At about the same time Sioned was watching the Desert sun glow in Chayla’s hair, Tilal was watching the dismal Syrene rain drizzle outside his tent. The message from Pol had been received yesterday on what proved to be the very last glimmer of light.
“It’s supposed to be getting better,” he groused to Andrev, shaking his head at the offer of more mulled wine. “Hints of spring, sun waking the flowers, that sort of weather. Come to think of it, slosh out some more of that. I might as well get drunk at my leisure. Goddess knows, there’s nothing else to do around this miserable swamp.”
Andrev obediently poured. Then he withdrew to stand beside the closed doorflap, silent until his lord chose to speak again. Tilal appreciated that. In fact, he was more and more impressed with the boy. There was a quiet self-possession about him unusual in one his age: a quality of watching and listening that had nothing furtive about it, only a desire to learn. He didn’t run riot like most children—making noise simply to be making it, heedless of anything but themselves. Tilal wondered if this was an acquisition of his status as a squire, along with the dark green Ossetian tunic and wheat-sheaf badge, or if he had always been this way. He reminded Tilal of Rihani at that age.
Ah, Goddess, his firstborn, his boy...
I should be with his mother right now. We ought to be together, Gemma and Sioneva and Sorin and I.
There wasn’t even anyone to drink with. Amiel was out in the rain, slogging through ankle-deep mud to check on the troops. Nyr sat and shivered in her tent—not that Tilal would have given more than a thimbleful of wine to a pregnant woman anyway. His own commander, Chaltyn, had joined Amiel. There was only Andrev, who was much too young to understand or appreciate the uses of a dozen cups of wine.
Still, Andrev was definitely an asset. What had been a slap in Andry’s face had turned out to be Tilal’s best luck of this whole bloody war. He’d gained squire and Sunrunner both in this towheaded boy whose eager smile revealed a crooked front tooth that made him look even younger than he was.
But Tilal had come to value Andrev for more than his abilities. He had grown fond of Andry’s son—though except for the Sunrunner part of it, he considered him more as Chay’s and Tobin’s grandchild and Maarken’s nephew. He was pleased by the glimpses of the man Andrev would one day be, and even more pleased that he would influence the forming of that man. Andry’s son he might be by blood and Sunrunner gifts, but Tilal would teach him the ways of people outside the insular little world of Goddess Keep, the work and duties of the great lords and princes who were his ancestors.
“Your grace! Prince Tilal!” Amiel burst into the tent, nearly knocking Andrev aside. “Ships, my lord—out in the bay with boats rowing ashore!”
“Ours or theirs?” Tilal put his wine down. Incredible how the young Giladan prince could neglect to mention the most important things first.
“Ours!” Amiel reported triumphantly. “The ones we stole!”
“Excellent!” For more reasons than one. Not only did he have an idea about using those ships—he must remember to reward whoever was in charge for sheer brilliance in bringing them back—but finally he had something constructive to do. “First make sure they really are on our side. The Vellant’im aren’t above a few tricks. Once you’ve settled that question, we’re going to take a little boat ride.” He grinned. “Andrev, stop trying to look the stalwart. Would I do that to you?”
“Don’t worry about me, my lord,” the boy replied gamely. “I’ll do what my cousin Rohannon does—find myself a corner and a bucket!”
“You won’t have to. I need my Sunrunner on his feet and able to use the light—if we ever see any again. Come on, let’s get to it. We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to improve on Pol’s scheme.”
Amiel rubbed his chin. “How so, my lord?”
“He wanted us to march up the Faolain and attack them on their way down the river. I’m not inclined to bestir myself to march that far in this muck. So the Vellant’im are going to come to us.”
Amiel’s hazel eyes, the lashes long and curling enough to be envied by any woman, blinked wide and then crinkled at the corners as he laughed. “I like it! Oh, I do like it!”
“I thought you might. Go find out if they’re really our people, and then come back here with Chaltyn and your own captain.”
When Amiel was gone, Andrev ventured, “My lord? I think I understand about getting them onto the ships, but you don’t have to risk any of your soldiers in an attack. I can do it.”
Tilal opened his mouth, then closed it again and stared long and carefully at his crooked-toblied squire, son of the Lord of Goddess Keep.
There was a full complement of highborns in the Attic that night. Riyan kept waiting for someone to remark on the mirror, hanging now above the hearth between two candle sconces. The space had formerly been filled by a framed tapestry square depicting Feruche in spring splendor, rising from flowers more properly found in the forests of Syr. This now decorated the wall above the sideboard. It didn’t quite fit there, just as the mirror didn’t quite belong above the hearth, but unbalancing Sorin’s design was secondary to hiding the mirror in plain sight.
But no one said a word about it as they stood around the room waiting for dinner to be brought upstairs. People sipped wine, talked of this and that, and generally behaved as if this were any other family dinner. Riyan began to get nervous. Surely somebody had noticed. He was about to say something himself, just to get it over with, when Kierun and Dannar flung open the door. Two burly manservants carried in an immense silver platter of sliced roast venison. In great half-moon bowls around the meat were most of the usual accompaniments: vegetables, thick-crusted loaves, hot and cold fruit compotes, cubed cheeses, and such salad greenery as the kitchen garden afforded in late winter.
“Well!” said Alasen as the platter was hefted to the sideboard. “I see somebody had very good luck in the hunt today.”
“Goddess in glory,” Evarin breathed reverently. “Andry, will you look at this? When I think of what we ate on the road, this is almost painful!”
“Two helpings of everything, Master Evarin?” Dannar asked with a grin.
“Three,” he said happily, and limped over to the table, seating himself with knife and fork at the ready in his fists.
By mutual agreement, nothing was discussed that might disturb the digestion. Everyone had had enough of tense, silent meals; everyone remembered what had happened the last time Chay had sought to get some conversation going. So everyone did his or her part in the conspiracy of civility. Certain names were not spoken; certain events were not referred to. Riyan, presiding at the head of the table, could almost believe it really was just any other family dinner. Almost. For though sixteen chairs were occupied, he still thought of family and friends who were missing. So many faces he would never see again—
And that one face that would appear when Fire was called to unlit candles beside the mirror. The three-lobed crystal lantern hanging over the table glowed with traditional flames, but he couldn’t help the feeling that those strange dark eyes watched. He glanced involuntarily to his left, where the mirror tilted slightly forward above the hearth.
“Don’t worry, it looks lovely there,” Sioned told him, leaning forward to speak around Evarin and Chayla. “I’m glad you brought it up from Skybowl to be properly admired. I meant to tell you that when we first arrived.”
“A beautiful piece, my lord,” Evarin commented.
Maarken asked Andry to pass the salt.
“It belonged to Riyan’s mother, my childhood friend Camigwen,” Sioned explained. “I suppose she’s long forgotten at Goddess Keep.”
“Not at all, your grace! I have her to thank for the still-room, in fact. It’s a marvel of logic. And someone told me it was her good, clear hand that copied the simples books from the scrawls of former physicians.”
“Her project when she was quite young. Doubtless you’ve found her spelling an entertainment in itself.”
“More wine, my lady?” Kierun inquired of Tobren, who sat between Riyan and her father. “Watered,” Andry said firmly, reaching for the pitcher. There, Riyan thought; the mirror had been commented upon and the subject neatly turned in Sioned’s inimitable style—though he’d have to remember to choose a date for its appearance.
At Riyan’s end of the table, Chayla and Evarin predictably talked medicine while Meath engaged Tobren and Andry in reminiscences of Goddess Keep then-and-now. Sioned became as quiet as Tobin, directly across from her, but Riyan had the feeling that a whole conversation was going on between them in total silence. Which was impossible with the sun down and the moons not yet risen, and the windows too far away to give light from either in any case. But the impression lingered all the same.
He heard only a little of the talk at Ruala’s end, but snatches of sentences indicated that topics ranged from children (whose were the most rambunctious: Pol’s, Sionell’s, Alasen’s, or Maarken’s; Chay finally settled it by snorting that he defied anyone to present pestilential sons to match his) to Alasen’s hilarious description of Princess Chiana’s private bathroom. At Pol’s and Maarken’s urging, Draza refought the Battle of Swalekeep using condiment dishes, winecups, and cutlery.
Every so often Riyan caught his wife’s eye, and once caught her glancing over at the mirror much as he had done. Toward the end of the meal, while the two squires cleared away empty plates before taze and the sweets arrived, Chay turned to Pol.
“It’s getting dark in here. Make yourself useful.”
Pol gave a start, then gestured with his right hand. From the tall swirls of wrought iron in the corners to the pair of sconces flanking the mirror, every unlit candle in the room flared to life.
“Much better,” Chay said glibly. “I was embarrassing all these pretty women by squinting at them. And at my age, all I can do is look.”
Tobin turned her head and arched an eloquent brow.
“Well, mostly,” he amended, grinning.
The gathering broke up slowly. At last there were only six left: Pol, Sioned, Meath, Riyan, Ruala, and Chay, who rose to his feet and cast a sour look at his nephew.
“I won’t stay for your discussion—I wouldn’t understand it. But you should know that there’s very little my son the Battle Commander doesn’t tell me.”
“So you deliberately had me light the candles,” Pol murmured.
He snorted. “That piece of pious fraud about when that mirror got put on the wall—as if I hadn’t seen Riyan unload it as if it was worth more than every bolt of silk that ever eame through Radzyn port.”
“Nothing gets past you, does it, my lord?” Sioned asked sweetly.
Eyes dancing, he accused, “Sunrunner!” and she laughed.
When he was gone, she turned to Pol. “You were a little flamboyant about it, you know. Have fun?”
“Absolutely. There’s nothing in the mirror for Andry to see.”
Riyan took his cup and moved to a chair facing away from the mirror. “Well, I can, even though I haven’t looked—but I can feel him watching us.”
“Like somebody’s ghost,” Ruala agreed.
“Well, my lady,” Meath said, “you’re the only one who can tell us anything about it.”
“It’s not much,” she apologized. “I’ve been trying to remember what my sister and I used to pretend to read when we were little. Grandfather despaired of teaching us anything. Neither of us had the makings of a scholar. And the scrolls were mainly histories, like stories you tell children at bedtime. All imagination and no substance.”
“You were both very young for such knowledge,” Pol said. “Maybe he thought the way we’re having to think now, with Jihan. Learn it early so it’s part of you and you don’t get knocked over by your own power later on.”
“Maybe. But I wish now that I’d paid more attention.” She finished off her taze and stared into the empty cup. “I remember that the way to use any mirror was to call Fire, but Rossana and I experimented with every mirror at Elktrap, from the ones in our pockets to the big one in Mother’s dressing room. Not a glimmer.” She smiled. “We were very disappointed.”
“I’m not surprised your grandfather didn’t keep any around,” Riyan said. “They sound risky things to have, for a diarmadhi who didn’t want to be known as such.”
Pol rose and approached the hearth. “Have you looked into this one yet? No? Then come tell me what you see.”
She joined him; they all did, even though Sioned and Meath would never see any reflections but their own. Rua-la’s head tilted back, and she gazed into the mirror—and her milk-white complexion turned the color of ashes.
Riyan put a hand around her waist to steady her. “What is it, love?”
“I-I know him,” she breathed. “He looks like my father!”
“Your father died of Plague the year after you were born,” he reminded her gently. “You were too young to recall his face.”
She shook her head violently, backing away from the mirror. “Grandfather liked to draw. He did that picture of you and me the day we married, remember? It was to match a portrait of my parents.” A shaking finger pointed to the face in the mirror. “He looks the way my father looks in that portrait. Thinner, and a little older, and his eyes are unhappy, but I tell you the face is the same.”
Sioned had pulled a chair out from the table and sat down in it, hands clasped quietly in her lap. “An ancestor,” she said. “You may be looking at the face of a man who lived when Lady Merisel lived.”
Shaken, Ruala asked, “But if that’s true, why did the mirror belong to Camigwen?”
“Possibly she was of the same family.”
“Of dlarmadh’im,” Pol added.
“Or,” Sioned went on, “possibly someone in her family was an enemy of this man, and kept the mirror as a token of victory.”
Meath peered up at the glass, then shook his head. “Nobody but me in there. Pol, you can see him. Does he look like Riyan?”
Pol studied the proud face, moved again by the ancient, patient sadness. “Only around the eyes, like most Fironese.” He glanced at Ruala. “No resemblance to you at all. Your eyes are green, not dark brown or black, and don’t tilt upward.” Those eyes glared at him, and he added hastily, “I’m not calling you a liar, you know I’m not. It’s just an observation—•”
“You never met my twin sister,” she snapped.
“No,” Sioned told them, “but I did once, when she was about twelve or so. Your grandfather brought her to a Rialla, You were sick and had to stay home. Rossana could have been Camigwen’s daughter—Fironese to her eyelashes.” Rising, she glanced at Meath and finished, “We’re useless here. It’s time to relieve Hollis on the watch, anyway.”
The three diarmadh’im were left alone with the mirror— and the man inside it. Ruala refused to look at it again. Riyan and Pol exchanged helpless shrugs.
“What do we do now?” Pol asked. “Ask him questions?”
Ruala straightened abruptly and started for the door. “If he answers, I don’t want to hear it. Good night.”
She slammed the door. Riyan whistled softly, a low, descending note. “This has really upset her. She’s not usually like this.”
“Pregnant women are notoriously unpredictable,” Pol replied idly. “Shall we start?”
“Start what?”
“Damned if I know.”
Long past midnight, weary and discouraged by an utter lack of success, Riyan stripped and fell into bed. Ruala wasn’t there, but he didn’t worry much; she was probably helping in the search for Meiglan. He curled up beneath the velvet quilt and was immediately asleep.
The next morning, however, they heard him all the way downstairs when he read the note left on his wife’s pillow.
Gone to Elktrap for Grandfather’s scrolls. Back in a few days.
Nothing more — but enough to make him shout for servants, soldiers, and a horse.
A short while later, down in the courtyard, his guards commander informed him that Lady Ruala had ridden out a little after midnight with a contingent of twenty — under his strenuous protests, of course, but she was sovereign lady here. Riyan strangled the urge to strangle the commander.
As he was about to order a troop of his own to ride out and bring her back, he felt familiar and cherished colors dance around him on the morning sunlight.
Riyan, don’t you dare.
He was so angry he couldn’t form coherent thoughts.
I’ll be perfectly safe, she went on. It’s not very far. Pol told us yesterday that the hills have been scoured of Vellant’im. And we need Grandfather’s scrolls or we’ll never know what that mirror really is.
Damn all strong-willed, independent, intelligent women— especially when they were right.
Very well, then, she told him, sensing what he would not say. I’II talk to whoever’s in the light whenever I can. I hope it’s someone who’ll condescend to talk to me,
Ruala—
But she was gone from his thoughts as surely as from their castle, and all he could do was stand there like a fool.
Tilal rested his back against a tree overlooking the Faolain River, watching a dragon float its stately way to its ovvn death.
His army, made up of his troops and Amiel’s, had shadowed the great ship along either side of the river, and would wait here until the Vellant’im came down on it from Lowland. Midmorning, he guessed, taking a swig of water from a skin, and he squinted at the shadows cast onto the river by trees on the opposite bank. A while yet to relax and contemplate his advantages in this coming battle that he hoped would be no battle at all.
Lovely, having half an army of physicians at his disposal. For one thing, what they lacked in fighting technique they made up for in sure knowledge of the vulnerabilities of human anatomy. He’d inspected the Vellanti corpses at the mouth of the Faolain and the precision of the death-wounds impressed even him. No flailing about with a sword, hitting anything they could; they seemed to approach each kill with surgical deliberation. Thrusts to the neck cut directly through the vital artery; those to the heart, up and under the leather chest-armor and between the appropriate ribs as if the blade had eyes. Few trained warriors tested in a dozen battles were more efficient.
The physicians were not trained warriors, of course. The fever that came over most of them had nothing to do with the veteran soldier’s battle-lust that banished all fear. They fought as they did because they were terrified and wanted out as quickly as possible. Young Chegry, who attended Princess Nyr, had admitted as much to Tilal on the ride here.
“Some really do like it, my lord,” he’d said, “but most of us are scared to death.”
One would have thought that men and women dedicated to healing injuries would balk at inflicting them. Some did, of course. They were the ones who stuck to their trade and stayed out of the fray. But it surprised Tilal that so many turned their knowledge to taking life instead of preserving it.
After further consideration, he decided it was entirely understandable. They had homes and families; they were part of the princedoms like everyone else, battling the Vellant’im who had despoiled the lands. Tilal himself didn’t much like slashing his way through a hundred bearded savages all bent on killing him, but it had to be done.
He thought again of Rihani—as capable as any man and more so than most, but in the end too sensitive for the brutality of war. Brooding over his son’s death in the empty days at High Kirat, Tilal had come to understand that it had not been the festering wound or the sickness in his lungs that had killed Rihani. He had warred inside himself, and lost.
There were people who would consider Rihani a coward and a weakling. His inability to adjust to the horrors of what he had been forced to do would have been seen by some as a flaw in his character. Tilal knew he had only been born into the wrong time, a civilized prince in a world of barbarians.
Like Rohan. But Rihani had lacked the toughness that maturity had given Rohan, which allowed him to survive the battles he fought within his own soul.
Chegry had interrupted Tilal’s bitter musings by saying something else about the physicians: that not only did they know where to strike for a quick kill, they also knew what enemy thrusts to avoid at all costs. “That’s why we haven’t lost many, my lord. We know which way to turn to keep a blow relatively harmless. Our technique may not be pretty, but it works.”
“But you’re frustrating the spit out of the Vellant’im,” Tilal smiled. “You don’t play by the rules and you don’t make the usual moves. You don’t waste energy by engaging them in swordplay, but wait until you can get in a really good hit. You don’t have the decency to stand there dazzled by their brilliant maneuvers, but slide out of the way however you can. ‘Pretty’ belongs in the practice yard to impress girls, Master Chegry.”
The third advantage to their presence was morale. The usual ratio of battle physicians to soldiers was along the order of seventy to one. In this army, it was more like ten to one. This produced a certain serenity on the part of the regulars, who knew their wounds would be treated almost immediately, with a correspondingly greater chance of total recovery.
So, as Tilal presided over the west bank of the Faolain and Amiel over the right, it was a remarkably cheerful army that waited for the Vellant’im to sail downriver into the trap.
They would have been downright festive if they’d known what that trap really entailed.
Tilal glanced at his squire, and even though the plan had been set firmly yesterday, felt it incumbent upon him to voice the usual caution about using his gifts to kill.
Andrev looked surprised for a moment, then shrugged and replied with a circumvention worthy of his father’s highly flexible reading of the faradhi ethic. “All I’ll be doing is calling Fire to whatever will catch on board the ship. The sails and hull won’t—they learned that at Graypearl and Radzyn. But there should be other things to work with.”
“Not their clothing.”
“No, my lord, of course not. Just whatever’s around them.” He shrugged. “Even if they get singed by accident, they’ll be free to jump if they want.”
The river was cold and ran swift and high this time of year, but it was probably possible to swim for shore—where the army would be waiting. Fire or sword: no choice at all, really. Tilal’s conscience didn’t bother him. He’d seen Maarken set Fire to bridges across this very river—in truth, not so very far from this spot—back in 704. It hadn’t done Maarken any irreparable moral harm. But as Andrev’s lord, as a prince, as a fond substitute parent, and as a man who had lived with Sunranners much of his life, he’d had to mention the Sunrunner vow. Especially to a boy who was the son of the Lord of Goddess Keep.
“Soon now, my lord,” Andrev murmured a few moments later.
“Really? Has it gotten that late?” He sat up a little straighter, peering upriver. “Can you see them?”
“On what little sunlight there is since the mist cleared. The ship is about two measures off, carrying a full load of Vellant’im.”
“Ha! Then Nyr’s idea about beards worked.”
“Yes, indeed.” Andrev grinned. “I didn’t know the Fironese were so hairy! Torien must have to shave twice a day!”
“Well, our little group of them have been working on theirs for three or four at least. Smart lady, the Princess of Grib. I’m going to enjoy doing business with her.”
“Oh, you mean after Prince Velden dies and Prince Amiel inherits.”
Tilal’s voice was bland as milk. “And do you really think Cousin Pol will let an obvious incompetent remain as ruling prince? Don’t be too surprised if Velden suddenly decides he’s earned a peaceful retirement and hands things over to Amiel.”
“Then Prince Cabar had better give us some help, too,” Andrev said. “And Prince Pirro, and—my lord, what’s Pol going to do about Rinhoel?”
“Whatever it is, there’ll be a long line of those eager to hold his cloak while he does it.” He eyed the boy. “You, on the other hand—what would you like to do after this is all over?”
“Continue in your service, my lord,” Andrev replied promptly. “If you want me, that is.”
“I have no complaints,” Tilal assured him. “But what about after that? You could do just about anything, you know. There are plenty of holdings throughout Pol’s lands. As his kinsman and a great-grandson of Prince Zehava, you could take your pick. Do you see yourself ruling a castle?”
“I’m not sure.” The squire shifted uneasily. “I think—my lord, you won’t tell anyone, will you?” When Tilal shook his head, Andrev went on, “I think my father wants me to be Lord of Goddess Keep.”
He squelched the urge to say, No, really? I hadn’t guessed. “What do you want, Andrev?” Then, ashamed of himself for pressuring the boy, he added immediately, “Well, how should you know? You’re only thirteen. But a Sunrunner for all your scant years. Where’s that ship now?”
“Coming, my lord. Coming!” Andrev grinned at him. “You’re starting to sound like my little brother Joscev!”
Tilal growled, instantly spoiling the effect by laughing. Goddess, he was looking forward to this. Not a hundred killings, nor a thousand, nor five times a thousand would bring back his firstborn, but it was going to feel very, very good to kill all the same.
He sat forward, elbows on splayed knees, and fixed his gaze on the bend in the river, half a measure away. A stand of trees and the four burned cottages tucked beneath them formed a screen to prevent the Vellant’im from catching sight of the ambush. Unhappily, Tilal’s view was obscured as well. But he had Andrev—and all at once the boy jumped to his feet.
“Easy,” Tilal cautioned, amused that suddenly the impatience was all on the squire’s side. “Tell Chaltyn to send word down the line.”
Tilal pushed himself to his feet, sliding deeper into the cover of the trees. Timing, he told himself, it was all in the timing. He and Amiel must hold their people back or be seen too soon. Andrev could not begin his Fire too late or the river’s speed would carry the ship out of range. Except for the one who spoke something akin to the barbarians’ language, AmieFs four bearded Fironese must all be high in the riggings, out of danger.
Many of the Giladans and THal’s own Ossetians had experience with ships, and gave the Fironese physicians intensive instruction. The major problem of impersonation had been solved when a rich merchant’s daughter from Graypearl had offered her gold bracelets. They had been a gift from her Chosen when she left Dorval to become a physician. From each tiny link of the chains hung small, delicate golden beads.
Her eyes filled when she handed them over; she knew not whether her lover still lived, and the bracelets might be all she would ever have to remember him by. Tilal and Amiel promised her that every bead would be retrieved and remade into twin wedding necklets, and beside every one of them would be an emerald—gem of healing—added by them.
After the bracelets were taken apart with thin surgical probes, the beads were threaded through Fironese beards. They were too small to match the Vellanti version, but at a few paces the impression was good enough. Closer, things became riskier. Which was another reason why the majority of the men had been told to climb the riggings and stay there.
Andrev reported what Tilal had hoped: Vellant’im on board, all serene. Now, if only everyone else stuck to their timing...
The ship appeared around the bend in the river. Tilal caught his breath. He heard Andrev come back to his side, felt the boy tremble with eagerness. The laden ship rode low in the river, more beautiful than a vessel that had brought such death and destruction had a right to be. But beautiful it was. The dragon head rose and dipped with proud majesty, the sails spread like wings about to sweep down and lift the ship into the air. He stared at it, thinking that whatever else these savages were, they had a thing or two to teach the shipwrights of Einar and Waes, Port Adni and Sandeia. The masts were as tall as towers. To stand in the nests atop them would be—
He saw it at the same time Andrev gasped. “There’s no one up there! Not in the nests or the rigging!”
“Take a closer look at the deck. Tell me what’s going on!”
It took only a moment. “They—they have Prince Amiel’s man, my lord. With a sword to his throat.”
“What about the others? Can you see them?”
“No-no, my lord. There are so many of them with beards—“
“Chaltyn!”
The commander was beside him at once. “My lord?”
“We’re in trouble,” he said grimly. “Andrev says they’re holding our man at sword point. They must’ve been found out. The other four may be dead.”
The ship was within easy sight now. On the short upper deck the crush of Vellant’im parted, and Tilal had an all-too-clear view of the Fironese physician and the two men who held him captive. His hands were pinned behind him, his head wrenched back by the hair. The blade shone at his exposed neck.
“Why did they let him live?” Chaltyn whispered.
“What?” Tilal turned from the infuriating scene.
“They’ve killed everybody else they could get their hands on. Why not him?”
“How in Hells should I know?”
“Maybe—“ Andrev hesitated. “Maybe they want him as a hostage. Or to tell them what he knows about us.”
“Or maybe they know that we value every life,” Chaltyn said.
“Maybe, could be, perhaps—hush up and let me think!” Tilal ground his teeth. “Right,” he snapped with sudden decision. “They want to talk to us. That’s why he’s alive. He understands both languages.”
“Son of a—“ Chaltyn glanced at the boy and swallowed the rest. “I’ll go,” he said.
“No, you won’t,” Tilal replied, and strode out of the trees down the steep slope toward the river. “Damn it,” he muttered to himself on the way, “why is it nothing ever happens the way it’s supposed to?”
Sailors more expert than Amiel’s collapsed the sails with enviable swiftness. A moment later the anchor splashed into the river. The current tugged at the ship but could not carry it any farther. It rode just out of arrow-shot of where Tilal stood.
“All right, you whoresons,” he granted. “Here I am. Talk to me.”
“My lord!”
Unaccented except for the lilt of a mountain-born Fironese, the voice belonged to the captive.
“I’m listening!” he yelled back.
“My lord, I am to tell you that you are to—to surrender!”
Tilal drew in a deep breath and used it in laughter that echoed off the opposite shore.
“They say they don’t want to waste their time fighting, my lord! There’s a big battle coming up at Skybowl and—“ He blurted with pain, as if his captors had decided he spoke too many words for the content of their message.
“Tell them that if they want us, they can come ashore and take us—if they can!” His mind was a torrent: Skybowl? Why? When? Three thousand of them—if these make it, which they won’t—but how can I work it without losing that man’s life? And what about those stupid pearls?
As if hearing his internal question, the voice shouted, “My lord, they have told me to say that with the Tears of the Dragon, they are invincible and you have no hope!” He spoke faster now, his words racing Vellanti patience. “They number one hundred eighty, some wounded—the pearls are carried by the one with a horn at his belt—he wears a badge with a wheel device—ahhh!”
Tilal winced in sympathy. He knew the sound of a fist in the belly when he heard it. “Tell them there’s another army waiting for them at the mouth of the Faolain! Their own ships have fled! Tell them that they’re the ones without hope! And tell them that if you’re harmed, I’ll cut off their balls and then let them live!”
There was no reply. He narrowed his gaze, then cursed and pulled Rihani’s long-lens from his belt. Senile at forty-five winters, not to have remembered it earlier. Yet as he put it to his eye and found the upper deck, he wished he hadn’t. The physician was on his knees now, curled over. There was a second sword now, one at his back joining the one still pressed to his throat. The man’s head lifted. His right eye was swollen nearly shut, and blood smeared his lips and chin. Tilal took an involuntary step back; the dark eyes seemed to be looking straight at him.
“My lord!” the call came, weaker now. “The others are dead. There’s only me! Tell Lord Andrev to call his Fire now!”
And on that word he lurched back onto the swordpoint. Agony was there and gone so swiftly in his face that Tilal cried out and dropped the lens. He didn’t need it to see the man fall forward onto the deck, the sword embedded in his spine. Physician—he knew the quickest way to die—
“Andrev!” he bellowed. “You heard him! NOW!”
Fire sprang up from the physician’s corpse. And at last things began to happen as Tilal meant them to.
Andry was strolling with Tobren in the maze garden when the little girl half-stumbled against him. He caught her, started to speak—and felt colors swirl around her, bright with triumph. He’d seen them many times before, though never in sunlight; the mirror he’d shattered had been a useful way to discover a Sunrunner’s colors, and perhaps such teaching had been its intended function. He knew Andrev because of it, and hesitated only a moment before weaving himself into the glowing skeins that linked his offspring. —we got them all, Tobren, either our swords or the river when they jumped and tried to swim! It was hard, calling Fire like that, but—
The rush of words ceased. Andry spoke gently into the silence. It’s only me, son. Goddess greeting to you, Sunrunner. I take, it you won the battle?
Father? Uh, yes, we did, my Lord. We didn’t lose many, only fourteen. I called Fire to the ship—well, to the physician who ‘d died, because I thought he ‘d want to be burned instead of the river getting him—was that right?
Very right. How is Prince Tilal?
Fine and unhurt. Prince Amiel twisted his ankle on a rock underwater, but he didn’t even notice it until later, he was killing so many of them.
Tobren asked, What about you? Are you all right?
Not a scratch. Andrev sounded aggrieved. Prince Tilal has me guarded so close that I never get the chance to get scratched!
And a good policy it is, Andry said. You’re his Sunrunner as well as his squire.
Another silence, while a living rainbow spun around them. At last Andrev ventured, Father, I know you didn’t want me to go with—
We’ll talk about that some other time. For now, be assured that I’m proud of you, Andrev. You’ve done your duty to your lord and to Goddess Keep. That’s what counts in the end.
The boy’s colors shone. Thank you, Father! I’m trying my best. Oh, I almost forgot! Prince Tilal says to tell you we got the pearls back. He went himself to look at every single corpse that washed up onshore, and for a while we were scared that the man holding them might’ve washed downriver. But we found them, and now he wants to know if he should give them back to Lady Karanaya or keep them.
Emm. Hang on to them for now. There seems to be power in them—
Is there ever! I held them in my hand and they almost burned!
Do they? That’s intriguing. Bring them with you to the Desert, then. Are you going by boat or on foot?
Prince Amiel’s taking the ships. Prince Tilal’s going to march, thank the Goddess!
Andry and Tobren laughed, and she said, You’re luckier than Rohannon! He’s still with the Kierstian fleet, Uncle Maarken says, going to Snowcoves!
What’s Tilal got in mind? Andry asked.
Just a moment, please, Father. I want to ask him and make sure I’ve got it right.
They waited, he and Tobren. She was leaning against his side, as easy and trusting as her colors woven around and through his.
You’re not mad at Andrev anymore?
I never really was, darling. At Tilal, yes, for not sending him back to us at Goddess Keep. But I was thirteen once, you know—hard as it may be for you to believe it!
She laughed again and the light danced around her. He rejoiced in her golden beauty of amber and topaz lit with luminous moonstone white. Jinan had been very different— deep, intense colors, edged in onyx, a pattern of mystery and dark power. But perhaps that was only his distaste for diarmadh ‘im—
Father? Tobren?
Still here.
Tilal says this: Amiel is going to Dorval to pick up Prince Ludhil and his troops, because we’re going to need them. Even with those we got rid of today, there should be something like three thousand to march on Skybowl—
Skybowl? The light tilted wildly around him as he remembered the Goddess’ crystal globes.
That seems to be their plan. It had something to do with the pearls, and the High Warlord, and a ceremony. Nobody here knows what or why.
Pol said that Skybowl is the best place for a battle, Andry mused. And I have pretty much the same feeling myself. So we’ll all meet there, one way or another, shall we?
It looks that way—unless Prince Pol wants us somewhere else. From what you say, he doesn’t. I’ll tell Prince Tilal that. We ‘II bring the pearls with us. Maybe we can draw them out of Radzyn or somewhere and make them fight for them, and kill a few more so there won’t be so many at Skybowl
Leave military management to those who understand it, Andry warned. You’re a Sunrunner.
Yes, my Lord. Chastened, Andrev paused before continuing, Is Princess Meiglan found yet?
Something else glinted on the edges of Andry’s mind, something that made the correct sum out of Skybowl, pearls, Meiglan, Chayla, and ceremony. He couldn’t quite grasp it.
No, Tobren was saying sadly. Lord Kazander—I’ve told you about him, the crazy one who likes Chayla—he’s gone after Princess Meiglan, and Jeni at Skybowl says Lord Sethric of Grib is doing the same.
The Desert’s a big place, even just from Feruche to Stronghold, Andrev worried. Does anybody know where to look?
We’ve all been searching on light. But there’s nothing to be seen. They’re being very careful how they move. Chayla saw her a few days ago when they rode by, but that’s the last anybody knows of her.
Andry entered the conversation again. We ‘II let Pol know what you’ve told us. Congratulate Tilal and be sure to give him my thanks for taking good care of you whether you like it or not!
I will, Father.
I am proud of you, my son, Andry finished, and withdrew to let the children say their own farewells.
He held Tobren closer, concentrating on that elusive equation. No, it was gone now. When she returned, looking up at him with a smile, he smiled back and took her with him to find Pol.