By Chance Met (29 page)

Or rather could be. We never asked who comes to the title after Naeth and he didn’t volunteer the information either.”

Keosqe and Eiren had completed their round of shots before coming over to find out what the disturbance was all about. Overhearing the discussion, a surprised Keosqe said,

“Naeth is a Fiori?”

The brothers stared at him. “You know the family?” Reijir asked.

“I should think so.” Keosqe pointed out matter-of-factly. “The Fiori name is one of the oldest in Sidona.”

Reijir grimaced with some chagrin. Of course Keosqe would know something of the Sidonan uppercrust. As the heir of the fief’s Herun, he was expected to.

“Albran Fiori was quite outspoken but also very conservative,” Keosqe went on. “He was very much against anything that threatened his notions of propriety, especially marriage between Deira of different social stations. In fact, he’s best known in Sidona for disowning his own son in an attempt to stop him from marrying below him. But the ploy didn’t work, and Morel left the fief soon after, presumably with his lover.” He suddenly frowned. “
Heyas
, are you saying Naeth is Morel’s son?”

“And Albran’s primary heir.” Reijir urgently asked, “Kes, do you know who would have inherited the title had Naeth not been found?”

“I believe it was a cousin of Morel’s. What’s his name now? Ah! Syvan Fiori.”

Keiran gaped at him in alarm. “Sweet Veres, if he’s next in line, he has everything to lose now that Naeth has decided to take up his inheritance.”

“And everything to gain if Naeth were to die.” Reijir’s mouth tightened. “Just as his family died,” he growled. “Deity’s blood, why didn’t we see that?” He turned to his adjutant. “Ruomi—”

“I brought your steed,” Ruomi quickly said. “And several riders.”

Reijir did not waste time replying but raced toward the Citadel bailey, Ruomi right behind him.

*

“I hope he’s wrong about Naeth’s uncle,” Lassen said, his eyes dark with worry.

Keiran grimly muttered, “I fear he isn’t.” He looked at his cousins. “I’m for home.

I’d rather await news there.”

“Las and I will come with you,” Rohyr said. “You’ll be grateful for our company if the worst happens. I can’t imagine how Reijir will take it if he loses Naeth.”

“Nor can I,” Eiren murmured. “I might be able to mend an ailing heart. But there’s little I can do for a broken one.”

Keiran stared at him then shivered. With nary another word, he led the way back to the keep.

fortnight’s worth of shoes and clothing—enough to tide him over until he could have more made in Sidona—and his leman’s earring. The precious jewel was tucked away in his money pouch, his only memento of happiness found and now lost.

His eyes welled with tears again. Reijir did not want him any longer. He’d hoped so hard and long that something of his feelings might be returned. Even if Reijir had wed someone else, if he’d desired Naeth enough to ask that he stay on as his leman, Naeth would have readily agreed. But all his hoping had gained him was the emotional exile of the past many weeks. And now it would be a physical one as well.

Better to pine for a futile love from a distance than endure the pain of seeing him every now and then and know he was beyond reach.

Deep in his unhappy thoughts, it was only when Syvan called out to the coach driver to halt that he became aware of his surroundings once more. To his surprise, Syvan began to climb out of the carriage.

“Why did you—?” he started to ask, but the other Deir simply ignored him.

A moment later, he heard voices outside raised in argument. Syvan appeared to be quarrelling with the coach driver. Naeth frowned, wondering what they were arguing about and why his uncle was ordering the driver to dismount. He stuck his head out the window.

A quick glance around told him they were no longer on the main highway but on a deserted road. There were no houses or travelers or other vehicles in sight for miles around. Only empty plains as far as the eye could see.
Saints!
He’d been so engrossed in his misery, he’d failed to notice any change in course.

The driver suddenly gave a frightened cry. Naeth looked back and saw that Syvan had drawn his sword. The driver desperately backed away from him.

Before Naeth’s horrified eyes, Syvan ran the unfortunate Deir through. As the driver slumped down in a heap, Naeth tried to scramble out of the coach. He froze in place when Syvan turned around and pointed his sword at him.

Naeth swallowed. A malevolent light shone in his uncle’s eyes.

“Uncle?” he tremulously ventured. “What is the meaning of this?”

Syvan laughed bitterly. “Why couldn’t you have just died with your family?” he spat. “I planned it so carefully that no one would think it was deliberate, yet you somehow escaped.”

Naeth stared at him in confusion. And then his eyes widened.

“You set the fire?” he gasped.

The Deir merely nodded. Naeth tried to ignore the icy fear that suddenly took hold of him.

“Why—?” Naeth stopped, comprehension sweeping over him along with horror.

“You’re next in line? You’d have been declared
serl
if we’d all died in the fire?”

“That is correct.

“But how can you be an heir?” Naeth confusedly asked. “You’re just a cousin.”

“A cousin of the direct line of descent!” Syvan shot back angrily. “My grandfather was the younger brother of Albran Fiori’s sire and also the last of his kin. That made my
aba
heir presumptive until Albran wed and sired Morel. That set
me
back in the line of succession and more so if Morel had sons. Which he did, damn him!”

He wiped beads of sweat from his forehead then looked at the spots on his sleeve with distaste. “Morel covered his tracks well,” he grumbled. “It took me years to locate

him. And then I had to find a way to kill you all without the deed being traced back to me. A fire seemed the most logical solution given the heat of that summer. That was a goodly blaze I’m proud to say—ate up nearly your whole street. So imagine my shock when you turned up alive and well and with an Arthanna as your guardian no less!”

Naeth nearly retched as he listened to Syvan’s callous account of his slaughter not only of Naeth’s family but also the Orosses’ neighbors who’d had the misfortune to be caught in the net of Syvan’s murderous scheme. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and warily regarded his uncle.

Syvan motioned to Naeth to get back in the coach. Naeth hesitated, trying to stall for time. His hand alighted on his shoulder pack where it lay on the seat beside the door.

Realizing the door hid his arm from Syvan’s view, he clutched the pack by its strap and dragged it down, keeping it concealed behind him.

“If only those Arthannas hadn’t interfered, filling your head with nonsense about your heritage and the like,” Syvan complained. “I wouldn’t have had to tire myself out trying to kill you.”

His words triggered Naeth’s memories of his accident in Irdaran.

“That snake,” he blurted. “I remember now why I thought it odd at the time. It was a garden snake, not a tree-climber.” He eyed Syvan suspiciously. “You dropped it in front of my steed, didn’t you? You hoped I would go over that drop. That’s why you insisted that we take the hill road!” Naeth’s eyes widened as he recalled more. “You were always checking on me while I recovered. I thought you were concerned about me. But that wasn’t the case at all. You were waiting for the chance to kill me while I lay bedridden.”

“Small chance of that with Arthanna constantly in attendance even at night!” Syvan growled. “A pity I didn’t know you were breeding. It would have been easier to lace your food or drink with poison and induce heavy bleeding. After all, it’s not rare for a Deir your age to miscarry and bleed to death.”

Naeth caught his breath. “So that’s why you were so upset then—not out of fear for me but frustration at being thwarted. You didn’t know enough to take advantage of my condition and then your scheme failed.”

“Little good your recollections will do you now,” Syvan said. “You’ll be dead and I’ll be named
serl
in your stead before the year ends.”

“How do you hope to get away with this?” Naeth challenged. “The Arthannas will suspect you.”

“Why should they?” Syvan countered. “Not once have I ever indicated foul

intentions toward you. And I didn’t fetch you; you walked out on your own accord. You made it easy for me, nephew. I’d been wracking my brain for a way to dispose of you without rousing any suspicion. Now, thanks to your little tantrum, everyone will believe you ran away and then were waylaid by brigands. And they’ll think the coach driver was part of the ambush seeing as he brought you to such an isolated place. It will be quite easy to bury his body, and no one will be the wiser. A simple plan really but so very clever if I do say so myse—Gah!”

Syvan stumbled back, a hand going to a red welt on his cheek. Naeth had taken advantage of his momentary inattention and swung at him with the pack, hitting him squarely in the face. It was not a hard blow—the pack was too light to even knock Syvan into a daze. But it distracted him enough for Naeth to slip past him and flee in the direction of what he hoped was the main thoroughfare.

He heard Syvan cursing behind him. A glance over his shoulder told him the older Deir was hot on his heels. Naeth ran on, praying for deliverance and fearing there was none. There was not a single soul to be seen on the grassy plain nor were there any places in which he could lose Syvan long enough to conceal himself from his uncle—no scattered copses or interlacing ravines or even randomly strewn boulders. Only nigh endless grasslands against which he was clearly and perilously visible.

Merciful Veres!
Syvan would kill him, drag his body back to the coach, and stage everything so that no one would ever suspect the truth of his death or the identity of his killer. Not even Reijir.

The thought of Reijir thinking him an utterly incompetent idiot for running away and getting murdered by bandits in the process stung to the quick. It reignited Naeth’s faltering will, and he forced his legs to move ever faster. He would not die and leave Reijir not only ignorant of the reason for his dying but also contemptuous of him for placing himself in danger.

The terrain became more uneven as flat land gave way to pockmarked ground. Both prey and pursuer stumbled now and then. Naeth belatedly spotted a shallow fissure in the ground ahead of him. With a yelp, he tripped and pitched forward, just barely softening the impact of landing with a clumsy roll of his body. Syvan was upon him before he could get to his feet.

He lashed out with his foot and landed a kick on Syvan’s leg when the Deir

attempted to stab him. Syvan grunted and backed off slightly. Naeth desperately scrambled to his feet. No good. His uncle grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked him back.

Naeth cried out as Syvan brought his sword around and positioned the blade at his throat. He closed his eyes, bracing for the painful slice across his flesh that would end his life.

To his surprise, Syvan yowled and suddenly let him go. He hurriedly pulled away then chanced a quick look behind him to see why his uncle had released him. He stopped and stared in disbelief.

An arrow protruded from Syvan’s forearm.

Shocked, Naeth looked wildly about. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

He could only stare at the unlooked-for sight of nearly a dozen riders fast approaching them. But even more riveting was the image of the Herun of Ilmaren at their forefront in full archer’s mode.

Naeth had never yet seen a mounted
yudar
, much less watched one in action. He caught his breath as Reijir nocked another arrow and raised his tall bow. With a graceful arching motion of his arm, he drew the bowstring back, his limbs and torso straight and steady though he was astride a galloping zentyr. Naeth suddenly realized the Herun had drawn his bow once more for a reason.

He snapped his gaze back to Syvan. Apparently unaware of the warning behind Reijir’s first shot, the Deir had regained enough of his wits and sufficient obliviousness to his injury to charge at him again, his sword raised for the kill. Naeth skipped back frantically, wondering if he was so unlucky as to possibly die in full view of his rescuers.

Syvan came to a stop with a jerk, and a gurgle issued from his lips. Naeth stared dumbstruck at the ghastly sight of a bloodied arrowhead sticking out of his uncle’s throat.

Syvan stumbled a few steps, a hand clutching convulsively at the shaft that skewered his

neck. He dropped his sword, swayed on wobbly knees a few seconds, and finally collapsed on the trodden grass. He twitched once, twice, then stilled.

Naeth could not move for the terror and sudden relief and so stayed rooted to the spot. He waited until Reijir and his people reached him. He espied Ruomi among them.

Reijir did not dismount but only quickly looked him over, leaving it to Ruomi to check Syvan for any sign of life. He glanced inquiringly at Ruomi and simply dipped his chin once when his adjutant shook his head. Reijir turned to give instructions to one of his riders. The Deir took two others with him, and they rode off toward the coach. He looked at Naeth once more, his eyes glittering ominously.

“Mount,” was all Reijir said, his voice alarmingly toneless.

Naeth stared at him in bewilderment, but when Reijir’s expression became a fraction harder, he hastily obeyed. He tensed when Reijir pulled him back securely against his body.

“What about him?” he asked, looking down at his uncle’s corpse.

It was Ruomi who answered as he got back on his steed. He tilted his head in the direction of the departing riders. “They’ll bring him back to Rikara along with the coach and its driver. The authorities will want a preliminary account of what happened. You’ll be asked for the complete story, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

Naeth gulped, realizing the extent of Reijir’s black mood that Ruomi had taken it upon himself to reply. Despite his curiosity as to the timeliness of their arrival and attendant gratefulness for being rescued, he said no more.