Stronghold Read online

  Chadric had hoped his self-loathing was more or less concealed. But Meath had been a student of Lady Andrade, she who had taught her faradh’im to read faces as easily as the pages of a manuscript.

  Chadric sat apart from the others on the narrow beach, waiting for the sun to dry his salt-stiff garments, hoping that no one, not even his wife, would approach him. There was a certain solace in solitude right now. But it also left him alone with his thoughts.

  The huge ships had birthed scores of smaller boats. From these the invaders swarmed up to the port and Graypearl itself. His lovely jewel box of a palace was not made for defense; it had never had need of defending. Knowing that if the port fell, the palace would be next, he sent his guards down to join the townfolk in fighting for their homes. Had he been even ten years younger, he would have joined them. He would have stayed, would have fought beside his people. But there was no place from which to fight. He had been a squire under Prince Zehava, a warlord who had forgotten more about armed conflict than anyone else had ever learned. Zehava had taught him how to take and how to defend, but not even he could have held this palace that was not built for war. Chadric had gallant people and brave guards and not enough of either to make a victory. Besides, he was too old. It had been fifty years since he’d raised a sword beside Zehava in battle against the Merida. Only a fool would stay.

  It was Audrite who proposed Sandeia, snuggled in a cove on the southwestern coast of the island. There they could be safe, she said. They could take as many with them as there were horses in the stables. They could wait there for help to come, make a place for their people to rally.

  So they mounted horses half-crazed with the smell of smoke drifting up from the port, and fled. The road to Sandeia was a familiar one to Chadric, even at night; it took him back to the rainy spring he’d spent convincing Audrite to marry him. Each morning he’d ridden to Sandeia, painfully aware of her father’s decision that at the Rialla she would Choose her husband. Every bend in the road, every view of the sea between hills held memory of some persuasive speech formed during the day, some curse hurled against himself that evening for not saying it right. But one afternoon she accepted him, and the next morning they rode back to Graypearl together.

  They would never ride this way again, he thought as the measures lengthened behind him. He looked back only once. Graypearl was hidden, but the glow of fire was not.

  “Don’t, love,” she had murmured beside him. “It will only hurt worse.”

  “It can’t hurt any worse,” he answered, and they rode on.

  He had spoken too quickly. Sandeia offered no refuge. It was ablaze from granary to manor house. The anguish in his wife’s eyes as her childhood home went up in flames hurt Chadric even more than the loss of Graypearl.

  But the nearby cove and its sailboats had not been discovered. On the steep climb down the cliff Chadric fought a private battle with himself. It was the duty of a prince to protect and lead his people. He had failed miserably at the former—through no fault of his own, others would say. But he could still lead them to safety or against the enemy. He knew his people; never would they submit. Since the long-ago days when faradh’im had dwelled exclusively on the island, giving it a protection even more potent than that of the princes who ruled later, the proud and independent Dorvali had considered themselves above the petty conflicts regularly suffered elsewhere. None would meekly bend the knee to a conqueror. They would fight—not in the kind of battle Chadric had learned in his youth, but with stealth and cunning. He was too old to fight beside them, but he could be their symbol, their rallying point.

  The foolish delusions of an old man, he realized now, narrowing his eyes to stare out across the channel. By daylight he could not see the flames he knew must still be burning. There was smoke, though, a grayish haze carried by the wind. He could do nothing but wait for Meath to recover and spin sunlight. Wait for Chay to send a ship from Radzyn. Wait for the blow to fall there—if it hadn’t already.

  I’m too old, he thought. It galls me to admit it, but it’s true. What’s worse, I’m not the only one who’ll realize that in the next days. Chay, Rohan, Volog—we’re all of us too old. It’s our sons who’ll do the fighting.

  He watched the island until his eyes burned, as if to catch sight of his own son. Ludhil was a student of the world around him, not of war. He knew the meaning of the wind and the currents in the sea and the ring-patterns in a felled pine; his careful, scholarly books were in the scriptorium on Kierst and in Rohan’s own library. Chadric and Audrite had not raised him to be a warrior. But that was what events would make of him. He had only his long-ago squire’s training to guide him, and he would have to use it well—or die. I knew he’d stay, and his Iliena with him. From the moment he forbade it to me, I knew he’d do it himself. As a prince should. Fight well, my son. And forgive me for being too old to fight alongside you.

  • • •

  Every instinct screamed for movement, action, flight. Andry forced himself to sit motionless, willing the enemy to look anyplace but where he huddled in the sparse cover of a glade. The soldiers along the Pyrme River had been only the first of the patrols he and Evarin saw that morning.

  They had managed to avoid detection thus far. But they had not gained open sun long enough to weave light. The one time Andry had risked it, Evarin shook his arm to bring him back before he was halfway to Radzyn. Troops had come over a rise, and they were forced to melt back among the trees.

  Andry had decided to head south, where the enemy had already been—a tactic that appalled his companion.

  “I beg your pardon, my Lord, truly I do, but is this wise?”

  “How long have you known me, Evarin?” Andry had asked.

  “Three years, my Lord. But what has that to do—”

  “One thing you must learn about me is that I loathe doing the expected thing. I get it from both sides: Andrade and my grandsire Zehava were exactly alike in that, if in nothing else. Anyone fleeing would logically go north, trying to outrun these vermin. Therefore we will head south.” Evarin gaped. Andry gave him a tight smile. “It’s not as insane as it sounds. They seem intent on obliteration, so I’m assuming they’ve left absolutely nothing behind them.”

  Suddenly the young physician’s face showed both comprehension and horror. “Why should they stay to guard what’s not there anymore—”

  “It’ll make grim viewing.”

  He was right about that—but wrong about the rest of it. In retrospect, he cursed himself for not slipping past the first group and riding east for all he was worth; the countryside was thick with patrols. They rode horses blanketed in the colors of Gilad Seahold—horses he could not outrun. Lord Segelin’s liking for the Radzyn breed had provided the enemy with splendid mounts. Andry evaded them by riding through long measures of safe, deep forest. The sun taunted him, speckling the foliage with dancing gold he dared not use. He needed full sunlight.

  Almost as great as his need was his fear of what he would see when his weavings took him to his childhood home. A ruined castle already in flames? A battle in progress, that he was too late to warn about? And what of the coast between Radzyn and Gilad Seahold, obviously fallen? Brenlis’ family lived at the mouth of the Faolain. Was that farmhouse a smoldering husk, too?

  At last, only a little while ago, he had gained a few free moments. The woods thinned as they descended a little hill, and below was a scene exactly like a dozen glimpsed along their way. Flames rose from the burnt-out shells of a home and outbuildings nestled in a fold of the hills. A plow-elk had escaped the barn. It was elderly, thin-shouldered, undoubtedly a family pet that fondness had kept from the slaughter now that it was too old to work. The silvered hide was singed and oozing, but the elk limped across a stubbled field as if in harness. For some reason this moved Andry as nothing else that day. He bit his lip until he could convince himself that the tears in his eyes were due only to the blood salting his tongue.

  “My Lord!” Evarin hissed suddenly.<
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  They had come within heartbeats of riding straight into an enemy patrol as it descended the opposite hill.

  So now they sat their weary horses, helpless for the foreseeable future, and watched as the elk was carved up in laughing sword practice. They dared not slink back into the wood; any movement might alert those below. Andry wanted nothing more than to use the sunlight and slaughter them, toy with them as cruelly as they sliced into that pathetic animal.

  “I can’t kill them,” he murmured. “Goddess knows I want to. But if I missed even one, the others would ride after us and we’d die. And of all people, I’m the one who cannot be lost.” He spoke without arrogance, without anything but knowledge of the simple fact of it.

  Evarin kept his voice low. “We may be able to get some clear sunlight soon, my Lord.”

  “I just hope there’s someone left at Radzyn to answer.” He shivered. “Even now it may be too late.”

  “You! Tree-hidden!” The harsh voice shouted from behind him, deeper in the forest. Andry nearly fell out of his saddle. “Stay!”

  The man spoke the old tongue—strangely accented, slurred where Andry would have given crisp pronunciation, but understandable and even familiar. He was fascinated by the changes wrought by centuries, but scholarly curiosity would cost him his life right now. He kept himself from turning to face the men who spoke a language outlawed on the continent for more than three hundred years.

  The language of sorcerers.

  Evarin tore off his riding gloves and began wrenching the eight rings from his fingers. “Quickly, my Lord!” he whispered. “All of them—the armbands too! You know enough to work the spell—hurry!”

  Dark hair, dark eyes, and a beard with a dozen small golden beads worked in—Evarin’s face was already changing. Andry slid rings and cuffs in a pocket and replaced his leather gauntlets. “Put your gloves back on—they’ll see the paler circles on your fingers otherwise.”

  Evarin caught his breath, and jammed his trembling fingers into the gloves. “I’ll talk you through it,” he whispered. “Just as we practiced earlier. Black hair, dark brown eyes—see it in your mind, make the illusion real—”

  Branches snapped like brittle bones under approaching hoofbeats. Maddening distraction. If he failed, perhaps Evarin could claim him as a prisoner. The younger man’s illusion was perfect, almost effortless. Andry struggled, his heart pounding. As Rusina had said, it was much like weaving the guise of the Goddess around himself for a maiden’s first-night. But this was no vague, concealing haze. This had to be precise. He had no mirror, only Evarin—but when the physician nodded quickly, Andry knew he had done it.

  Together they turned to confront the ten mounted soldiers. One of them saluted by slapping his open left palm to the center of his chest. His beard was blue-black in the dappled sunlight. Andry counted ten gold beads. The others wore no more than five, and two of them were beardless—not from youth but from application of a razor. Andry suddenly guessed that only with a kill could a man grow his beard and weave into it tokens of prowess. The relatively low rank displayed by these men at once eased his mind and worried him; his own habit of command might impress them so that he might get away with this, but they would also be eager to earn those gold beads. He wondered suddenly how many illusory tokens he had woven into his own illusory beard, and for a frantic instant could not remember. A slightly hysterical thought crossed his mind that his conceit had better be operating at full tilt. He had to outrank the leader or all was lost.

  “My lord, we report.” The man’s right hand stayed on his sword.

  Goddess in glory, Andry thought, I really do understand him! The man had said tir’ri: the personal possessive combined with the word for “lord” that survived in athri. He hastily returned the salute, noting that use of the left hand created freedom to strike a blow with the sword gripped in the right even while gesturing respect and friendship. And, oh, Goddess—what about his own sword? As if hearing his thought, the warrior glanced at the fine blade sheathed at Andry’s side. As a highborn, he wore it as a token of his rank, and it had too many jewels. It was a ceremonial piece only, for who would dare assault a Sunrunner—whose rings were protection enough—let alone the Lord of Goddess Keep? Andry barely knew how to use the thing and for the first time in his life cursed himself for not completing the training for knighthood.

  He shoved that thought aside, too, and concentrated on translating the man’s fractured speech. There were little tricks of the tongue to it that grated on his nerves even more than on his ears—but he caught the gist of it.

  “A beauty, my lord,” the soldier said, nodding at the sword. “Spoil of Seahold? Wish we there!”

  Andry replied with a nod, trying not to look relieved at the ease of his escape from what could have been a tricky explanation. And he had been recognized as someone of high rank, even a lord; that was excellent. He thanked the Goddess for his luck and beseeched her for inspiration.

  It came in the form of a respectful question. “War sights good, my lord?”

  “Very. Your report.” Andry adjusted his accent to match what he had thus far heard. From the lack of reaction, he was a success.

  “Thirty-seven kills, my lord, witnessed.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the beardless men. “Warriors at last.”

  Numbers were easy; deg’im gave him pause and he purposely relaxed so the word would come as automatically as when he listened to the sung rituals. Of course: plural of “kill.” Simple, too, were the words for “witness” and “warriors”—vaman and ros’im. Absurd to congratulate himself on his linguistic skills. He had to get himself and Evarin out of here. Choosing his words from ones read in the scrolls, and with care to the slurring required, he said, “Fey tiel, paliros’im.” Bold victory, clever warriors.

  The man looked pleased. “Gracious my lord. Our duty. Woods watch until night. My honor is yours, my lord, if escapes.”

  So these butchers valued their honor, did they? Andry’s guts churned as he remembered farms in ashes. What honor was there in such slaughter? Why are these people here? But he knew. Their speech, their dark Merida-like faces—they had come to destroy the continent they had lost so long ago.

  But warriors respected strength and a commanding presence. It was time he displayed a little of both. “Excuse for challenging me?” Andry snapped.

  The man blanched satisfyingly and his troops looked nervous. “Bad woods light, my lord.”

  “Truth, my lord,” Evarin pointed out in a bad imitation of Andry’s accent. “Be anyone, this light.”

  “Warrior speaks truth, my lord.”

  Andry shrugged, pretending to be mollified, hoping he was hiding near heart failure at hearing Evarin speak in the old language. “Caution good. Maybe spies—even faradh’im.”

  To a man they spat on the ground. To a man their eyes grew narrow and fierce with hate. Andry nodded slowly. So. I’m right. The vision was true.

  “Know to kill them, my lord! Any seen? Reason secret watch?”

  “Why I watch, my business. Continue work.” He gathered the reins, suddenly needing to be far away from here. Disguised or not, he was a Sunrunner and not insensible to the death of his kind promised in these men’s eyes.

  “My lord,” the man said, bowing. “Honor to ride with us?”

  Horrible question. To refuse without good answer would give them away. To go along would be an impossible strain. Andry didn’t know how long he could support this spell; already he felt his muscles drawing tighter and tighter with tension. Think! he ordered himself. These warriors probably wanted a witness of high rank to attest to their kills. The idea of watching while they immolated another family—or, worse, being forced to participate in it—nearly made him vomit. How I’d love to kill you, he thought with longing as he pretended to consider the request. But I can’t. Not yet. Someone sent you out, and while you wouldn’t be missed until nightfall, I can’t take the chance.

  And he was taking too long to reply.

/>   “We ride on,” Evarin said.

  The warrior’s brow furrowed, but just as quickly he smiled. “Outer Isles speech! Talkmusic no more yours, my lord,” he added generously to Andry.

  Talkmusic—? Accent, the man was complimenting him on losing his Outer Isles accent. Andry’s head was beginning to spin.

  “Deep respect aprus when my lord returns Azhchay.”

  For an instant Andry thought he’d used Rohan’s other title—azhrei. But then he heard the difference, the final syllable that was his father’s name. “Dragonhawk”—had they renamed their conquests already?

  Then he recognized the other word: leader of a ship. Lady Merisel had used it in her histories. The visions swirled in his mind. Bearded men with bloodied swords, captives chained together on the beach below Radzyn—and dragon-headed ships. Azhchay was one of those ships. He could see them, smell salt and death, hear the screams—

  Evarin’s horse suddenly shied to the left, drawing all eyes, startling Andry from his trance. He got hold of himself and said, “Beautiful horse, but trouble! Home different, eh?”

  “Father-thanks for spirit! Swift, strong—wind-mated! Victory horses, no matter bone-breaks!” He grinned and slapped the sleek neck of his Radzyn-bred mare. If his sword had been in his hand, Andry would have run him through.

  He made himself ask, “Radzyn word today?”

  The soldier acquired the look worn by people who have just heard a superior make an uncharacteristic mistake—too respectful to show surprise openly, yet surprised just the same. “No, my lord,” he said carefully, gaze flickering from Andry to Evarin. “Tomorrow.”

  Had he been standing instead of in the saddle, his weakened knees would have given him away. Radzyn was safe—for now. But the man’s suspicion had been roused.

  “Oh, my lord, Rathvin meant,” Evarin said. “Names confused.”