War Maid's choice

Chapter Thirty-Three

Master Varnaythus took another sip of truly excellent wine and leaned back, glass in hand, to contemplate the images in the heart of his gramerhain. Malahk Sahrdohr had joined him in his working chamber once more, finished at last with his assumed identity as Mahrahk Firearrow. Today was the day their plans came to fruition…or didn’t. Either way, “Firearrow’s” utility would be limited in the aftermath.

“Arthnar’s men are only five miles from Chergor,” Sahrdohr reported, looking up from his own gramerhain, and Varnaythus smiled.

There was anticipation in that smile, and more than a trace of relief. Keeping all the necessary balls in the air simultaneously had been more taxing than he’d anticipated, even for a juggler as skilled he was, but he’d managed to pull it off after all. In fact, everything was coming together-down on the Ghoul Moor, as well as here on the Wind Plain-literally simultaneously. That was a piece of work his Lady was going to appreciate, given all the scores of things that could have gone wrong along the way.

His own stone showed Trianal Bowmaster’s army, moving steadily down the course of the Hangnysti River…towards a rendezvous with a rather nastier handful than they anticipated, he thought smugly. It wouldn’t be so very many hours before they were finding out about that, and in the meantime, things were shaping up very nicely farther to the north

Shaping up despite the fact that something damned nearly did go wrong, he reminded himself. I don’t know what it was, but that miserable busybody Brayahs must’ve twigged to something. Bastard. He grimaced. I wonder if it was something Myacha noticed?

He didn’t know, and it was possible he never would, given the fact that Brayahs was dead and wouldn’t be around to do any explaining. It seemed likely, though, for the more Varnaythus had studied the baroness, the more he’d come to the conclusion that she was very strongly Gifted indeed. With the proper training-and attitude-she probably could have found her own place on the Council of Carnadosa. So it was quite probable she had noticed something and pointed Brayahs at it.

Not that it mattered. Oh, if Brayahs had somehow figured out what had happened-and convinced Borandas of it-his plan for enlisting the North Riding as Cassan’s ally had probably been knocked on the head. That would be inconvenient, although it might not matter all that much in the long run. In fact, he’d realized once he’d had time to think it over, it could even work out better than the vicious political fight to name Cassan or Yeraghor regent he’d anticipated. It might even lead to open civil war between the factions…assuming either Tellian or Trianal survived to lead their faction, at any rate. And his smile was thin as he contemplated how unlikely that was.

Well, I know Tellian, at least, isn’t going to be around much longer, one way or the other, he reminded himself. And the odds aren’t looking very good for poor Trianal at the moment, either. In fact, it could be that if Brayahs and Myacha have convinced Borandas of the truth, he might end up taking over for Tellian, and he’s nowhere near the soldier Tellian was. The wind riders would still side with him, though, and with his…limited talent leading one side and Cassan and Yeraghor leading the other, any Sothoii civil war could go on forever. It might even turn into something like that neverending mess in Ferenmoss! He smiled almost blissfully at the thought, then shook regretfully free of it. But the really important thing is that whatever Brayahs might have figured out or suspected, he didn’t get to the King or Tellian to warn them.

That was the one thing which might still have defeated that prong of their strategy. No matter what happened with Arthnar’s assassins or Cassan’s men, Markhos and Tellian and everyone with them would still die…as long as they remained at Chergor. Nothing this side of direct divine intervention could prevent that, and the theory behind his trap spell had obviously been correct. He’d felt the moment when it discharged, blotting Brayahs-or some wind-walker, at any rate-out of existence when he tried to reach Chergor.

And that’s worth knowing, too, he reflected. It’s about time we started getting a handle on how to deal with the Phrobus-damned magi! And now that I know it worked, I suppose I’m going to have to go ahead and share my research with the rest of the Council after all. Pity. I hate to give up the edge over the others, but the Lady wouldn’t approve of my holding it back if we’re as close to a major cusp point as I think we are. Then again, with my notes as a starting point, maybe we can come up with a way to just kill all the bastards and be done with it!

He smiled at the thought, sipped more wine, and returned his attention to the gramerhain before him. His viewpoint shifted and swooped about dizzyingly, but he was accustomed to that, and his smile went cold and cruel as he found Anshakar, Zurak, and Kimazh haranguing their army while shamans pounded their massive drums and no less than fifty thousand yammering, leaping, bounding ghouls salavated for their promised prey.

Not long, he thought. No, not long at all now.

Sir Tellian Bowmaster leaned back in the comfortable chair, contemplating the chessboard while he considered how best to respond to his opponent’s move.

Markhos Silveraxe, King of the Sothoii, had all the fierce drive to win one might have expected in the scion of a warrior dynasty, and quite a few of his courtiers, Tellian knew, would have made sure that winning was exactly what the King accomplished. The more adroit would have contrived to lose in a fashion which disguised their intentions, but all too many of them would simply and cheerfully have thrown the game and then gushed fulsome compliments on Markhos’ skill which both they and the King would have known were as insincere as their desire to win had been.

And the King would have accepted the victory, smiling as if he were completely unaware of what they’d done. But behind his smile he would have marked them down for what they were…and he would never have fully trusted them again. Markhos was not a perfect monarch-few monarchs were-but susceptibility to sycophancy had never been one of his failings.

Tellian’s problem at the moment, however, was that although he was generally a better player than the King, this time the only options available to him were as unpalatable as they were limited. It was really unfair of Markhos to have departed from his normally aggressive, straightforward tactics and set the trap which had just cost Tellian both his king’s castle and his queen’s bishop and left his own king in check. Of course, it was his own fault he hadn’t seen it coming, and he rather suspected that his reaction when he realized what he’d stumbled into would have handily quelled any suspicion the King might have cherished about his own determination to win.

“You are going to move sometime this afternoon, I trust, Milord?” the King said now, and smiled as Tellian looked up at him sharply. Markhos’ sleek mustache was less bushy than Tellian’s, and the King stroked it with a thoughtful fingertip. “It’s not that I’m trying to rush you, you understand,” he continued, “but I believe supper will be served in only another two or three hours.”

“Your forbearance is deeply appreciated, Sire.” Tellian’s tone was…dry, to say the least. “Somehow, though, I suspect you’re not in all that great a hurry, though.”

“No?” The king arched an eyebrow. “And why would that be?”

“Because you have me well and truly in a hole, and you’re enjoying every moment of it.”

“Nonsense,” Markhos replied in a remarkably insincere tone, and Tellian smiled. “Well, perhaps just a bit,” the King conceded, holding up his thumb and index finger four inches or so apart. “I have lost the occasional game to you in the past. Of course,” his smile faded and his gaze sharpened, “I’m not precisely alone in that, am I? I really do hope this whole canal business isn’t going to turn out as ugly as it has the potential to become.”

“Your Majesty-” Tellian began, but the King’s raised hand stopped him in midsentence.

“I’m not suggesting I’m going to change my mind, Milord,” he said. “And you don’t have to bring in Yurokhas to see to it that I don’t. Not that his support would do you all that much good at the moment. I’m just a bit irked with him, given his…disinclination to obey my instructions to join me here instead of running around with that heir of yours on the Ghoul Moor.” Markhos smiled thinly. “But I’m not irked enough to change my mind about your charter. You don’t even have to get Jerhas in here for that, because the simple truth is that your entire proposal makes far too much sense for me not to support it. Yet that doesn’t blind me to how Cassan and Yeraghor are going to react-or to the fact that they’re hardly going to be alone when they do.”

“Your Majesty, I’m truly sorry my long-standing…disagreement with Cassan should have such implications for the Kingdom as a whole,” Tellian said. “I’m sure my ‘unnatural’ suggestion that we might actually try coexisting with the hradani would have infuriated someone else if he hadn’t been available, but there’s no denying the bad blood between us is like a forge bellows where his reaction to it is concerned. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there’s enough ‘bad blood’ from my side for the thought of just how infuriated he truly is-and how badly this is going to hurt him-to give me a certain sense of satisfaction.” The baron met his monarch’s gaze levelly as he made that admission. “But even so, if he’d been willing to meet me even a fraction of the way, I would have been more than prepared to set aside a portion of my own increased revenues to compensate him for what I expect him to lose in trade through Nachfalas. It would have stuck in my throat like a fish bone, but I would have done it.”

“I know you would have.” It was Markhos’ turn to sit back, laying his forearms along the armrests of his chair. “And for the sake of his father’s memory, I wish he’d been willing to accept the offer. Unfortunately, Yurokhas was right; Cassan’s mind simply doesn’t work that way.”

There was more than a hint of anger in the King’s voice, Tellian reflected, and wondered again how much of Markhos’ willingness to support his own proposals stemmed from the King’s memories of Cassan’s…incautious efforts to control him in his early days upon the throne. There were those-Tellian among them, to be honest-who were of the opinion that Yurokhas had been gifted with a significantly sharper brain than his royal brother, but there was nothing wrong with the head in which Markhos’ brain resided. In point of fact, it was remarkably level, that head, and if he was slow and methodical-maddeningly so, upon occasion-when it came to making up his mind, there was nothing hesitant about him once he had.

“I don’t suppose there’s ever a major policy choice in any kingdom where the great nobles’ rivalries don’t factor into the decision process, Your Majesty,” the baron said after a moment. “And I suppose it would be unfair-or at least unrealistic-to believe there wouldn’t be rivalries between them, no matter what else might be true or how sincere they were in their disagreements. It doesn’t necessarily need avarice and ambition to breed conflict…or hatred, for that matter. Which isn’t to suggest all three of them don’t play a role in this particular rivalry. I think Cassan and I would’ve detested each other even if we’d both been born peasants, but having the two of us as barons can’t have been easy for you.”

“Oh, you’re right about that, Milord,” Markhos agreed with a knife-thin smile. “There’ve been times I’ve actually found myself wishing one of you would just go ahead and kill the other one off, to be perfectly honest. Of the two, I’d have preferred for you to be the one still standing, although given Cassan’s…devious nature, I’m not sure I would’ve been prepared to place a wager either way. But at least if one of you’d won, I’d have had a few moments of peace after the state funeral!”

Tellian snorted, although he knew the King was as well aware as he was of Cassan’s efforts to accomplish precisely that end. Not that Markhos could ever officially admit anything of the sort without absolute, irrefutable proof-unless, of course, he wanted to bring back the Time of Troubles.

On the other hand, his extension of a royal charter is a pretty clear inclination of what he actually knows, whether he can admit it or not. Shaftmaster’s revenue estimates and Macebearer’s arguments in favor of our increased influence with the Spearmen are all very well, but there’s a part of him that shares the real conservatives’ suspicions of Bahnak and the hradani. Come to that, it’s his responsibility to share those suspicions, given all the bloodshed lying between us and them. Despite which, I doubt anyone in the entire Kingdom’s going to miss the subtext of his proclamation or doubt for a minute that he sided with Bahnak, Kilthan, and me at least in part because it lets him hammer Cassan the way the bastard deserves to be hammered.

And, for that matter, I should probably admit there’s a nasty, vindictive side of me that bought into the entire idea so enthusiastically because I knew exactly what it was going to do to Cassan if we pulled it off.

Fortunately, for all his keen intelligence, Tellian Bowmaster was given to neither second thoughts nor self-deception. He knew precisely what was going to happen to his most bitter rival’s political and economic power, and he was looking forward to it. None of which kept him from truly regretting the way in which their decades-long struggle had overflowed onto the Kingdom as a whole and the King in particular.

“Well, Your Majesty,” he said, reaching for his surviving bishop and interposing it between his king and Markhos’ queen, “we may not have killed each other off-yet-but there’s a pretty good chance sheer apoplexy will carry him off when he finds out about your decision!”

The King laughed. There might have been just an edge of sourness in that laugh, but it was genuine. And probably owed something to the fact that the move of Tellian’s bishop allowed him to exchange one of his knights for the baron’s remaining castle.

“I would like to see his reaction,” the King admitted, setting the captured castle to one side. “Unfortunately, not even a king can have everything.”

The sheer, wild exhilaration filled her mind and heart with a fiery intoxication.

The fiercest gallop upon the back of the fleetest warhorse ever bred paled to insignificance. Perhaps- perhaps — a warhorse might have touched, ever so briefly, that headlong, booming, drumroll speed, but it could never have sustained it, never maintained it for more than the barest handful of minutes. Yet the mighty muscles continued to stretch and play, the matchless heart thundered not simply with exertion but with the untamed, unquenchable power of a courser’s dauntless will, and Gayrfressa’s link to the energy which formed and sustained the entire universe burned like a coil of lightning. It poured that energy into her, and her hooves spurned the earth not for mere minutes, but for hours.

Leeana Hanathafressa was part of those booming hooves, shared those straining muscles, tasted that energy and felt it pour through her. She was submerged within the wild rush of speed, feeling it as Gayrfressa felt it even as she felt the wind of their passage whipping at her braided hair, bringing tears to her eyes. It was the first time since their bonding that Gayrfressa had truly loosed the incomparable speed and endurance of her kind. They’d touched moments of such swiftness, yet until this moment, not even Leeana-a wind rider herself, wife and daughter of wind riders-had truly grasped what it would be like. Now she knew…and as she rode the tornado named Gayrfressa, she and her hoofed sister merged on an even deeper, even more complete level.

Dimly, in the back of her mind where her own thoughts resided separately from this driving charge across the Wind Plain, she understood that part of the magic was her own love of running. Her delight in the speed of her merely human feet, of the deep breaths pulsing in and out of her lungs, of the steady, elevated beat of her heart. She knew that love for herself, and so she truly shared Gayrfressa’s passion to outrace the wind and give herself to the thunder of her hooves-to gallop until even she could gallop no more. And as that thought wended its way through her own mind, she felt Gayrfressa touch it with her and sensed the mare’s agreement, exalted and joyous despite the gravity of their mission.

She raised her head, green eyes slitted against the wind, gazing ahead. Few creatures on earth could match a courser’s sense of direction. Gayrfressa knew exactly where they were headed, and she burned her way across open fields, vaulted dry stream beds and small creeks, slowed just enough to maintain her footing as she forged across a broader watercourse, carrying both of them arrow-straight toward their goal. Leeana knew the land around Chergor well, if not so intimately as the terrain around Kalatha, yet she could never have picked out the shortest path to her father’s hunting lodge as Gayrfressa had. She wondered how the courser had done it, yet that was something not even Gayrfressa could have explained to her. The huge chestnut mare simply knew where her destination lay, and no power on earth could have deflected her from her course.

Now Leeana blinked on tears, and her heart rose as she recognized known landmarks. They were no more than a quarter-hour from their goal, the way a courser galloped, and she lowered her head once more, lying forward along Gayrfressa’s neck, cheeks whipped by the courser’s mane, and laid her palms against her sister’s shoulders and the bunchy, explosive power of her deltoideus muscles. She flattened herself, molded herself to the courser, and they and the wind were one.

Tellian stroked his beard, looking down upon a chessboard which had done nothing but grow progressively (and inevitably) worse from his perspective.

“Mate in three, I believe,” the King said genially, and the baron snorted.

“I believe you’re correct, Your Majesty. And in the interests of moving on to allow you to do something more worthwhile with your time-”

He reached out and tipped his king over, conceding the game.

“I won’t pretend I’m not savoring this moment,” Markhos told him with a smile, beginning to reset the pieces. “Of course, I’m sure you would never be so undutiful as to point out that I’d need to do this no more than…oh, another couple of hundred times to pull even with you.”

“I don’t think it’s quite that bad, Your Majesty,” Tellian corrected with a smile of his own. “It couldn’t be more than a few score games-certainly not hundreds.”

“You’re making it ever so much better, Milord.” Markhos’ blue eyes glinted with amusement.

“It’s not that I don’t-”

Tellian cut off abruptly, jerking upright in his chair. The King looked up quickly, his eyebrows rising in surprise, but the baron didn’t even see him. His eyes were unfocused, his expression that of a man listening to a voice only he could hear. And as King Markhos watched, that expression transformed itself from one of sheer astonishment to something far, far darker.

The ornamental wall barely topped the fruit trees Baroness Hanatha had had planted along the wall’s foot as Gayrfressa slowed her hurtling pace at last. The trees of Chergor Forest rose beyond the lodge, climbing the gently rolling hills between its eastern wall (such as it was) and the northernmost reaches of the Spear River. Leeana had always loved the vast, leafy hunting preserve, and the graceful, airy architecture of the timbered lodge itself, with its leaded windows, breezy verandas, and steeply pitched roof had offered a far younger Leeana a wonderful contrast from the grim, indomitable battlements and turrets of Hill Guard Castle. But as she watched that low, purely decorative wall show itself above the apple trees, she found herself wishing fervently that it was twice as tall and three times as thick.

‹ At least Dathgar and Gayrhalan heard me,› Gayrfressa pointed out, and Leeana nodded.

“I know, dearheart,” she agreed, catching the glint of a lookout’s polished steel helmet from the top of that damnably low wall. “I know. But I wish-”

She cut herself off with a grimace. She knew how she wanted the King’s Guard to react, but there was no sign they were doing anything of the sort.

I don’t suppose I should be all that surprised they aren’t, either, when all they have to go on is the word of a war maid, even if she is a wind rider, she thought.

‹ From what Dathgar’s had to say, I don’t think that’s the only reason they’re not already headed for Balthar,› Gayrfressa said grimly in the back of her brain. ‹ I wish you two-foots were just a little more like us, sometimes!›

“Unfortunately, we’re not,” Leeana replied even more grimly. “We don’t always think of the rest of the herd first, and you can always count on someone to argue, no matter how sensible your suggestion might be. And,” she conceded unwillingly, “this has all come at them completely unexpected. It’s not too surprising that there might be a certain amount of…disagreement on the best way to respond, I suppose.”

Gayrfressa snorted, slowing still further, to the fast, smooth walk of a courser, as the two of them approached the open gate in the outer wall. It wasn’t much more of a gate than the wall was of a wall, Leeana reflected. It had seemed much more substantial when she’d been younger, and she wished fervently that her childhood memories could have changed the reality.

A knot of men stood waiting as the courser swept through the gateway, ducking her lordly head to clear its intricately carved and painted lintel, and came to a graceful stop. Even she was sweating heavily after her driving run, but she stood tall and proud as Leeana swung quickly down from the saddle and bowed deeply to the redhaired man at the center of the small cluster.

One or two of his companions-predictably-looked more than a little contemptuous as she gave her monarch a “man’s” greeting, though just how they expected her to curtsy in riding breeches was beyond her.

“Your Majesty,” she said. “I apologize for intruding without an invitation.”

“Indeed?” Markhos’ tone was cool but courteous, and she raised her head to meet his eyes. “Given the news your companion sent ahead and the message you bear, invitations would seem to be the least of our concerns.”

“I’m afraid so, Your Majesty,” she agreed, and reached into her belt pouch. One of the armsmen at the King’s back stiffened as her hand disappeared into the pouch, but he relaxed again-slightly-as it emerged again with nothing more threatening than a piece of paper. “From Lord Warden Lorham, Your Majesty,” she said quietly.

The King accepted the hastily written message with a small nod, broke the seal, and scanned it rapidly. Then he handed it to Sir Jerhas Macebearer. The Prime Councilor read it as quickly as the King had, his face tightening, then passed it across to Tellian, in turn. Leeana watched from the corner of her eye as her father read it, but she’d never moved her own gaze from King Markhos’. The King’s blue eyes were intent, narrowed with concentration as he looked back at her measuringly.

“It would seem Lord Lorham confirms everything your courser already relayed to Baron Tellian’s brother,” he said, ignoring-as law and custom alike demanded-the fact that “Baron Tellian” was also her father. “He says, however, that you were the one who found Master Brayahs?”

“That’s so, Your Majesty,” Leeana confirmed. “Gayrfressa”-she reached up to lay one hand on the mare’s shoulder-“smelled the smoke, and we went to investigate.” She shrugged ever so slightly. “We found him, but it was Arm Shahana who healed him. I think he might very well have died without her, and he would never have regained consciousness in time to warn us if she hadn’t been there.”

“How fortunate she was there, then,” a slender, golden-haired man of perhaps thirty-five said. He was richly dressed and an inch or so shorter than Leeana herself, and his tone, as he stressed the adverb, was nicely seasoned with a courtier’s venom.

“I agree,” her father said in a very different voice, and the blond-haired fellow’s blue eyes flashed as they locked with Tellian’s. That flash might have been anger, Leeana thought, but it could also have been…satisfaction.

“My Lords.” King Markhos said the two words quietly, and the two men looked at him instantly. “Master Brayahs is a valued servant of the Crown, Lord Golden Hill,” the King continued softly. “Anything which preserves him for future service to the Kingdom is, indeed, fortunate.”

“Most certainly, Your Majesty,” Golden Hill replied.

Markhos held his eye a moment longer, then shifted his attention equally to Macebearer, Tellian, and a man Leeana recognized as Sir Frahdar Swordshank, the commander of his personal guard. Swordshank had just finished reading Trisu’s note for himself, and he passed it to another of his officers as he returned his monarch’s gaze.

“Suggestions?” the King inquired.

Tellian started to reply, then stopped and looked at Swordshank. The Guard commander looked back at him, and the baron gestured for him to speak first. No one could have called that gesture discourteous, but there was an undeniable curtness to it.

“My opinion remains the same, Sire,” Swordshank said. He twitched his head in the direction of Trisu’s note. “We know very little, other than that Master Brayahs believes sorcery has been at play in Halthan and that it’s apparently been used to influence Baron Borandas’ seneschal.”

“Forgive me, Sir Frahdar,” Sir Jerhas said a bit tartly, “but we also know sorcery came within a hairsbreadth of killing Master Brayahs when he attempted to wind-walk to us here to warn us of what he’d discovered!”

“You’re correct, of course, Milord.” Swordshank gave the Prime Councilor a respectful half-bow. “The question, however, is whether that sorcery reacted to his attempt to reach this particular place or to his attempt to reach His Majesty, wherever he might have been.”

“In either case, it was obviously intended to prevent him from warning the King,” Tellian pointed out in what struck Leeana as an oddly neutral tone.

“Granted,” Swordshank said, giving the baron the same abbreviated bow. “But we have no way of knowing what else might be afoot.” His gaze lingered for just a moment on Tellian’s before he looked back at the King. “I think we must assume Lord Trisu’s fear that this is a part of some larger and more complex plot is accurate, Sire. That being the case, I would greatly prefer to keep you here, safely inside these walls, until Lord Trisu and Arm Shahana arrive to bolster our strength. With only forty men, I fear we might find ourselves hard-pressed to protect you properly if we should meet an organized attack in the open. Especially if that attack might be supported by sorcery.”

“Surely your armsmen should be able to protect His Majesty long enough to get him to safety at Hill Guard!” Sir Jerhas retorted sharply.

“With all due respect, Sir Jerhas,” Golden Hill said, “no one can predict where even a stray arrow may strike, far less one which might be aimed at a crowned head. Indeed,” he looked sharply at Tellian, “Baron Tellian himself can testify to that, given his experience earlier this year.” He returned his gaze to Macebearer. “Here, at least, His Majesty is within a wall, protected from that hazard. Once Sir Frahdar has been reinforced by Lord Trisu’s armsmen, we would be far better placed to move His Majesty safely to some place of greater security.”

He’d managed to avoid mentioning Arm Shahana, the Quaysar Temple Guard detachment, or Kalatha’s war maids quite handily, Leeana observed. That was the first thing she noticed; then she saw the way her father’s nostrils had flared ever so slightly and the tiny, almost invisible muscle tic at the corner of his right eye. She’d seen that tic only rarely as a child, but she’d known to brace herself whenever it put in an appearance, and she wondered exactly what had brought it on this time. Then she realized it had been Golden Hill’s last five words.

‹ ‘Some place of greater security’ than Hill Guard, is it?› she snapped silently to Gayrfressa, and the mare tossed her head.

‹ That’s what Dathgar was suggesting,› she agreed. ‹ I don’t understand why, though. He’s my King, too, even if he does have only two-feet! I say let’s take him someplace we can protect him properly! ›

‹ They’re afraid Father might be behind it,› Leeana told her flatly. The courser’s single ear pricked in astonishment, and Leeana reminded herself not to look up at her. ‹ I haven’t seen Swordshank since I ran away to Kalatha, and I’d never actually spoken to him even then, but I’ll bet you he’s not one of the war maids’ greater admirers. And if this Golden Hill is who I think he is, he’s one of the King’s gentlemen-in-waiting…who just happens to be one of Baron Yeraghor’s lords warden from the East Riding. I’d say it’s crossed Swordshank’s mind that Father might be the one trying to influence Borandas. The idea’s ridiculous, but in all fairness, it’s his job to worry about even ridiculous things where the King’s safety is concerned. And if he is wondering about Father’s possible involvement, having me turn up with a warning may only have made him even more suspicious. That’s what Golden Hill’s playing on, and it wouldn’t surprise me very much if he’s actually party to whatever’s happening! ›

‹ You truly think so?› The notion clearly distressed Gayrfressa, and Leeana leaned her shoulders comfortingly back against the mare.

‹ I don’t have any evidence of that except for the fact that he’s from the East Riding,› she admitted, ‹ and the fact that he’s casting aspersions on Father isn’t exactly calculated to help me look at him less suspiciously. But that’s obviously what he’s suggesting, whatever his motives are, and Father can’t argue against it too strongly without making anyone else who might be inclined to wonder about his own motives-like Swordshank-wonder even harder.›

“I agree His Majesty’s safety has to be our paramount concern,” Tellian said. His tone was still neutral, but the chipped-flint anger under the neutrality was painfully evident to his daughter. “However, Chergor was never intended as a place to be seriously defended. Its wall’s unlikely to do more than inconvenience a determined assailant, and even if it weren’t, we have too few men to man it adequately.”

“But if there’s a wizard involved, and if he’s using his accursed sorcery to spy upon us,” another of the King’s gentlemen-in-waiting said, “he’ll be able to steer any attackers directly to us, wherever we might be. This is the only place Lord Trisu knows to find us, on the other hand. If we leave, he may never make contact with us-in time, at any rate.”

“Exactly.” Golden Hill looked earnestly at King Markhos. “Your Majesty, Lord Trisu did precisely what he ought to have done. He sent his message to you here by his swiftest courier, so that your personal Guard might be forewarned. But according to his letter, he also sent couriers to Balthar and Sothofalas. The instant those couriers reach their destinations, scores of additional armsmen will be sent directly here. In the meantime, Lord Trisu will arrive to reinforce us. Surely the wisest course is to wait until he does and then determine where-if anywhere-it would be wiser for Your Majesty to go.”

Leeana Hanathafressa was no mage, but as she looked around the faces of the men gathered about her father and her King, she needed no mage talent to realize what the decision was going to be.