was King Shadow, and the king had been stabbed. What was going to happen to him now?

The queen had collapsed on her chair again and was sobbing helplessly into her hands. Jarkadon knelt down also, ignoring her.

"We should get a doctor, Father," the prince said.

"Wait!" Aurolron said. He had gone very pale from the shock. "Perhaps we can keep this quiet."

But that would be impossible. His clothes were blood-soaked; so was the carpet.

"I wonder how long she has been carrying this," Jarkadon said suddenly, holding up the knife. It was small, slim, but quite adequate. Shadow was starting to tremble. His mind was jittering around so much that he did not know what he was thinking. He was not supposed to stay close to the king in this room; he could not have possibly moved fast enough; no one ever searched the queen for weapons; they did unspeakable things to traitors.

"We must keep the queen out of this," the king muttered.

Stabbed by his own queen? He would be a public laughingstock. It would be shame, not danger or pain, which would be troubling him most. Scandal!

"Perhaps we can," Jarkadon said.

He looked across at Shadow.

The king turned his head and looked up at Shadow.

Sheer terror froze him. Three quite unimpeachable witnesses: the king, the queen, and the new crown prince. He was lost.

"Then I think you had better call a doctor," the king said quietly.

"No immediate hurry," Jarkadon said. "Let's have a look. Yes, it's not deep. Fortunate that Mother doesn't know how to use a dagger, isn't it?"

By some terrible precognition, the paralyzed Shadow knew what was about to happen--and knew that he was not going to be able to move to prevent it.

"Fortunate that she doesn't even know anatomy," Jarkadon said. "She should have put ithere."

The king's eyes rolled up, and with no sound at all he went limp, the silver hilt ornamenting his chest like some macabre heraldic symbol.

For a moment that seemed to outlast the ages, they all stared in silence: Shadow with disbelief, the queen perhaps not comprehending, Jarkadon with a thin smile of satisfaction. Then the prince leapt to his feet.

"Treason!" Jarkadon screamed. "Murder!" He went running down the room to the doors. "Guards! Murder!"

Those outside could not hear him through those doors, and in his haste he tried to push instead of pull. Then he got one open and renewed his yelling. The guards jumped forward; the other spectators back. There was confusion. The guards forced their way through, and then all jammed together in the doorway.

When the would-be rescuers finally rounded the big chair and came rushing along the room, they froze in horror at the sight of the king's lifeless body.

There was no one else there.

Chapter 9

CLINK.

Clink...clink...clink...

He opened one eye.

Clink!

Both eyes open, he saw that a table by the bed held a tray. Someone was mercilessly rapping a spoon against a cup.

He peered past the table: Ukarres, hunched forward in a chair.

The old man grinned with the usual display of stumps. "Good sky to you, Prince Shadow."

Shadow sat up fast. "What time is it?"

The old man dropped the spoon and squirmed back painfully in his seat. "You have slept about one watch and a half."

Shadow glanced around a fine, luxurious room, with bright hangings to hide the stone walls and thick rugs on the floor and well-carved, shiny furniture; bright sunlight shone through good, clear glass. He recognized the anteroom--through that door was the prince's room, probably the ducal bedroom in normal times, empty now, of course. He threw back the covers. "The patrols are ready?"

"Oh, they left hours ago," Ukarres said in his wheezy voice.

Shadow put his feet on the floor. His head was whirling, but most of the ache had gone.

"Stop!" Ukarres said. "You can serve your prince better by staying where you are and listening to me."

Shadow stared at him skeptically.

"I mean it. I know things you do not. So eat that meal before it gets cold--it may be the last decent one you will ever see."

He smelled coffee. Yes, he was hungry again, so he had been out for a long time. This had not come from the commons; the ducal kitchen itself had spawned the white bread and the plate with thick, glistening slices of ham and a huge fried goose egg. His mouth watered.

He reached for the coffee, noticed that he was grubby and smelly and naked, and decided he did not care. "Then speak."

"Do you trust me?"

Shadow shook his head.

"Wise of you," Ukarres said. "I am a trickster. I never tell the truth when a lie will do as well. Deceit is almost the only pleasure left to me, and it was always one of my favorites. This time, though, I find myself forced to be honest."

"You lied to Lady Elosa," Shadow said with his mouth full.

"Of course. I knew that the sight of the prince would dumbfound her--enough to be obvious, so that he would get the reason out of her. I never thought that Rorin would be sent along. That ruined it. I had a slight hope that he would have the sense...well, it didn't work." He sighed. "No need to hurry. You aren't going out to search with the others."

"NailBiter?" Shadow barked, sputtering coffee in his alarm.

"No, he's still there. But Lord Ninomar left written orders: You are to return to duty at somewhere called Jaur."

"The sun will move first."

Ukarres squirmed again and regarded him with some amusement.

"He is trying to save you, you know."

"Ha!"

"Yes, truly. He maintains that only you can fly NailBiter. Of course that is all feathers--the duke can handle anything ever hatched. He's on your side, too."

Shadow chewed for a while, wondering how much to risk. "I can understand the duke wanting me out of sight. But Ninomar hates me down to the hairs on my big toe."

Ukarres shook his head, his one live eye shining, his wrinkles emphasized by a smile. "He admires you."

"Mutes!"

"I asked him about you before the accident. He said you were an insolent, smart-aleck peasant but one of the finest skymen he had ever met and fanatically loyal to the prince. Loyalty is one of the few things he understands. He despises you, yes, but secretly he thinks you deserve to escape. The king will have you publicly ground and roasted like a coffee bean as a warning to all future Shadows. No, the vice-marshal is risking a serious reprimand, but he has left the door open for you, the door to the world."

Shadow started to eat more slowly. "To be an outlaw? No rank, no name, no honor?"

"The king of Piatorra would accept a good skyman with his own mount."

He shook his head. "I shall stay and help search."

Ukarres sighed.

"Loyalty!" he said. "It is rare. Yet, in spite of my devious ways, young Shadow, I was always loyal to my duke. He trusts me. Nobody else dares to. I have served him all his life, kept his secrets, done a few things he wanted done but could not ask for..."

He was silent for a while, as though pondering the next most likely strategy. "Vak Vonimor and I are blood enemies. He runs the aerie and I run the household, and Eagle Dome itself lies between. When I was there to greet your prince, it was the first time I had been in the aerie in...well, in almost your lifetime, I should guess. He is fiercely loyal to the keeper also, but we detest each other."

"So?" Shadow said. Ukarres was a slimy old ruin, but he had a curious attraction about him.

"Today we are friends," Ukarres said solemnly.

"I don't understand," Shadow said, still working his way through the ham.

"You were right--it was murder. You can work it out."

Now Shadow paused, fork in hand, staring at the old man, trying to guess what message lay in that single watery eye.

He thought back to the departure from the aerie. IceFire had been perched in a corner, with NailBiter next to her--it was standard practice to isolate a cawking pair. Then there was old WindStriker, then the duke's IceFlame and a group of birds that were not being used...Before the dressing, Shadow had laid all the equipment nearby on the floor. The prince had stood just inside the bars, facing into the aerie so that Shadow was properly at his back. He would have seen a bat being thrown from in there, and by the time he turned around to mount, WindStriker had been blinkered and unable to react.

"Only one man had the opportunity!" he said. Why had he not seen that before? "You are accusing the duke himself?"

Ukarres's eye slid away from his. "His Grace must take some blame. And so must I. And so must you, Shadow."

"Me?" By God, that was unfair! "What more could I have done?"

"Oh, you did too much, not too little," Ukarres sighed. "Now I must betray a trust. Listen! About four hours before the deed was done, in the middle of third watch, the duke came to my room and woke me. He had received a message from the king."

"What?" Shadow shouted. "How?"

"By bird, of course. The royal courier who came to announce the prince's plans, Sir Jion Something...he left his mount and took one of ours. It returned with this." He reached inside his old brown doublet and pulled out a letter, a seal still dangling from it. "It is an extraordinary document!"

Shadow held out his hand, but the old man hesitated. "My duke is a passionate man, lad, in all ways: lust or rage or joy, but I have not seen him cry since he was a child. Yet this made him weep. The king would have my head...he would have the duke's for showing it to me, I think. Well...read it."

Astounded, Shadow unfolded the parchment. The seal was certainly genuine, but the writing was scrawly, not that of a professional scribe, and the usual flowery preliminaries were missing. But he had seen the king scribble notes, and recognized his hand. It began even more starkly than the summons he had received at Hiando Keep.

The King to his cousin of Foan: Greetings.

Send the enclosed letter to intercept the crown prince at Gorr. It bids him terminate his journey there and forbids him to come to Ninar Foan.

I was aware, as you must be, that for you to meet him in public would provoke scandal. I had decided to pay that price, in the belief that the gossip would be harmless and would eventually die. Now I have learned that I was wrong--not only has it already stirred dangerous thoughts in certain quarters, but I see that it could lead to the uncovering of other matters which must remain hidden. You will know to what I refer. Therefore, the isolation of your house from mine must be continued.

Doubtless he has already met persons on the Rand who know you, but the court is where the danger lies, and so long as none of his companions see the two of you together, the harm will be small.

Yet you should meet him. I have told him that a man named Ovla will seek him out in Gorr. Be careful that you are unobserved. Only Prince Shadow will be present. Inquire into his background--it is relevant.

Shadow looked up in astonishment. "What has my background got to do with all this?"

Ukarres shrugged. "If I knew, I would probably lie about it."

He did know--Shadow was certain. Angrily he returned to the royal letter.

It is a sadness when the scion of an ancient family lacks a son. I propose to give you one of mine. As soon as Vindax returns, I shall send Jarkadon to you. I hope that you will consider favorably a marriage between him and your daughter, that he may ultimately succeed you as keeper of the Rand. In return I shall issue patents that your titles may descend through the female line.

He has merit, yet is scathed by the temptations of court life. I believe my older son does credit to my rearing. Perhaps you, in your more wholesome lands, can improve on the younger.

I think you owe me this.

Written in our own hand, this 9234th day of our reign in our capital of Ramo.

Aurolron R.

"Great fires of the Ark!" Shadow exclaimed, and read it all again. Then he stared at Ukarres. "He as much as admits that the duke is the prince's father!"

"He does not!" the seneschal snapped. "But then, the duke would know that better than the king, would he not?"

"Is he? Was there opportunity?"

Again Ukarres knew, but the wily old man was not going to say. "I told you it was a strange missive. The comments on Prince Jarkadon? Even the royal admission of error! Yes, we had better both keep quiet about this, my lad."

Banish Jarkadon? They would have to tie that young man on a bird's back before they would get him to the Rand.

And if Vindax were truly the duke's son, then the king's letter was utterly incredible. No wonder the writing was shaky--it must have been written under great stress.

"But the message to the prince?" Shadow demanded.

Ukarres shook his head. "The duke erred. He said, 'Well, he wants a hunt, so I shall give him this afterward. The damage is done now.'"

Of course! Shadow moaned aloud. The damage was done because he had juggled the royal itinerary in the name of security. That was what Ukarres had meant when he said it was his fault. He had innocently thwarted the king's plan.

For a few moments his mind seemed to dance all over the Rand like a batted bird. The he remembered something else.

"You said you also bore blame?"

Ukarres nodded sadly. "The duke departed at last, and he left that terrible document in my charge, for I am archivist, among many other things. I should have taken it at once to the castle vaults. But I am old, Shadow, and a cripple, and it was only a couple of hours until three bells. I thought a short delay..."

"Who else saw it?"

A curious reluctance came over Ukarres. "We are all downside up here just now, with so many guests. But while I slept, the person in the next room must have passed through mine. I am certain that the letter had been moved...it was on the chair by my bed..."

Then Shadow knew and was horrified. "But why?" he said. "To protect her father against a charge of treason?"

Ukarres rolled his single eye. "It would not occur to her."

"Why, then?" Shadow persisted, even more appalled. "Why would she do such a thing?"

"Motives make poor bandages, as they say," the old man muttered sadly. "She would not be the first to seek a throne through violence, would she? No..." He fell silent for a moment, as though he had not previously thought about motive. "She has five brothers that she knows of," he said at last, "in the town and castle--all illegitimate. She cannot inherit the title, nor most of the lands, for she is a woman. How does she feel about bastards, do you suppose? Contempt? Fear? How would she feel about one becoming king?"

"And her destiny is to be queen?" Shadow groaned again. "It must have been done just as the blinkers were opened. I thought at first he was trying to return to the aerie. He must have heard or seen, too late. But if he is alive, then he knows who did it."

The old man squirmed to relieve his back, or perhaps just his feelings. His dry whisper became even quieter. "That is why Vak and I are suddenly allies. We are loyal to our duke, but even great men have weaknesses. He has fathered seven bastards that I know of, all sons. From wedlock he obtained a single daughter. He must know she did it. But he will protect her. He has never denied her anything."

Breakfast was forgotten. Shadow stood up. "I must join the search and warn the others at the next break. If the duke finds the prince first..."

Ukarres shook his head angrily and thumped his cane on the rug. "Never! The prince was his guest! He would not stoop to that, and none of his men would support him in so dastardly a crime. Elosa is being watched--I know that. I meant only that he will not bring her to justice if the prince has died. And, strangely, I find that my lifelong loyalty has choked at last. Sit down! There is more."

There could not possibly be more. Shadow sat down.

"Now," the old man wheezed. "We all know that the chances are very, very slim. Perhaps one man in twenty survives a batted bird. But the bird usually does, right? If the rider tied his reins. They do not often fly into a hill, for there is just too much sky. So where did she go, afterward?"

Gods! For a moment Shadow had a foul vision of WindStriker arriving back at the palace with the lifeless, rotting body of the Prince...but no, she was a widow. He had inquired carefully. A bird removed from its mate for long became fractious, which was why he had brought only pairs and widows, with very few singles. So she had no mate to go back to.

"I expect she is wandering the hills."

"Who chose her?"

Shadow shrugged. "The prince. I suggested a mature female. She came from the family private collection. She is the queen's official mount, although the queen has not flown in kilodays."

Ukarres nodded. "I remember her, and Vonimor knew her the instant she arrived. We were on the Allaban expedition, both of us, and Princess Mayala flew on WindStriker. She has been here before."

The story was quite plausible. She might have belonged to the queen's grandmother also. "She had a mate back in Allaban?"

"We're not sure, but Vak thinks she might have done." He smiled ruefully. "Our departure was hardly orderly, you know. It was almost every man for himself. But I think that if the prince lives, then he lives now in Allaban."

"She would have flown into certain death on Eagle Dome."

The seneschal shook his head gently. "Not necessarily. There is another way to Allaban. A more direct way."

Shadow smelled treachery. "How?"

"It is known as Dead Man's Pass. Quite simply, you fly around the back of Eagle Dome. It is very high. The wilds can use it, of course, but they do not live there, in the dark. It is not guarded, as the sun side is. It is extremely dangerous for men, but a few have made it throughout history, for one reason or another. More have failed. It takes an exceptional mount and an exceptional skyman, but it can be done."

"Would WindStriker have known of that way?"

Ukarres shrugged. "The eagles have strange ways of finding the best route, Shadow, as you know."

It could be a trap. He was the one shouting murder, so the duke and Ninomar and now Ukarres were all trying to find ways to make him leave and shut him up.

Treachery?

"Vonimor will confirm what I have said," Ukarres suggested. "Of course, we are both the duke's servants and you can doubtless find reasons why the duke may have put us up to this. Basically you have three choices, though. You can stay here, helping in the search, but you will only be one more pair of eyes among seventy.

"Ramo has no more of our birds, and no courier can be here within twelve days at a minimum. He will certainly bring orders for your arrest. You know what will be done to you then. Or you can go through the window the vice-marshal left open for you--dress NailBiter and flee."

"Or you can gamble your life and health and sanity and go to Allaban."

"The rebels?"

Ukarres shrugged. "They will certainly not hand you over to Aurolron. They may take NailBiter from you, of course. If you release him first, he will return here, to IceFire. If the prince is indeed alive, then perhaps they will treat you well--they may be holding him as hostage. The possibilities became innumerable, and we cannot guess..."

Shadow weighed the odds. One more added to seventy was very little, true. Flight to exile was somehow unthinkable, although he did not know why. He rubbed his prickly face. Off the prince's chamber was a bathroom with a bathtub, the only one he had seen on the Rand. A tub of hot water was one of the greatest luxuries in the world.

"Let us talk more while I shave," he said.

"Don't," Ukarres said. "Stubble keeps the cold off."

NailBiter sat alone on the perching in a strangely empty aerie, with only Vak Vonimor in attendance. Ukarres had provided Shadow with a magnificent flying suit in brown calfskin lined with lamb's wool. It would have cost a trooper a kiloday's pay; Shadow had not inquired who owned it. Vonimor eyed it and said sadly, "You fly to rightward, then?"

Shadow nodded.

The older man shook his head. "It is a slim chance for him and not much more for you. But you will need this." He had laid out a daunting heap of equipment.

"I'll fly straight underground with that lot," Shadow complained.

"You'll need it all," the eaglet said grimly. "Ever seen one of these?" He produced a metal cylinder with a black triangular thing on the end of it, and Shadow shook his head.

The object was very ancient, Vonimor told him, dating from the Old Times, and perhaps even from the Holy Ark itself. It contained air, which he had forced into it with an equally ancient pump, and he showed how the black thing fitted over a man's face and how a twist would release a puff of the air. Such a rarity was beyond price, and Shadow now began to believe that the two men were indeed betraying their duke and not him. There was also food and a great coil of thin rope--and that also must be a sacred relic, for it was made of neither silk nor hemp nor any material he had ever seen. There was a grapnel attached to one end.

"Kiting?" he groaned.

"Take it," Vak insisted. "And pray you don't need it. Lad, I would not try that road for anything. I know it's been done, but more have failed."

So NailBiter was dressed and the baggage attached; the bird crouched low in complaint, knowing his master was still to come.

The eagler hesitated. "Did Ukarres say anything about the wilds in Allaban?" he asked. "About the birds there?"

Shadow thought back. "No."

Vonimor seemed surprised--and reluctant to continue. "Well...he has some funny notions that he got from Karaman. I don't hold with them, but I saw less of Allaban than he did."

"What sort of notions?" Shadow asked.

The older man shrugged vaguely. "Just keep your eyes open, lad. There are funny stories--you may see birds doing funny things. Even that NailBiter of yours. Birds act queer when they get to Allaban." He changed the subject. "Good luck, my lord," he said gruffly, holding out a hand.

"I am no lord," Shadow said. "Are you going to be in trouble when the duke returns?"

The ruddy, honest face turned dark. Vonimor turned away and then stopped. "I saw it," he whispered.

"What? Then why did you not speak?" Shadow demanded.

"There was no time," Vonimor said. "It was just as he launched, and I did not believe my eyes." He stalked away across the aerie floor.

Shadow mounted his bird and launched automatically, his mind pondering the monstrous crime and the agony of followers whose lifetime of loyalty to a noble family had been betrayed. They were blaming the duke. Perhaps they were right.

NailBiter soon forgot his sulks, and Shadow followed the fast route that he had been given, the landmarks familiar to him after the long days of search. Twice he saw lonely birds soaring in the far distance, the patrols still hunting for traces of the missing prince, but they were too far off for him to recognize birds or riders, and therefore he would not be identified either. He discovered that he had become convinced--if WindStriker had survived her frenzy, then she had gone to Allaban, and the only question remaining was whether she had been carrying an unconscious cripple or a corpse. Certainly the latter was more probable, and he resisted an inner voice which told him he was crazy and should be going the other way, to sanctuary and refuge in Piatorra. But he knew that then his burden would not be rope and food and bottled air, but a lifetime of wondering and guilt.

Eventually he was over country new to him. It was the first time he had flown alone since his mad rush over the desert from Rakarr to Ramo on the day he became Shadow, and now he had the same problem he had had then: to find the thermals. In theory any especially warm surface created a thermal, but in practice many of those were dissipated by the cold wind and unusable. Pathfinding was the best test of a good skyman. Now he did what he had done in the desert--he let NailBiter choose, for the birds could apparently see the warmer air. Here, high on the Rand, there was little risk in trusting his mount. In the desert things had been different, for had he sunk too low in the red air and been unable to find a good thermal, he would have died, and long before his eagle did. NailBiter could have killed him easily on that journey to Ramo.

Eagle Dome was farther away than he would have believed, the sheer size of it almost beyond comprehension. From Ninar Foan it had seemed smooth and symmetrically rounded; when he at last grew close, he could see the frost cap and the vertical ribbing of the lower slopes that told of springs. The thermal on the sunlit side must be enormous, and a permanent cloud hung above it, streaming away sunward on one edge, continually reforming on the other. He came at last to the great flanking valley which cut back into the Rand and which would provide both his gateway and his trial.

Choosing a projecting rock above a sun-bright cliff, he brought NailBiter in to roost. Having no shackle, he had to leave the bird blinkered, and the scarlet comb throbbed angrily. Shadow dismounted and stretched aching joints; he estimated he had already flown almost a full watch from the caste. Shivering and panting in the cold, thin wind, he sat down in the lee of the rock and ate some of his rations.

He studied the great valley before him. He did not need Ukarres's description to warn him that a monstrous torrent of cold wind flowed down that gully--if he were caught in that, he would be swept out into the darkness over the plain and would die.

But if the cold wind dropped low, then the hot wind must drop also, and also the shear zone between them. Rarely, it was possible for human eyes to detect the shear zone, and he convinced himself at last that he could see it now, faint whirls of mist, vanishing almost before the eye made them out. His objective, then, was to climb as high as he dared and then glide NailBiter into that valley and hope to ride the hot wind around to the dark side of Eagle Dome.

It sounded simple.

The climb in the thermals was easy; NailBiter did not care, for his lungs could handle the altitude with ease, and perhaps he was even impatient with the rider who held him back, easing gradually to humanly impossible altitudes. The top of Eagle Rock seemed no lower when Shadow reached his nose-bleeding limit and tried a twist of air from the ancient bottle. It smelled foul, and seemed to do very little to clear his head. He risked a few more minutes' climbing and a few more puffs, then signaled for a dive. He probably blacked out briefly after that, but a sudden surge and a torrid breath told him that he had entered the invisible trough of the shear zone.

It was like riding a batted bird--NailBiter was hurled and buffeted and tossed. At times the two of them were turned right around and thrown toward the plains. Then a saving upwelling would loop them over and swirl them back again. Shadow's head throbbed, and his stomach heaved--he had never experienced anything like this before. He suspected NailBiter was enjoying it, but the strain on his wings must be immense. How much of their progress was due to his eagle instinct and how much to Shadow's skill and how much to sheer luck was impossible to know; all they could do was try to climb in the ups and avoid the downs, with neither visible in advance and their mutual boundaries unpredictable--a great game for lunatics.

Just once, and only briefly, they caught a sky wave, a smooth ripple between hot wind above and cold wind below, moving in the right direction, and for a few minutes they rushed in silent flight up the valley. Then it ended abruptly, or they lost it, and it was back to the turbulence again.

Inch by inch, it seemed, they fought their way up the narrowing gorge. The sun sank lower, the plains behind began to shrink, framed between the mountains of the Rand and the flank of Eagle Dome, and the land below was a darkness faintly glimmering with traces of ice.

Yet the topographic valley climbed relentlessly, and the invisible valley in the sky climbed also. Eventually the shear zone was too high for Shadow, and that came just where Ukarres had warned it would: where the valley swung around the mountain and the black bulk of Eagle Dome cut out the sun. The air bottle was exhausted. Shadow put NailBiter into a dive, and they plunged down through the icy wind toward the side of the mountain.

A jagged spur loomed out of the darkness, and he signaled for NailBiter to perch.

He had never experienced such cold; it soaked through his flying suit like ice water--and met the cold of fear working outward. NailBiter clutched fiercely at the rock and hunched down, his feathers fluffed out and rippling in the hurricane. The valley was lit by a dim reflection from immense sun-bright peaks on the High Rand, ragged and taller even than the Dome. On one side the black valley, on the other an equally black cliff stretching up...

Stars! Shadow had never seen stars, but his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the sky above him glittered with billions of tiny points of light. He had heard of them--and there they were. Even in his terror and exhaustion he was overwhelmed by their beauty. The poets and the ancient texts had never done them justice.

But if he sat and looked at stars for very long, he would freeze to death. Somehow he had to fight his way up the next stretch of this valley. Eventually, Ukarres had said, he would come to a junction, where the torrent of cold wind from Darkside flowed down off the High Rand and split against the back of Eagle Dome. After that, it would be downhill all the way to Allaban. Until then, it was upwind and there were only two ways to travel upwind: on the power of NailBiter's wings or by kiting.

"Let's go, fellow," Shadow said through chattering teeth, and pulled on the reins.

NailBiter did not want to go--he could see no reason whatsoever to fight against the wind into darkness. Food and warmth and his mate were in the other direction, and he balked and argued and struggled and was kicked as he had never before been kicked. The wind would be least strong near the ground, so the first leg was easy--a nearly vertical, ear-bursting dive toward the surface of the glacier to traverse the cold blast as quickly as possible and gain maximum speed for a glide--but after that it was powered flight all the way, NailBiter fighting the wind and Shadow fighting NailBiter.

The glacier itself was a rock pile, with only small traces of ice showing and deadly teeth looming unexpectedly out of the night. Some of the boulders were as large as Hiando Keep, small mountains. Those giants provided lee air and slightly easier flying for a moment--and then made up for the respite with the icy fury of their turbulent edge winds.

Shadow had lost all count of time, and he had no idea how long the battle went on, until he suddenly realized that the ground was right there in front of him, and NailBiter grabbed a rock and stopped. He was finished--a bird could not carry a man far on muscle power. Shadow was lying prone, with his head against the feathered back, and he could hear the pounding heart.

They rested, man and bird, as the wind moaned its triumph and dug ice talons deeper into Shadow's bones. When NailBiter's pulse rate had dropped to a more normal level, Shadow moved to the next stage. He took a sheep's leg from his baggage and tossed it forward.

Snap!

Two minutes later they were airborne once more--the mutton had been doped with a trace of batmeat. In very small doses it acted as a stimulant. That was how his predecessor had died, he remembered, when some young aristocrat had tried the trick while in the prince's company. The difference between stimulation and madness was razor-narrow, and now he risked the same fate as Vindax, if he and Vonimor had misjudged the amount.

But even batmeat had its limits. Four times he doped his eagle and NailBiter surged forth with new strength. But Vak and Shadow had agreed that four was the most they could risk--a dead bird would be of little use. The final dose produced only a short progress, from which NailBiter took a long time to recover, crouching low to his rock and trembling violently. He could fly no farther.

The frozen desert of dark and rock and cold still held them, sloping more steeply now, but still they had not reached the crest of the pass. There was only one desperate measure still to try.

"Good old buddy," Shadow said. "You've done your best. Now for a new trick."

NailBiter had never been taught kiting; Shadow had never seen it done. He untied his coil of rope and grapnel, slid from the saddle, and started to walk, scrambling in the dark over the boulders. Every step was a torment for tortured lungs, and he needed to stop frequently just to get breath.

When he guessed that he had come far enough, he wedged the grapnel between two rocks and started to return, paying out rope, stumbling, falling, panting...Idiot! He should have tied the other end first. What if he could not find the bird? The thin air was shriveling his brain.

But he did find NailBiter, and with fingers already numb inside his mitts, he fastened the other end of the rope to the saddle girths. He threw the rest of it loose on the ground, climbed aboard again, and took a hard grip on the end closest to the grapnel.

"Okay, Naily," he muttered. "Let's kill ourselves."

He made the signal that meant "spread wings," and bird and rider whirled upward while Shadow let the rope run through his mitts, waiting nervously for the jerk when it was all gone. NailBiter sensed the drag of the rope and almost panicked. Shadow needed about four extra hands, but somehow he kept control. Then came the jerk, spinning the eagle around, and for a moment Shadow thought they would be smashed down against the rocks.

They were not; the rope did not get tangled around the bird's neck; the grapnel held. Now NailBiter was a kite--the wind lifted him, and the rope held him. Man and bird rose higher and higher until the tether was very close to vertical. Then Shadow called for a dive. That was the trickiest part of all, for the rope must now stay slack or it would slingshot them into the rocks below. They landed roughly, and NailBiter showed every sign of wanting to become hysterical; Shadow stroked his comb and muttered words of comfort that he knew could not be heard.

He tugged on the rope, but he could never be so lucky as to retrieve it that way. He clambered down and started to walk. It was not walking, it was rock climbing, but at last he reached the end of the rope, collected the grapnel, and started back. Now it was rock climbing and rope coiling combined. He reeled and choked in the thin air, but at least the exercise helped warm him a little, and eventually he was back beside the huddled shape of his mount.

Again he stumbled forward and planted the grapnel between two monoliths.

Two steps forward and one back--time and again he kited, walking his bird up the glacier. NailBiter caught the idea of it, as he always did, but showed no signs of enjoying the process. Shadow's mind was blank with fatigue, his feet and hands numb, and NailBiter was trembling and rebellious. Several times the grapnel slipped and then caught again, jarring bird and rider and threatening to snap the girth. The hardest part of all was paying out the rope away from NailBiter, for feathers and bird skin were not designed to resist friction, and if a wing became entangled, then their adventure would end at once. At last a sudden agony in Shadow's hand told him that his mitt had worn through. He let go by reflex, and the end of the rope came with a jarring crash--the rocks were close below and very nearly caught them.

That was enough. When that last kite soar and dive were done, Shadow knew that he must stop. Perhaps some food and sleep would revive him enough to try again. Perhaps a break would even revive his bird enough for some more flying. They could go no farther now. The top of the pass must be very close, but it would have to wait.

They were lucky. They had landed in the lee of a huge rock, and the ground beneath was relatively smooth, although anywhere else he would have called it a rock pile. NailBiter needed little urging to crouch down like a brooding hen; no doubt he was just as tired and hungry and frightened as his rider, although he would be suffering much less from the cold and the lack of air.

Without dismounting, Shadow reached into his baggage and pulled out NailBiter's reward: one last, undoped sheep leg, a mere snack. He opened the blinkers and tossed the meat forward.Snap!NailBiter waited hopefully, but there was no more.

Now Shadow climbed down, which was easy when NailBiter was crouched. He was shaking so much with cold that he could hardly unfasten the saddle, but it would be unfair to leave it on any longer. He pulled it around and spread it below the great curve of the yellow beak, which was still higher than his head. He sat down on it and cuddled close to the feathery chest to eat. The food was frozen solid, and so was his canteen. He should have guessed.

Sleep first, then, and thaw out the food at the same time. In an emergency, an eagle made a very good tent. It would not be the first time he had played egg to NailBiter, for that was part of standard Guard training.

He found the bird hood and he had to stand on tiptoe to work it over NailBiter's head. He unfastened the helmet and let it fall.

"There, Naily," he muttered. "You have a nice nap, also, and we'll try again." He reached up and rubbed the comb.

His arm spread the bag. The wind caught it and whipped it off and took it away.

In his numbed, air-starved confusion, he had forgotten to tighten the drawstring.

Shadow found himself looking into the huge golden eye of an eagle at a range of about a foot. He had never done that. He had never heard of anyone else doing that and living to tell of it. He froze--and for a long moment nothing seemed to happen in the world.

Hopefully he continued to rub the bird's comb, but he felt no answering rumble of pleasure. NailBiter was probably as surprised as he was.

At least, Shadow thought, he had undressed the bird. Once he had digested his meal, NailBiter would be free to fly back to IceFire. His chances of reaching Allaban had been slim anyway, Shadow told himself. He was destined to die in this hellish cold, rock-infested darkness, and this way he would provide his bird with nourishment and one of them would escape.

Still no attack?

Shadow lowered his hand. Very slowly he crouched, fumbling around his feet to find the helmet. Was it possible that he could get it back in position before the beak bit him in half?

NailBiter bent his head and nudged, and Shadow fell flat on his face.

Then there was another long pause.

"Well, get on with it, you idiot!" he yelled. "Don't play with your supper!"

NailBiter started to rock, shuffling forward awkwardly, first one foot and then the other. Then a great wing scooped--and Shadow found himself in a warm, musty darkness, pressed between wing and breast, downy feathers tickling his face. The saddle was still below him, and NailBiter was above and all around. The wailing of the wind had stopped. There was only a steady thumping of the eagle's heart.

And there was warmth.

Perhaps the bird wanted to thaw his food also?

No. Shadow was being mothered. NailBiter had apparently done something that no other eagle in history had done--he had decided to make friends. His rider was cold and needed rest, and he was treating him like a fledgling. It was unprecedented and unbelievable, but it was warmth and safety. Indeed it was very comfortable, a living tent and sleeping bag combined. But Shadow had never heard of it being done with an unhooded bird.

Now he remembered the strange remarks that Vonimor had made: Birds did funny things in Allaban. Nothing could be stranger than this, so it was true, and the effect extended beyond Allaban itself.

He shivered as the heat seeped through him; the pain in his feet and hands made him want to scream, but in time it must have gone away because he slid easily into sleep.

Chapter 10

THE walls were paneled in marble, carved in bas-relief. One slab showed a goat being seized by an eagle; King Shadow hit the edge of it with his shoulder and thrust with every atom of his being. It was magnificently balanced, and the bearings were still smooth, even after so great an age, but its sheer mass made it slow to yield. Reluctant as a glacier, it pivoted about its center, and a welcome slit of darkness appeared beside him. He squeezed himself through as soon as it was wide enough. He had forgotten, though, that the opening did not reach to the floor, so he cracked a shin hard against the high lintel and fell forward, striking the opposite wall of the very narrow passage and collapsing sideways on a soft layer of filth.

Heedless of his pains, he struggled to his feet. Now the panel stood wide. He grabbed it and, with the advantage of leverage against the wall, swung it back on its pivot once more. He caught a last glimpse of Aurolron's body starkly bathed in sunlight; he heard the yells as the rescuers piled up in the doorway, then the slab closed with a gentle thump. He fumbled in the dark to find the massive bolts and slid them into place...one...two.

He leaned against the slab, gasping and breathless, hearing the thunder of his own heart and an angry twittering of birds overhead. Just for a moment, perhaps, he had won safety.

"It's very dark!" the queen said, and he choked back a scream.

It was not quite perfect blackness--he could just see the glimmer of her face and hair. While he had come by one side of the slab, she must have stepped through the gap on the other.

"Majesty!" he wailed. "What are you doing here?" The stone was quite soundproof; there would be bedlam out in the cabinet, yet he could hear nothing.

"Hiding from that madman," the queen said in a very normal, conversational tone. "He'd kill us all, you know. He's quite mad. He pulls wings off spiders."

Great flames of the Ark! He had panicked, yes, but if he had any chance of life left at all, then he must flee at once. He had never intended that the queen should come with him.

The guards were out there--she would have been completely safe. Right behind him was a blank wall; the passage was barely wide enough for one person, and she was between him and the way out, the way down to the secret tunnels. A lifetime of training held him back from brashly attempting to thrust by her--if he could--and what would she do, anyway? She might well scream. She might reopen the panel and give him away. She might not be strong enough...

He would have to kill her.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded again in a low voice.

"Waiting for Vindax," the queen said calmly, in the sort of voice she might have used to discuss wallpaper or the temperature of soup.

"He is dead! He had an accident! There was a letter--"

"Lies!" the queen snapped, but not loudly. "Alvo would never do such a thing. It is a trick."

Shadow was stopped short. Was that possible? With a schemer like Aurolron, anything was possible. "But the letter?"

"The letter?" she repeated. As his eyes adjusted to the deep gloom, he could make her out better. "Yes, the letter. Read it to me." She thrust a crackling parchment into his hands.

She had brought it with her. The implications of that struck him like a lightning bolt. The guards would have found the dead king in an empty room. Jarkadon would now be claiming that he was king, for his father and brother were both dead, but he did not have the letter, and no one but Aurolron had seen it. So they would only have his word for it, and there must be limits to how much credibility would be afforded even a prince in such incriminating circumstances.

So there would be even more chaos than Shadow had expected, and his tiny, tiny chance of escape might just be a little bit greater because of it.

The passage was merely a rough-textured gap between double walls, starting where he stood and curving away around the arc of the egg-shaped cabinet itself. In spite of its narrowness, it was very high; small gaps at the top admitted a trickle of light and air. They had also admitted swallows, whose nests encrusted the upper walls and whose litter had piled thick on the floor. The swallows were jabbering angrily at the intruders, darting in and out of the holes.

"I can't see to read, either, Majesty," Shadow said. "Perhaps in a little while..."

"Well, we have lots of time," the queen said. She steadied herself with both hands and somehow managed to sit down in her fine, rich dress on the heaped bird droppings on the floor. She leaned her arms on her knees.

She had gone mad, obviously.

Aurolron and he had shared one thing: They had both hated the dark and never closed drapes. Yet he knew that the human eye could adapt to darkness for some inexplicable and useless reason. Twenty minutes it took, they said, but already he could see much better. Yes, the document he held was the letter from Ninar Foan, but still not decipherable.

"It was very stupid of me," the queen sighed. "I should have explained to Vindax and warned him." She sounded as though she were talking to herself.

"Warned him of what?" Shadow demanded. He ought to be running like hell, yet he had to plan his moves carefully. Was there any possibility that the queen could be of assistance--or of use? A hostage? The uproar and search going on outside must be mind-wrecking.

"Alvo must have got such a surprise," she said. "How proud he will be of Vindax!"

Gods! Was the queen about to admit it?

"They are twins, you know. When I look at Vindax, I see Alvo exactly, as he was. I expect he has aged, but I remember him as he was then, as Vindax is now."

The passage led to a stairway, and that led down to a cellar. Through such passages and cellars and storerooms, it was theoretically possible to move almost anywhere around the palace complex, if he could remember them all. He had shown many of them to the new Prince Shadow. Aurolon, who had liked to be sure of his backups, had inspected secret doors once in a while. Vindax knew of them. But only those three and himself, he was sure. Two were dead. The fourth might also be dead and was at the far end of the kingdom anyway. He did have time, but not much.

"A man would not kill himself," the queen said. "That was what Aurolron thought, but he would never."

A man ought to kill himself--suicide would be much better than a traitor's death. It would have done no good to have stayed and done his duty, denouncing Jarkadon as the assassin, for when the king died, Shadow died. Even if the queen had supported him and he had been believed, he would not have been saved.

"What?" he said, confused.

Now he could see the queen's expression as she explained with great patience, "The king thought that Alvo would kill Vindax, of course. He thought that Alvo would think that Vindax was his son and had been sent to him to be put to death because it would be a breach of honor for a man to let his own bastard sit on another's throne."

Now, that had to be the craziest thing the crazy woman had come out with yet. Honor was not something that Shadow had ever claimed to understand, but he knew that some men had it. Whatever it was, though, no one carried it to those extremes.

"His own son? Madam, is the duke of Foan Prince Vindax's father?"

"You never asked me that before, dearest," she said reproachfully. The clothes had confused her--now she thought he was Aurolon.

"But why do they look so alike?" Suddenly he thought he would go happier to his death if he could get this confounded mystery solved.

"Ah!" The queen sighed blissfully. "Well, you see, I was very much in love with Alvo before I learned to love you. But royalty had obligations, as you told me--you were very patient, my dear. And I gave you what you wanted, didn't I? Two sons? 'An heir and a spare,' you said." She giggled and then sighed. "I should have liked a daughter, but a king likes to have two sons."

He would need different clothes. Servants' clothes, preferably. There was no way he could escape by air even if he knew how to fly those damned birds. An escape on foot into the town was his only chance. Then--Piatorra? Aurolron had sent the king of Piatorra some sculptures once. That meant carts, so it must be possible to reach Piatorra on foot somehow.

Shadow peered at the letter and saw that the words were becoming distinguishable. Astonishing! It had been quite dark when he first came into this smelly stone slot. The twittering of the birds was dying down. He would need money...

"I only thought of it a few days ago," the queen said. "All these kilodays it has puzzled me, and I only thought of it now, too late!" She began to weep softly.

"Thought of what?" He had no money of his own. When he had been Baron Haunder, he had owned an estate somewhere a long way rightward on the Range. He had never been there--the rents had come in regularly, and he had relied on the manager.

"Why Vindax looks so like Alvo."

Great Ark of God! "Majesty," he said, "whydoesyour son look so like the duke of Foan?"

"Because I was so in love," the queen sobbed. "All the time I was carrying the king's son I was thinking of Alvo, Alvo my love. I made a baby that looked just like him."

Balls! Shadow thought. It wasn't love that made babies, it was balls.

"Er...did the king know this?"

"Yes!" she sobbed. "I just told you I just told him because I just thought of it--too late. After he had sent Vindax away to die. And he said of course that was why it was and not to worry about it."

Even King Shadow did not get to hear all the private conversations within the family itself.

"That was why he sent a letter to call Vindax back," the queen explained, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief that had appeared from nowhere.

No, it wasn't. It was because of Jarkadon.

The former Baron Haunder dragged himself back from his planning. Was it possible that Aurolron had been sending Vindax to his death? He had claimed as much to Jarkadon. Or had he been leading Jarkadon on to see how much infamy the young man was capable of suggesting? Did it matter at all now, especially to a fleeing traitor? He held up the parchment, and some of the words could be made out, some guessed at.

"No, I still can't see well enough," he said. He lowered the letter and looked down at the queen.

"Lies!" she snapped, and reached up to rip it from his hands. She tore it in half. "It was WindStriker! She wanted revenge. She has never forgiven me for escaping from Allaban. The eagles have never forgiven me." She ripped the document in four.

Shadow leaned back wearily against the end wall. He could think of no way he could use this madwoman--she would merely be a ball and chain on him.

Money? The queen wore jewels; he could take those, and if he could get into town, he could cash them in. But what in hell did he do with her? He shivered. He would have to kill her. She was the only one who had always smiled to him.

Now she had stopped ripping the whole letter and was working on it one fragment at a time.

He needed clothes first, obviously. But from where? Perhaps down in the kitchen cellars he might find some discarded rags. He might club down some servant from behind. The trouble was, most of them would be hulking lunks who could turn right around and break him in half. Then he'd have to head out into the city.

Then?

Then nothing. Even if he knew where his former estate was, he could never get to it, and it would not be a safe place anyway. When Baron Haunder had become King Shadow, his estate had been put under royal wardship--which meant that the crown had plundered it, of course. The men there would never have heard of Haunder and would have no interest in him anyway.

"Clever eagles!" the queen muttered, reducing sixteenths to thirty-seconds.

And who was king now? If the queen recovered her wits and both of them testified against Jarkadon, then who was next in line? He had no idea--one of the decrepit royal dukes probably, if he did do the honorable thing--return the queen and testify against Jarkadon--would the successor be grateful enough to pardon him? Somehow the chances did not seem very encouraging.

He would have to hide out. Now he recalled the bolt hole under the royal quarters. It had been built for just such a purpose. It was never used, and he had not even shown it to Prince Shadow; he had not even seen it since his first day on the job, five kilos ago. Perhaps even Aurolron had forgotten it. But it was furnished with two cots and a chair, water, and even books. It had three entrances, one of which led into the larders of the royal kitchens, so a fugitive could hope to sneak in there during third watch and steal food. It had spy holes. Perfect! It would be a prison, but a comfortable one, and he could vanish for ages, until long after he had been forgotten. Then he could make his escape to Piatorra.

"Come, madam," he said. "We must go." The guards might start taking sledges to the walls of the cabinet soon, seeking the secret passage.

"Where to, dearest?" she said, holding up a hand. Now he was the king again.

"Let us go and find Vindax." He helped her up.

"Good idea!" she said, and walked obediently along in front of him. He guided her down the stairs, fearful she would stumble in her long dress. At the bottom the passage ended, but there was an opening in the wall, with a massive metal door. He slid this into place and shot the bolts. Pursuers would have to break through that from a space almost too narrow to move in--the long-ago genius had planned well. He found flint and steel and ancient dried-out candles.

This way was long and complicated, and he would have to take care not to get lost or sidetracked, but his first problem, obviously, was the queen. He was not man enough just to strangle her.

The solution proved surprisingly easy. They were stumbling along a dusty underground passage, and he found a massive door standing open. Flickering candlelight showed a small empty cellar, apparently carved out of the rock itself. A dungeon, perhaps? He did not know.

"In here, Madam," he said.

She smiled thanks, thinking he was following, and then stopped in surprise. He pushed. He heaved the door closed and shot the bolts as the echoes rolled away. Then he shivered uncontrollably. Hunger would kill her? No, thirst. He would come back for the jewels--after a long time, hectodays. Poor woman! But it was her fault that he was in this mess. He stumbled away down the corridor, expected to hear screaming or banging behind him, but there was only silence.

Passages and trapdoors and concealed panels...he detoured through cellars and once through shrubbery, scuttling along like a hunted rat. But no one saw him or heard him, and all he saw of the search was once when he looked out through another spy hole and saw a band of men running. The whole palace must be in turmoil, and even the cellar areas and kitchens were stripped of people, which made his journey easier. It was the middle of third watch, too--those who had not heard the news would be in bed.

At last he reached the royal quarters and began to advance more carefully than ever. One entrance to the bolt hole was from the king's bedroom--he could forget that one. Another was from the larders, and a third from a cloakroom off a public corridor. The larders were the best bet.

He had to leave the secret ways and enter a wine cellar through the back of a cluttered and apparently useless closet. He tiptoed in the dark around great fragrant barrels, wondering if he was leaving marks in the dust. He crept up steps and peered around the corner. He scurried through a deserted kitchen and down more stairs.

The larders were pitch-dark. Wearily he went back up and found another candle and lit it. Then he descended again and picked his way cautiously between the racks and bins to the far corner. Damn! A great stack of boxes stood in the way. Sweating with fear and exhaustion and effort, he moved the whole pile forward one row, leaving a narrow space behind. With luck, no one would notice and the pile would conceal the door, for he would be coming back this way many times in the future.

At last the job was done and he could slide behind the pile and find the panel. It creaked like a clap of thunder, at least to his ears. Then he was through it, had closed it. There were no bolts or fastenings; on this side it looked like a boarded-up passage, and perhaps once that was all it had been.

The candle's glimmer showed more stairs, but this was a wide and passable corridor compared to most he had used. The steps were thick with dust. He plodded up them, wishing he had thought to grab some food while he was in the larders. At the top he reached the door to the room, but the corridor continued, running on to the cloakroom entrance. He had better make sure that that was sealed, and then he would attend to the royal bedroom exit, which was off the far side of the hideaway. Then he could go to sleep for a few days.

The cloakroom entrance was already bolted on the inside. That surprised him. Indeed, that was astonishing and quite beyond understanding. Perhaps if he were not so exhausted and emotionally battered, he could figure it out, but he was very glad he had not tried to come in that way.

He followed his flickering candle flame back to the bolt-hole door and threw it open.

The first thing to strike him was the light--the place blazed with lamps. The next thing was the heat, from the lamps and from the people. The walls were lined with mirrors or draped with scarlet cloths. The simple furniture he remembered had gone, replaced only by thick rugs and piles of cushions.

There were five people there: a whimpering, naked girl, two young men still in the process of undressing, and two already busy. He had last seen those four men a couple of hours earlier around a card table. Jarkadon was not present, but his friends were celebrating in his absence. Shadow had walked into the Lions' den.

"Let's take it from the beginning," the archbishop said wearily.

It was all too confusing. A man of his age should not be dragged from his bed before three bells and then expected to deal with some sort of major crisis on the spur of the moment. The messenger from the court--he had some fancy title which the archbishop had already forgotten--was a blithering moron who made no sense at all.

"The king has been stabbed, Holiness," the dean said.

"Yes!" the archbishop said. "I got that. Doesn't surprise me...I've been expecting it for kilodays." His first reaction to that news had been one of great annoyance. It meant a state funeral and then a full-blown coronation, and he dreaded the thought of all that effort and work. At his age, he deserved to be left in peace.

"The crown prince is out of town," the dean said, "and he may be dead also."

The archbishop held up a blue-veined hand to stop him while he thought about that. Normally the dean made sense. He was his nephew, of course, and he handled all the routine and gave advice and so on. "What do you mean, 'may'? Is he or isn't he?"

"There was a letter, Holiness, saying he had had an accident. But his body has not been found."

"Let me see this letter!" the archbishop said triumphantly.

"It has vanished," said the idiot from the court, and the dean hushed him.

"It is apparently not available, Holiness," the dean said. "The only persons to have read it were the king and Prince Jarkadon. The prince is too upset to remember exactly what it said."

"Humph!" the archbishop said. He still could not see why they needed to involve him. He huddled in his gown and wished he could go back to bed or have breakfast or something.

"It may be a few days before we know about the crown prince," the dean explained slowly. "So there will have to be a regent appointed."

"The next in line, isn't it?" the old man asked. They had told him that twice.

"Yes, Holiness, but the next in line is Prince Jarkadon, and there is some doubt..."

The two younger men glanced at each other and shrugged. The dean winced and put it into words: "It is possible that it was the prince who stabbed the king!"

"What!" The archbishop blinked. Why couldn't they have said so sooner instead of all this flapping around? "Then he must not be regent! He could not succeed. It would not be proper! Or legal."

"Exactly, Holiness."

This really was a matter for the lord chamberlain or the lord chancellor, thought the archbishop; none of his business. "Why not the queen?" he asked.

"The queen is distraught, Holiness. Quite incapable."

This was where he kept asking them to start again. He pondered. "Well, if not one of the princes, who comes next in succession?"

"You do, Holiness."

"Rubbish!" That was a ridiculous idea and rather frightening. "What about my brother, for heaven's sake?"

The dean and the messenger exchanged glances again. "He had a stroke two days ago, Holiness. He is still in a coma--and the doctors do not expect him to recover."

"What?" the archbishop said again. "Why was I not told?"

"I did mention it to Your Holiness, I am sure."

"Well..." Yes, he remembered, now that he thought about it. "Well, you mentioned that he was sick. You didn't say he was that bad. I should have been told. I ought to send him some grapes or something."

"So you are next in line, Holiness."

"Oh...pish!" the archbishop mumbled. "I refuse to get involved. Separation of church and state. That's why the cathedral is at the far end of town from the palace, you know. Ancient law. It will have to be the prince. Damn, don't you know who killed the king?"

"There were only three people present, Holiness. The prince says that Shadow did it, and Shadow says that the prince did."

"Shadow?" the archbishop muttered. "What possible motive could Shadow have?"

The other two glanced at each other again hopefully. The old relic had seen the problem at last.

After some more thought the archbishop said, "Three, you said?"

"The queen was present also, Holiness. But she is under sedation, and not making much sense. She has had a terrible ordeal..."

"Bah!" the archbishop said. "Surely someone asked her who stabbed the king? Eh?"

"Well, yes," the messenger admitted. "She said she did. And her ladies identified the dagger as being hers."

There was a pause.

"Let's take it from the beginning," the archbishop said.

Chapter 11

HOW long Shadow slept he never knew. Sleep was supposed to be very difficult at great altitudes, but exhaustion belied that theory. He awoke choking, but suddenly and completely, knowing where he was and astonished that he was still alive. He was hot. At some time he had unfastened his flying suit, but he had no memory of that. He closed it up once more, fumbling in the dark, and wondered if he dared search for his food and water. NailBiter felt him move, tightened his wing slightly, then relaxed it again. The bird would not have slept, of course, but he must be growing perilously hungry.

Shadow crawled out from under the wing and stood up and looked at that deadly stare.

"Breakfast?" he asked. "No? Well, let's get going."

Would he be allowed to dress the monster? He picked up the helmet, and NailBiter lowered his great head slightly to make it easier. Incredible! Birds were smart, Shadow knew, and if they were to be cooperative also, then things were going to be a lot different. The saddle went on, and he clipped back the blinkers as soon as possible, knowing it was a risk but anxious to show appreciation. Perhaps he had just gone mad and this was not happening at all. He scrambled back down the length of the rope to collect the grapnel and then scrambled up it again, coiling. NailBiter turned and stared at him.

Then he opened his wings a fraction.

He wanted to fly!He was trying to say that he did not want to kite!

Shadow was definitely insane.

"Okay, Naily," he said, tying the coil to the saddle, "you're the boss now." His teeth were chattering again. Every bone in his body was chattering. The stars were still there, but the shining mountaintops had changed since he last studied them; there was certainly a gap in them. That might be a shadow from Eagle Dome, or it might be the central windgap he was seeking--in either case, he must be close to the crest. If it got any higher, he was dead anyway.

NailBiter rose erect and turned his head back and forth. Then he took a few unsteady steps and stopped.

Shadow dismounted. The bird paced over the rocks, picking his footing with care--eagles were never good on their feet. He found a better launch pad, where the wind was stronger. Shadow climbed back into the saddle, tempted to pinch himself awake.

"If only you could talk, old buddy!" he said.

NailBiter crouched, spread, and leaped. For a tense moment rocky fangs snatched out on all sides, and then man and bird were airborne, fighting once more against the icy wind.

The bird was allowed to make the decisions now. Once he stopped for a rest, buffeted so roughly by the wind that his talons made scraping noises and he was continually seeking a better grip. Shadow could not have dismounted there if he had tried, so the message was clear. He was not supposed to. No more kiting!

Then there was turbulence and cold beyond belief, and he knew that he had reached the divide. And suddenly the wind was behind them. They soared and whirled up a steep cliff which must be the back of Eagle Dome, swept forward and upward relentlessly by the great wash coming down from the High Rand, starting to curve over to the right. Shadow heard himself cheering, and he reached out to rub NailBiter's comb in triumph. Then he blacked out.

He was awakened by a headache worse than anything he had ever known. NailBiter was gliding, floating down a vast gorge with the sun climbing over the horizon ahead. Shadow was stiff and frozen. His fingers and toes were numb, and when he was conscious enough to think about it, he decided that he probably had frostbite. But straight ahead must be Allaban--he had made it through Dead Man's Pass. One more for the history books.

Then a turn took them out of the gorge, and they drifted over a green countryside. He had been told that Allaban was a richer spot than the rest of the Rand, but he had seen nothing like this since he had left the Range: terraced fields and cottages and even small woods, and a prosperously cultivated hillside facing toward a white and brilliant sun. Not here the great tilted steps of the typical Rand, but gentle ridges and valleys running sunward, with many tiny dams to catch the spring, and canal's beating their lifeblood to the crops.

Suddenly the flying suit was outrageously hot and his feet and hands began to thaw in agony.

NailBiter's head flicked from side to side. Wilds! Several of them, above and to either side.

Shadow's heart sank again. His bow and quiver had vanished somewhere in the pass--but he probably was not capable of shooting an arrow into the side of a castle, let alone hitting a bird. Frantically he searched the ground below for shelter and selected a group of farm buildings.

He decided to steer for that. NailBiter ignored his signals.

On the point of imposing his will by closing the blinkers, Shadow changed his mind and decided to wait and see. He stretched out prone once more, almost too weary to care. Two of the wilds took up station to his right and three more to his left, but they stayed distant and seemed to be posing no threat--he had been given an escort. Was he being taken in under guard?

He wondered if this was what Vonimor had been warning him about. And Ukarres had said something about Karaman being a fantastic trainer of birds. Was it possible that the men of Allaban could teach eagles to perform without a rider, like dogs?

The fields raced by below him, and he saw a few men working; they glanced up to stare--as though a skyman were a rarity. There were few fences, and he could see no livestock, but there seemed to be more bicycle traffic than he would have expected.

Then NailBiter banked without warning, circled around a large huddle of farm buildings, and swooped deftly down to a landing post nearby. A place not large enough to boast an aerie would usually have such a structure, a flight of steps up to a stout wall from which the eagles could take off again.

Two weary beats of the great wings and NailBiter landed. Then there was stillness and peace and warm sunshine.

Shadow reached up and stroked the bird's comb--and this time he felt the rumble. NailBiter was pleased, too.

Shadow pulled off his mitts and counted: eight fingers, two thumbs. They hurt enough for sixty. He started to dismount but slid, fell, and crumpled limply on the platform. He sat there for a moment, trying to gather his wits. His head was spinning, and his throat and lungs felt burned raw.

First problem: There were no shackles. So NailBiter would have to stay blinkered.

Second problem: He looked around and could see no hoods or hooding poles.

With an effort he clambered to his feet, thinking that at least he could remove the saddle.

"Let us help you," a quiet voice said behind him. In turning around he staggered and sat down again, hard. He was looking at a pair of worn, patched brown trousers and two skinny bare legs. Then a hand took his and he was helped to rise; his arm was draped over thin, bony shoulders.

"Six steps," said the voice, an elderly voice. "Take your time."

Shadow wobbled down the steps, leaning on this frail little man. Then he stopped and turned around. The bare legs belonged to a young boy who had scrambled nimbly into NailBiter's saddle and was reaching up, fumbling with the buckles of the helmet.

"No hood!" Shadow mumbled urgently, feeling as though his mouth were full of sand. "Stop him!"

"That's all right," the old voice said calmly. "He won't hurt us."

Then bigger, stronger arms gripped Shadow and made a human chair and lifted him from the ground--husky, bare-chested farm workers, smelling of hay and sweat, grinned on either side of him. NailBiter's helmet fell away beyond the perching wall. NailBiter turned his head and looked ferociously toward Shadow.

Shadow tried to shout a warning and produced a hoarse croak. The boy jumped down to the platform and started on the saddle girths, and the two bearers turned Shadow around and began to carry him away, ignoring his pitiful struggles.

He had a vague impression of trees and buildings. The first speaker, the elderly man in brown, who was small and stooped and had a great shock of white hair above his weather-burned face, was walking alongside, regarding Shadow with some amusement, and the two young men were setting their pace to his.

"Congratulations," the old man said.

With an effort Shadow managed, "Why?"

"Dead Man's Pass," the old man said.

Then a dark shape flashed above them, and Shadow jerked his head back in alarm. A brown wild eagle whirled around once more. He twisted his head to see, so the men stopped and turned him so he could watch as the wild settled down beside NailBiter, a sheep dangling from its beak.

"What the hell?" Shadow said. At least, he tried to say that, but it didn't sound very distinct, even to him.

"Your friend is being helped too," the old man said.

The wild passed the whole sheep to NailBiter, who began tearing it up and swallowing it. That was not cawking ritual--it wasn't anything. Eagles did not do things like that. Vonimor had warned him. The wild spread its wings, jumped, and went flapping away over the meadow.

"He's a fine fellow," the stranger said. He wore a brown smock and brown trousers and a curiously placid, friendly expression.

"Who are you?" That came out clearly enough.

"I am Ryl Karaman."

If Shadow had been standing, he would have fallen.

"The rebel?"

Karaman chuckled, motioned for the helpers to bring their burden, and walked alongside once more.

"I suppose. And you are Shadow...and Master NailBiter?"

"How do you know that?" It was very hard to talk, and the world was fading and solidifying all the time.

He received no reply, but he was carried up steps onto a porch and laid down on a couch, boots and all. Someone gave him a mug of something wet.

"Try not to gulp it," Karaman said. "Sip it. Oh, well. Sip the next one, or you'll throw up. You're dried out like a prune."

Shadow finished the second cupful and wanted more, but they took the mug away and firm hands were stripping his clothes off. He was suddenly racked by coughing.

"Fingers all right. Looks like you may lose a couple of toes, though. And half an ear, possibly." Karaman laid a blanket over him, and someone else was tucking a pillow under his head. The roof swayed pleasantly overhead.

"The doctor will be here shortly," the old man remarked. "Try to stay awake until he gets here." He settled into a rocking chair, and the others faded back, out of Shadow's field of thought.

Shadow turned his head and forced his eyes to focus; he saw that NailBiter had finished his meal and was feaking, the equivalent of picking his teeth if he had teeth. Karaman's chair squeaked as he rocked quietly. "How did you know my name?"

The cheerful expression faded from Karaman's leathery old face. "Your friend kept calling it out."

Now Shadow remembered why he had come. "He's here? Alive?"

"He made it," Karaman said cautiously, "but only just. He's in a very bad way."

"How bad?"

"Very bad. The doctors will not say if he will live--and he will never be the man he was."

Another Ukarres? Shadow choked back sobs. "WindStriker came through the pass with him?"

"Oh, no! Not at her age. She came around the face of Eagle Dome."

"Then the wilds let him through?" Shadow asked. Someone gave him another earthenware mug, and he tasted hot milk and honey.

Karaman rocked back. "They letherthrough--she was a returning native. They thought she was carrying a corpse, and they brought her to me to get it off her thought he was a corpse, too, at first."

"I want to see him. Now!"

"He isn't here. Yes, he's in Allaban, but we rushed him down to a little place cared Femie, very low. He's being well treated, but I don't think he would know you yet."

NailBiter spread one enormous wing and set to work preening it.

Shadow's eyelids started to droop.

"You're the first man ever to make it through Dead Man's Pass," Karaman said.

The eyes opened by themselves. "Not what I was told!"

Karaman shrugged. "Eight or ten have done it from this side. None has ever succeeded coming from the left. Many have tried."

The words lay like a lump in Shadow's mind until meaning seeped out of them. Vonimor? No, not he. He was basically a decent man. He had known that the pass could be crossed, but not that it was a one-way proposition--he had been duped by Ukarres, and Ukarres had been trying to kill Shadow.

"NailBiter did it, not me."

Karaman nodded. "You unhooded him. That was very trusting of you."

Sleep was creeping up every limb, and Shadow was fighting it and losing...but now his eyes popped open again. "How do you know that? What did you do to him? How do you make the birds safe, like this? How did he know to come to this house?"

"That's too long a tale for now," the gentle old voice said. "But I did nothing to NailBiter in the pass--that was your doing. You must be a remarkable trainer. You must trust your bird greatly, and he knew that. He was greatly surprised when you unhooded him, but then he was sympathetic. He knows what you were trying to do, or thinks he does."

"What?" Shadow asked, getting sleepy again already. Karaman was trying to keep him awake until the doctor came. It wasn't going to work.

Karaman smiled, and his ridiculous comb of white hair waved back and forth as he rocked. "He had just cawked a few days before, right? A silver. Very beautiful, I am told, and very fierce. He was missing her greatly, and you were searching for your mate, too."

"I was doingwhat?" Shadow said, his eyes snapping open once more.

Karaman laughed shrilly. "People don't copulate in front of the birds--they have trouble telling the males from the females among us. You fly right behind the prince all the time, so NailBiter assumes that he is your mate. You were going looking for him--or her. He knew that WindStriker would have gone to Allaban, and you were going to Allaban. He was sorry for you, so he helped. It was nothing to do with me, and there have been very few trainers who ever won loyalty like that from their eagles."

"My God!" Shadow said, wondering if he was having his leg pulled. But Karaman seemed serious. In his weakness Shadow started to giggle at the absurdity--but to a bird his close attendance on the prince might seem like pair behavior. What would Vindax say to that? "Did WindStriker find her mate, then, too?"

"Oh, no," Karaman said. "He died years ago, in the fighting. She knew that, but she still had to go back to the last place she saw him. The eagles are much smarter than you think, my young friend, but that is a compulsion."

"Yet she knew he was dead?" The sleep was rising again, drowning him. "Somebody told her, I suppose?"

"There can be few more barbaric ideas ever invented by the kings of Rantorra," Karaman said, "than the post of Shadow. Yet you came after the prince. Why?"

"He gave me his trust, I suppose. I had to do what...I had to."

"You see? We have compulsions, too."

"Then you know who your prisoner is?" Shadow said.

Karaman's voice was coming from farther away. "A guest, not a prisoner. He wears the trappings and the signet of the crown prince of Rantorra. I don't know his name; we get little news from the kingdom."

"Vindax."

"And Aurolron is still king?" Karaman asked. "And is Alvo still duke of Foan?"

"Yes," Shadow said cautiously. Why should Karaman ask about him when they were talking of Vindax?

NailBiter reared up and flapped both wings to ease them, then went back to preening.

Shadow suddenly found that his eyes were full of tears. "You won't let me shackle him, will you?" he asked.

"No!" Karaman snapped in a totally new tone.

"I'm going to miss that big mutt," Shadow growled, mostly to himself.

"NailBiter?" Karaman asked. "You're fond of him, aren't you?"

Fond of an eagle? Strange idea!

"Yes, I suppose so," Shadow said. "But he'll try to go back to IceFire. Will the wilds let him by?"

Karaman rose and stepped over to adjust Shadow's pillow. His face was a blur against the veranda roof. "Yes, and back again. But he isn't going back to IceFire just yet."

"Huh?" Shadow murmured sleepily. Doctor or not, he couldn't keep those eyelids open...

"I said NailBiter isn't planning to leave just yet," Karaman said from a great distance. "He is going to wait until you're recovered. He wants you to go back to Ninar Foan with him and release her, so they can both be free. He told me so himself. I told him I thought you probably would."