Stronghold Page 19

  Andry grabbed the desperate cue and growled, “I know no difference?”

  The physician made just the right face of frightened apology, which seemed to satisfy the enemy. Andry could not afford to linger and make another mistake. He grunted and gathered the reins. “All soon know success here.” He saluted and guided Tibaza from the clearing. Evarin followed. It was too quick; they both knew it was too quick. They should have stayed longer. The similarity of names was a flimsy story—no warrior who had planned this invasion for years would confuse Radzyn, gem of the Desert, with any other holding. He felt eyes on his back like the pricking of knives as they rode from the forest into the open.

  “I thought we were dead,” Evarin muttered.

  “So did I. I think we still might be.” He flexed his hands; the palms of his gauntlets were soaked with sweat. “That was fast, Evarin. Where’s Rathwin?”

  “Rathvin. About thirty measures up the Catha, my Lord. I’m from these parts, remember.”

  “Thank the Goddess for whoever named it Rathvin!” Andry resisted the impulse to glance over his shoulder. “I started to lose it, didn’t I?” He gestured to his face.

  “Yes. That’s why I had to dig a heel into my friend here.” He stroked the gelding’s flank. “Sorry, old son.”

  “Is it holding? Yours hasn’t slipped at all.”

  “You’re fine. But neither of us can keep at it much longer. Not without dranath.”

  “We become safer with every pace down this hill. I wish I dared a gallop.”

  “After all this picking through the trees, the horses would welcome it.”

  “hulk, andraa—gev’im iseni.” Andry softly quoted the warrior’s praise of his father’s beloved horses, captive between the thighs of these twice-damned enemies—Merida and sorcerer-sent. “Horses are why they’ll attack Radzyn. I’ve got to be able to work, Evarin. I’ve got to warn them.” His hands ached for his rings.

  The physician turned and waved. “The others are still in sight, my Lord. Damn! One of them’s riding down to us!”

  Four beads decorated the soldier’s straggly young beard. He saluted smartly and said, “My lord, escort accept, I beg. Enemy hides.”

  Andry was sure then that he was suspect. But it hardly mattered. He forced himself to laugh. “Enemy? Peasants in hovels?”

  “Lord’s safety, my honor. Father-forbid any faradh’im—” He spat on the ground; a real ritual with these folk, Andry noted sourly. He knew that he should copy it. He could not.

  Instead he demanded angrily, “Am I child, needing your sword? Return!”

  “My lord, cannot. Orders—”

  Evarin gave him a glance that said, We’re stuck with him. Andry was compelled to agree.

  “Ride ahead.” So that if I slip again, you won’t see it. But I suffer your presence only until the first convenient place to kill you. They won’t miss one in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, they’ve landed here.

  Have they already landed at Radzyn?

  Gentle Lady, protect us from this dark time of night.

  • • •

  Tobin kept her eyes closed, drifting with Betheyn’s soft, soothing voice as the young woman read to her. The autumn sun was soft on her cheeks and brow, reassurance of life. Until Sioned had come and she was taken into the sunlight, she had been afraid she would spend the rest of her life trapped and helpless within her own skull, a million things left undone—and, worse, unsaid.

  She quelled panic and concentrated on the warmth suffusing her face and body. Chay had ordered the bed moved near the windows so that she might use light whenever she wished. Last night he’d caught her staying awake too late, and she’d been unable to tell him she’d been waiting for him to come to her so she could listen to his voice and watch the moons’ silvery radiance on his face. Listening and watching were two of the three activities permitted her in convalescence. The third was sleeping—and she was still afraid of that. Afraid she might not wake up again. But she would never have told him that, not even if she had been able.

  Tobin had never been sick a day in her life. The Plague had spared her; childbirth had been absurdly easy considering her delicate frame; not even the wound in her thigh, that had left her with a limp as souvenir of the long-ago siege of Stronghold, had confined her to bed for more than a day. Sioned had warned her that speech and strength would be slow in returning, and she ought not push herself. But enforced inactivity was shredding her nerves.

  Yesterday afternoon Rohan had read to her from a stultifying text on botany. Unlike their mother, who had created the gardens at Stronghold, Tobin cared nothing about plants. Neither did Rohan. His design had been to bore her to sleep; he succeeded only in irritating her. Glancing up at last from an interminable passage on rose roots to find her glaring silently at him, he had looked so naughty and guilty and silly that laughter had happened to her for the first time since her illness. More of a croak than a giggle, still her brother had greeted it with a delighted grin.

  Today Betheyn was reading something infinitely more interesting: one of five gorgeous illuminated copies of Feylin’s masterwork On Dragons, a present from Prince Volog. The author had one, and Rohan, and Pol, and one had been kept for the scriptorium. Ten more existed, but with simple line drawings instead of colored pictures. Tobin was proud that Maarken’s sketches of dragon anatomy had been used extensively for the book. Tilal’s daughter Sioneva had contributed drawings, too, showing a talent completely new in the Kierstian royal family. Sioned, wide-eyed at her namesake’s skill, had remarked that nobody else of her blood had ever been able to draw a straight line with a ruler.

  Tobin had looked through the book to admire the paintings, but had not had time since the Rialla to study the text. Betheyn would much rather have been reading an architectural treatise—an interest they shared—but knew how eager Tobin was to hear the contents of this extraordinary book. Feylin’s lifelong fascination with dragons, even though she was cordially terrified of them, had produced the first scientific discussion of everything known about the creatures, with particular attention given to scoffing at foolish legends.

  The first fallacy about dragons is that they are fond of human flesh. Put a human in with a cow, a deer, an elk, a sheep, and a goat, and the dragon will invariably choose the sheep for dinner. Second choice appears to be deer or cattle. Elk and goats are favored only by very hungry dragons. There are tales of capture and feasting off humans, but all these can be explained (see chapters on Mating; Hatching Hunt; Famine).

  Betheyn looked up. “I wonder who she volunteered for that experiment! Do you want me to continue with this, instead of looking up those chapters?”

  They had devised a system of yes and no: Tobin’s closed left hand indicated the latter, and an open palm meant the former. Today she managed a nod as well. Betheyn smiled.

  “Good—this is the most interesting part. I can’t wait until she tells why dragon’s teeth are supposed to be magic. One story says if they’re planted, trees will spring up. Another substitutes warriors for trees, and a third says the ground will be poisoned by them. My father once told me never to trust any superstition that isn’t consistent.”

  Tobin felt a grin lift half her face. It still frightened her to sense it, and she knew there was good reason she had not been allowed a mirror. But it seemed that every time she used the muscles to smile or frown or try to form a word, she had a little more control over them. It was the same with wiggling her fingers and toes, moving her knee, raising her arm. She was still numb in many places, and recovery would be slow, but, by the Goddess, she would recover.

  Betheyn resumed reading, the smile hovering around her lips.

  As for the notion that princesses and/or virgins are a dragon’s preferred meal, I suspect this to be a “warning” that takes on added significance when a dragon is said to be involved. Probably the disappearance of some young girl—virgin, princess, or both—was attributed to dragons. Popular lore is fraught with examples of ordinary, if tr
agic, occurrences blamed without reason on dragons. J have known several princesses and many virgins, most of them having had much to do with dragons in everyday life, and none have ever been accosted, let alone devoured.

  “Am I to understand that no hungry dragons hovered outside your windows before you married?” Beth gave a sigh of comical disappointment.

  A princess Tobin had been all her life; she had disqualified herself for the virgin part of it not long after she’d first set eyes on Chay. The memory brought another smile to her face.

  It is further said that an angry dragon may be soothed by the sacrifice of a virgin, or a princess, or a princess who is a virgin. Happily, this legend has not been acted upon in many hundreds of years, probably due to this uncertainty about the nature of the offering. Dragons grow angry for two reasons: when their caves are fouled and when their hatchlings are killed. We would not much like it, either, if our dwellings were ransacked or our children butchered. Princesses, virgins, and/or virgin princesses would seem to be safe as long as we accord dragons the courtesy of leaving their homes and their offspring alone.

  Betheyn chuckled. “I can just hear Feylin now, with that dry voice of hers! She must have had a fabulous time writing this—she sounds like a schoolmaster rapping knuckles for believing such nonsense.”

  Tobin wished that Betheyn was gifted in the Sunrunner way; they could have had a lively discussion of Feylin’s sense of humor. It was infuriating not to be able to indulge in the pleasures of conversation, but she had to be patient. Speech would come back.

  Another wickedness attributed to dragons is that their blood is poisonous. Experiments conducted on several animals have proved this to be entirely false.

  “The difficulty being, of course, trying to get a goat to drink the stuff,” Betheyn commented. “Remember when she told us about it? I laughed so hard I thought I’d suffocate!”

  Recalling the hilarious account of Walvis’ flat refusal to quaff a little dragon blood in the name of science, Tobin laughed. She winced at the sound. Beth looked startled for a moment, then hastily smoothed her expression. Tobin closed her eyes once again as Feylin’s tart refutations of dragon legends were read to her, slowly losing track of them as Beth’s soft voice and the warm sunlight lulled her nearly to sleep.

  Goddess greeting, my lady.

  She thought for a moment that it was a dream. Recognizing Meath, she wove golden skeins and replied courteously to his salute. With her eyes closed she could almost see his face, formed of the glowing colors of his mind. But there was darkness shading them, and for all the habitual gentleness of his approach, she sensed urgency.

  Then there was another voice, more powerful, the shades of amber and amethyst and ruby burning like flames. Mother!

  She certainly was popular today with Sunrunners, she thought. First Meath, now Andry . . . .

  Mother, listen to me!

  There seemed to be some sort of argument going on between them. It was very confusing. They both seemed to need her with a bleak desperation that she must be imagining. In her present state, how could she possibly help them? She hovered away from the pair, trying to analyze the tenor of their colors as they grew more intense, both patterns now ablaze, painful even though she was removed from them.

  “Tobin?”

  Betheyn was touching her arm and the contact broke her concentration. She opened her eyes and tried to speak, but all that emerged from her lips was a meaningless grunt. But even as she looked up into the young woman’s face, Andry took hold of her so forcefully that she cried out.

  Mother—forgive me. You must listen. Riverport and Seahold and Graypearl are destroyed.

  This made no sense. Invasion, fire, blood, destruction on a scale unimaginable—and death everywhere. Scenes of rich farms in flames were hazed about with Andry’s fierce colors; Graypearl and Sandeia in ruins were tinged by the green-blue-gold that was Meath. She saw what they had seen, filtered through their identities. Her mind simply could not accept it.

  It’s all true, it’s real—and Radzyn is next! You must get Sioned or Maarken or Hollis—they’re none of them in the sunlight. Mother, hurry!

  “Tobin!”

  Beth’s voice and touch again pulled her away. She heard her own gasping breaths. A wine cup was held to her lips; she smelled herbs in it that would bring sleep and turned her head away.

  “Sioned,” she tried to say. She ordered her mouth to form the name. Could not. Furious at her body’s weakness, she gripped Betheyn’s hand with her left hand and glared up into worried eyes. “Pol,” she said, and the single syllable was recognizable at last.

  “I’ll find him,” Betheyn said, and hurried away, calling for Tobren to keep watch while she was gone.

  Andry—Meath—what is this, who are they, why is this happening? The questions tumbled over and over in her mind, but there was no answer. Andry! Tell me what this means!

  Her granddaughter Tobren appeared beside the bed, white-faced and frightened. She tried to offer the drugged wine; in a sudden access of strength she could not control, Tobin flung out her hand and slapped it away, staining the coverlet blood-red.

  “Grandmother?” Tobren whispered. “Oh, Grandmother, please—”

  She saw her namesake through a haze of angry, frustrated tears. Damn her traitorous body, damn damn damn—

  Pol ran into the room, Rohan and Chay just behind him. Tobin groped for her nephew’s hand, tried to pull him farther into the sunlight. When it was shining on his fair head, she saw his face go blank and blind.

  Sobbing with relief, she sank back into the pillows, scarcely noticing as husband and brother fussed helplessly over her. Pol’s colors shimmered about his head, eclipsing even Andry’s until she marveled that neither Chay nor Rohan could see them.

  The sightless blue-green eyes suddenly widened. “No,” he whispered, and his fingers tightened around hers until she nearly cried out.

  He told the others, swift words that cut deep and left behind stunned horror. Chay was on the move at once, racing from the bedchamber, shouting orders. Rohan stood still, staring at his son. Tobin’s gaze flickered from face to face, seeing their hearts in their eyes. Pol was angry with a killing rage. But Rohan—Rohan was in pain. The wounds done to his people and to the land were wounds to his own flesh. She had seen this in him before, years ago, seen him lead an army while he bled inside. Sioned had told her once that Rohan swallowed Fire, his own mind and heart a battleground, and it was only his terrible strength that prevented his being consumed. But Pol was different. He met Fire with a blaze of his own, the fury that now ignited his eyes and set his colors burning all around him. Pol became Fire.

  Chapter Nine

  Meath kept his eyes closed for some time after returning from Radzyn—not so much because he was exhausted, although he was, but because he was angry.

  “Meath? Are you all right?”

  It was a very young voice, very soft. He squinted up at a face framed in a cloud of red-gold hair. The girl touched his cheek gently and again he thought, Sioned. But it was not she. Alleyn, Ludhil and Iliena’s daughter, wiped his brow with a damp cloth. Audran knelt beside his sister, both children watching with held breath. Meath smiled in reassurance.

  “Lord Chaynal is sending a ship for us—a real ship, one to be comfortable in. Or, rather, one you can be comfortable in.” He gave a comical grimace meant to bring answering smiles.

  Alleyn regarded him gravely. “It hurt you, didn’t it, Meath? Sunrunning.”

  “Not the work itself,” he replied, more or less honestly. “It’s a strain when I’m tired like this, but it doesn’t hurt.”

  She pushed tangled hair from her face. It had long since come loose from its tidy braids, and in the sun shone with coppery and golden lights. Suddenly he did hurt, for the sight of this dainty little princess with her hair all awry and her clothes stained with salt water and mud. Petted and protected for all her thirteen winters, the world had abruptly shown Alleyn its worst face. Her home was ashe
s, her father and mother gone to war, her whole life disrupted.

  But she was alive. Hundreds of other children were not. He concealed the anguish that would only weaken him, and glanced at Audran. The boy was round-eyed and silent, and when Meath looked at him he lowered his gaze to the sand in front of him.

  “Audran? What is it, my prince?” Meath asked gently.

  “Nothing.”

  “If you tell me, perhaps it can be mended.” He nearly bit his lip at the futility of that statement. The only way to mend these children’s world was to deal out more death. Remembering scenes glimpsed in Andry’s memories, he began to think he would enjoy breaking his faradhi vow not to kill with his gifts.

  Audran cast a quick look at his sister. She frowned and shook her head. To Meath, the boy said, “I’m just hungry. Is Lord Chaynal’s ship coming soon?”

  “Very soon. And I’d better go report the same to your grandsir.” He knew the child had lied to him. He also knew he should not press for the truth. Rising stiff-kneed to his feet, he went to where Chadric sat gazing out at the sea with empty eyes. Meath crouched beside him.

  “My lord,” he said in a soft voice, “help is coming soon from Radzyn.”

  The prince nodded. “And?”

  “My lord?”

  “There is more, my old friend.” Chadric had not even looked at him.

  Meath knew there was nothing for it but to tell it all. “We are not alone in our losses—but we have our lives. Many do not. Syr and Gilad and the Desert have been invaded. Seahold and Riverport are rubble. Soldiers march up the river valleys laying waste to everything they see.”

  Chadric took up a driftwood stick and began drawing on the sand—idly, Meath thought for a moment, until he recognized the outlines of the continent’s southern coast. When the rough map was finished, Chadric spoke again.

  “Radzyn is next.”

  “Lord Andry fears so. They are preparing for war even now.”

  “And yet Chay sends rescue for us.” Finally the prince looked at him. “Are you strong enough to go to Graypearl and see their preparations? They have had most of a day, after all.”