Stronghold Page 17

  The enemy held the port. Their ships sailed in to safe harbor. Much of the town was ablaze, but they had been careful to spare the docks. From here they disembarked in their hundreds, tall bearded men with fierce faces. She saw them meet up with those who had gone around behind Riverport where there were no protecting walls, and with those who had joined the festival the night before to set fires that still burned. She heard them laugh, listened to their strange language that sounded a little like rituals sung at Goddess Keep. The words were slurred and rough, lacking the beauty of Jolan’s poetry. She heard screaming too, louder and louder until she knew she must echo it or go mad.

  Her own voice terrified her. But the sound helped. Her ears responded—her own ears, not the Goddess’—and the giddiness of vision left her. She raised her head, sucking in shallow breaths. Long shafts of sunlight poked through clouds of smoke. Dazed, she stared as if written in the sky was something she ought to remember. Sunlight. Something about sunlight—

  Andry. She must find him. He must be told so he could warn everyone, tell them to make ready for war, tell them to flee—

  Oh, Goddess—her family—her brother. She lunged to her feet as a faint cry came from the direction of the manor house. Running, stumbling as much as she ran, she topped the small rise and looked down into the sheltered hollow just as the torches were flung onto the roof. The dry thatch caught instantly. The door had been barricaded with boards torn from a fence. And there were more screams from inside, screams that gradually stopped.

  Tall, bearded men paused to admire their handiwork. She counted twelve—too many for so insignificant a place. But then one of them called an order, pointed in the direction of the next small manor, and she knew they intended the same work at all the holds along the coast.

  If it was Fire they wanted, then Fire she would give them.

  A man bellowed in surprise and pain as flames sprouted from his chest. The one next to him was soon running like a wolf in a brushfire, trying to escape the blaze searing his back. She drew a circle of contracting Fire around one man and sent it writhing up the crimsoned sword of still another. She ignited this one’s hair, that one’s eyes. Power flushed through her as if the Fire she called spread through her blood, lit her very bones. She began to laugh as she turned to kill the rest who had murdered her family, her brother.

  She was looking straight at an archer’s long, steel-tipped arrow. She set his drawn bow on fire in the same instant he released the string. And from a great distance she felt steel pierce her breast.

  She knew there must be physical pain. But it was strange not to feel it as part of herself. What she felt instead was the fracturing of the pattern of colors that was hers alone, her unique identity. Her Self shattering, stained glass shards on the ground; her mind unraveling, threads picked from a tattered tapestry. By the time she felt the excruciating agony brought by iron in a working Sunrunner’s blood, there was not enough of her left intact to scream, even with her mind.

  The archer cursed and dropped his bow. The sorceress lay still, her eyes wide open to the smoke-filled sky. Her chest rose once or twice, rose no more. He knelt beside her, wiping sweat from his face, and tugged the rings off her fingers. Returning to his fellows—half of them dripping with hastily applied water, one of them curled in agony on the ground—he showed them the dainty circles and grinned. He’d wear them twined into the hairs of his beard, and gain high honor as being among the first to kill a sorceress.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Eight

  There was a monotonous rhythm about the day, like the dripping of a water clock. Booted feet marched in precise meter from one dwelling to the next; boards were secured across doors and windows with steady beats of hammers on nails; even the shrieks of the dying had a certain cadence.

  Along the strip of coast between the Pyrme and Faolain rivers, few survived to wonder who commanded the dragon ships. Gilad Seahold, signaled an easy prize by the torch flung over its walls, was gutted by fire, and all its people perished. Manors and cottages burned with their living occupants inside. The destruction was absolute. All that was taken were the horses. Plow-elk had their throats slit; food animals—swine, geese, goats, cattle—were burned in their pens or killed with a sword thrust and left to rot. The bounty of autumn harvest, stored in barns and sheds crammed with fruit, grapes, grain, and vegetables, was fired as well. The invaders brought no carts and took none to transport food for future use. They had no interest in salvaging what might feed their army; they were interested in horses and fire, and that was all.

  There were no battles. The people in the holdings might not have existed, except for the slight trouble it took to kill them. There were no rapes, no maimings, no tortures. Simply death. Men, women, and children were of as little account as farm animals and food stores. Horses and fire; that was all.

  The first village to burn was twelve measures in from the coast, a pretty place overlooking the river, where white flowers carpeted the hill in spring. By noon of that first day the hill and its village were black, but for the stark white bones of its ninety-six inhabitants.

  The first substantial manor to burn was twenty measures up the Pyrme, a rich place with ten horses in a small paddock. An altercation broke out when two men claimed the same gelding. This provided the youngest son of the house a chance to run. The man who slew him was mounted on his father’s favorite mare.

  The first castle to burn after Gilad Seahold was thirty-eight measures from the sea, a minor holding of little importance to anyone other than those who lived there. Rising smoke had warned the athri, and he ordered his two grown sons, his daughter, her husband, and the castlefolk to prepare for war. His had once been a strategic keep, but a hundred years and more had passed since the last siege. There were weak places in the walls, and the moat had not been dredged in anyone’s memory, and the great iron bars binding the wooden gate had grown rusty. The castle was ablaze before noon.

  Again the yield was horses—only six this time, but of prime quality, the stocky Radar Water breed characterized by white feathery tufts at ears and hooves. Neither as swift nor as elegant as Radzyn horses, still they were well-suited to carrying riders over long distances. Of the hundred men who had marched up the Pyrme River that dawn, over half were now mounted.

  • • •

  The sun rose with majestic unconcern, lavish with the light that was a Sunrunner’s life, but Meath was in no state to use it. He knew he had crossed water; there was no mistaking the searing ache in his skull, the flashes of pain behind his eyes, the sore muscles of his stomach. He knew he had spent much of the night and half the morning lying rigid with misery in the bottom of a sailboat. He remembered the stars overhead quite clearly, mocking pinpricks of light that hurt his eyes. But the rest of his memory was confused by odd impressions of a long ride, ships, fire, arguing with Chadric—and seeing Audrite’s birthplace, Sandeia, in flames. He understood none of it. A faradhi’s ultimate irony: his only certain memory was of that insane sail in the middle of the night, the sea crossing that had addled the rest of his brain. He could relive it in helpless detail from his first step into the boat to the time he was carried onto dry land. He must have fainted then, and wondered with dull resentment why the Goddess had not allowed him oblivion long before.

  Currently he lay prone in a thicket of berry bushes. He dared not raise his head—not yet, anyway, not until he was sure he could do so without losing consciousness again. So he concentrated on rearranging his memories into coherent order.

  Graypearl was the start—and with that single word everything rushed in on him and he nearly groaned aloud. He had called down Fire on the strange, square sails while the ships were still in the channel, the effort and the distance so great that he sagged with exhaustion. No energy left even to rage that his work was so feeble, that not one ship had burned. But the town did, and he had joined Ludhil in persuading Chadric that there was no hope. The palace was indefensible. It had been lost the instant the invaders s
warmed up from the beaches to the port.

  “If this was a castle, we could bring everyone inside and wait for help from Radzyn or Riverport. But the hill and these walls are no fit protection.”

  Hurtful enough to remember the heartbreak in Chadric’s eyes as he gave the bitter command to flee. Worse to think of topping the last hill after a frantic ride and finding Sandeia in flames. Sudden hope when Ludhil remembered the family’s sailboats in the nearby cove; nightmare descent down the cliffs, already sick with what he knew would happen once he was on the water. And Chadric’s anger when Ludhil thwarted his intention to stay and fight.

  “Going into the hills, are you, and lead the resistance? You’ve got two choices, Father. One, you climb in that boat without a fuss. Second, I put you in myself. Which will it be?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  The younger man gave his father stare for stare.

  Ludhil tricked them into thinking he would jump into the last boat as it breasted incoming waves. Instead he waded back onshore to join those for whom there had been no place on the tiny craft. They would meet up with shepherds and silk-farmers and pearl-fishers and fight the invading enemy. The scholar’s slump gone from his shoulders, Ludhil had raised his hand in silent farewell to wife, children, parents, friends, before turning to command his pitiable beginnings of an army.

  But Iliena did something then that nothing in anyone’s experience of her prepared them for. She stripped off her heavy cloak, broke the laces of the woolen skirt around her waist, and with a flash of long bare legs dove into the water. Shouts alerted Ludhil; he met his wife in chest-deep surf and carried her onshore.

  Their sails were seen from Sandeia, but the wind cooperated and took them swiftly out to sea. Not that anyone attempted to follow—four small pleasure boats against the night sea? They would founder before reaching safety. One of them did, overloaded with panic-stricken servants. Meath had vague memory of sopping-wet forms crowding in beside him, weeping at the loss of others who were not strong swimmers. Someone sobbed hysterically that they would all be drowned; there was a sharp crack of palm against cheek, and silence but for a few whimpers.

  That the other three boats came through safely was due to the skills of Chadric, Audrite, and the young woman who had taken command of the boat that would have been Ludhil’s. But it had been a near thing just the same. Now they were on one of the Small Islands, it was full daylight, and they were only waiting for Meath to weave sun in the direction of Radzyn Keep and help.

  He wished he could oblige. The only ships he’d ever been on were the sleek cargo vessels that took silk and pearls to the continent. He had never been sick like this in his life. His head felt ready to burst and every muscle in his body had twisted. He squinted into the warm sun dappling his face and beseeched the Goddess for strength. No Sunrunners ever died crossing water—they only wished they could.

  Every breath hurt. He managed to get one elbow beneath him and lift his head. There was a girl nearby sitting watch over him. The sun shining on her hair turned it almost red-gold.

  “Sioned?” he tried to say. But the sun exploded and he knew nothing more.

  • • •

  Evarin studied Andry’s face carefully. “No, not yet, my Lord,” he said with regret. “The eyes are still yours, and the chin is all wrong.”

  “Do you spend that much time staring in the mirror?” Andry grinned at him. “I never thought you so vain.”

  “Or pretty enough to gaze at myself in awestruck wonder,” the young physician retorted lightly. “But it’s the face I shave every morning, and, though ill-favored, my own. Now, narrower through the jaw, and concentrate harder on the eyes.”

  Riding was so instinctive that Andry didn’t even have to think about controlling his horse, especially through the soft hills of Ossetia that rose in green-gold radiance beneath his mount’s hooves. If only he could find the same effortless control over the spell he was attempting, he would count the day almost perfect. It was a fine, breezy autumn morning and they had made good time from Goddess Keep, using shortcuts that often bypassed the main road. A brief foray on the early sun had shown Andry that his mother was awake, sitting up, and glaring at Rohan, who had evidently taken it into his head to feed her her breakfast. The stubborn determination on both faces and the knowledge that she was recovering had made Andry laugh aloud. It was with a lighter heart and a smile on his face that he had set out today, and the ease of mind had prompted him to have Evarin teach him the shape-changing trick.

  He was not a success. His features stayed his own. The Master Physician corrected and encouraged, but the likeness was not a good one. At last Evarin sighed and shook his head. “It’s as if I’m looking into a mirror cast with a spell that will show only you—trying to match up the faces.”

  Andry relaxed his efforts and rubbed his forehead. The strain had begun to give him a headache. “I wonder if this trick would fool that mirror of mine. We’ll have to try it one of these days.”

  “I don’t think it would be confused. It identifies a person’s colors, after all, not faces. And if you’ll forgive my saying so, my Lord, this isn’t a ‘trick.’ It has vast potential.”

  “True. But I don’t know any woman I’d like to fool into thinking I’m her husband in order to charm my way into her bed.”

  Evarin laughed. “To which I’m supposed to reply, ‘You’d never need to!’”

  “Always tender of my conceit!” Andry grinned. “But admit it, this is just a trick for now, like my mirror. I’ve yet to figure out a use for the thing.”

  Evarin ducked a branch as they turned into a small wood. “It’s a pity no more were found.”

  “I could still throttle Chiana for shattering the one Mireva used on her. But I suppose it wasn’t her fault.”

  “There’s nothing in any of the scrolls that mentions mirrors?”

  “Not a single word. It’s as if Lady Merisel didn’t know they existed. I’d give a lot to find out how they work—but most of all how to make them.”

  “It makes me nervous even to think about it,” Evarin admitted frankly. “But I know what kind of mirror I’d make—one to show exactly what was wrong with someone before the first hint of a complaint.” He paused to let Andry precede him through a narrow passage between trees. “Imagine it, my Lord—knowing in advance about a canker or a rotting tooth before it began to hurt, when I could do something about it. I wouldn’t have to rely on a faraway Sunrunner’s observations and then make my judgment. I’d just say the name of the patient and see for myself.”

  Andry smiled at him. “Your idea of power is very simple, isn’t it? A mirror of benefit to all. It wouldn’t be that way with others. Which leads me to think that perhaps Merisel did know about mirrors, and deliberately suppressed the knowledge. She seems to have done that quite a lot.”

  “What sort of mirror would you make, my Lord?”

  He considered. “I don’t know. Perhaps—”

  He never finished the thought, reining in so abruptly that his startled horse went back on its haunches. Down below, in a fold of the hills where the Pyrme River marked the border with Syr, a farmhouse roof was burning.

  “Gentle Goddess! Quickly, my Lord, there may be someone who needs help—”

  “No,” Andry breathed. “Look at the doors and windows.”

  Rails torn from a nearby fence had been nailed across the entrance; the shutters were similarly barred. Smoke slithered from the sills, and as fire ate wood from the inside the gray-black tendrils grew to billowing clouds. Andry had been present at enough funeral rites to know the smell of scorching flesh. And this had no herbs or oils to disguise it.

  “There’s no one alive down there,” he whispered, caught by horrified fascination. “They were deliberately trapped within and the house torched.”

  “But by whom? To what purpose? Prince Kostas can have no quarrel with Prince Tilal! They’re brothers!” Then Evarin gasped. “My Lord! Look!”

  Moving north
along the river was a group of armed men, their swords and shields and spears dancing with sunlight. Andry counted a hundred, over half on horseback. The colors carried on a pole before them were unknown to Andry—deep greenish blue like the sea, crossed with two vertical stripes of blood red. But the faces were familiar enough to stop the breath in his throat: dark faces wearing beards decorated with small golden beads. One for each kill, he thought dully. One for each enemy slain.

  And how great a prize would be the Lord of Goddess Keep.

  Outrun them? Tibaza was one of his father’s stallions, quick and canny, and they had only Kadar breed. But their mounts were fresh; Tibaza had several days of hard travel behind him. And the carnage down below told him something extremely important: no one was being left alive. If they caught sight of him and gave chase, he trusted his horse’s great heart and speed—but they would not rest until they found him. Better to escape notice, hide, and give warning. His eyes ached with the memory of Radzyn in flames.

  Reining his horse around, he plunged back into the shadowy depths of the wood. Evarin followed. Andry hoped the enemy was far enough away not to hear—every twig that cracked beneath the horses’ hooves seemed horribly loud to him. The words of Jolan’s evening song came to him, an urgent plea to the Goddess now, not a pretty ceremony: Lady, protect us from the dark time of night.

  • • •

  What would my father have done?

  The question haunted Chadric. Fortunately for his ability to function—not his peace of mind, he would never have that again and he knew it—his father’s spirit did not haunt him. There was no gruff voice on the morning wind, no glimpse of aged eyes, faded but sharp, to pass scathing judgment. If there had been, he was certain he would have put his head in his hands and wept.

  Meath had spoken of the old prince back at Graypearl. “Your father was never one to belabor the obvious, my prince. Stop castigating yourself. Lleyn would have agreed that this is the only course open to us.”