Fall of a Kingdom (The Farsala Trilogy) (2 page)

S
ORAYA WENT ALONE
down the stairs to the courtyard. The sun still crouched below the horizon, though the sky to the east was bright with its approach. It was light enough for her to see small puffs of steam when she breathed out. The cold weather was coming; rain, mud, and chills, and she was to be imprisoned in some sty in the outlands? She was fifteen this year—it was time for her to wed! She shivered.

She’d snarled at the maids who had awakened her to dress by candlelight, but she hadn’t dared to refuse them, for behind the mouse-timid maids loomed her mother’s shadow—and Sudaba was anything but timid. But it wasn’t fear of Sudaba that was making her go. Not really.

Soraya crossed the garden and stalked down the stone-flagged walkway that passed under the servants’ wing and out to the stables. Her escort waited there, his horse already saddled, his face pale in the gray light. Two of her father’s armsmen, in the black-and-gold tunics of the House of the Leopard, accompanied him—not that all of them together could take her anywhere she didn’t choose to go. Especially when she was on horseback. Jiaan smiled tentatively. Soraya scowled and turned away. She wasn’t going because of him, and it probably wasn’t fair to blame him for being the bearer of bad news, but she didn’t feel like being fair. Particularly to the peasant-born bastard her foolish father had insisted on bringing into his household as a page, then as his aide, just as if he were a noble-born second son or an impoverished cousin.

One of the mousy maids brought up Soraya’s pack, to be added to the load the mules carried. She waited while the grooms fussed with the ropes, trying to exude regal dignity and not shiver. If she looked regal enough, the servants, at least, might be fooled into thinking the whole thing was her idea.

Small bare feet made no sound on the stone floor, but Soraya caught a glimpse of the blue-striped nightdress, and she abandoned dignity to swoop down on Merdas just before he darted behind one of the horse’s heels. It wasn’t a charger, but even a placid horse might kick if startled.

“Merdas, don’t run behind horses! You know better than that.”

He squirmed in her arms to face her, warm and toddler-firm, pouting, because he really did know better. But Merdas never believed any horse would hurt him. Her brother. Her father’s son.

“Djinn did it,” he pronounced. At his age she had claimed the same. “Raya, horse!”

The nursery window overlooked the stable yard—he must have heard the hoofbeats. He had ears like a lynx where horses were concerned. And if there was a djinn who governed slipping past one’s nurses, Merdas had it firmly under his control.

“I can’t take you riding today, imp,” said Soraya regretfully. “I’m going a long, long way. You’d get tired.”

“Horse,” said Merdas, who didn’t believe he could get tired, either. Sometimes Soraya agreed with him.

“Sorry, no horse today. But if you’re good, I’ll bring you a present when I come back. How about that?”

The dark eyes turned thoughtful. Merdas liked presents, but…“Horse!” He squirmed again, kicking her in the stomach.

Where were his nurses? She could hand him over to the grooms, but she hated the thought of riding off with him howling behind her. “Horse, horse, horse!”

“I’ll take him.” It was Sudaba’s voice.

Soraya spun, astonished. Her mother returned her gaze calmly, every braid in place, as if she always rose at dawn. She was dressed for riding, a modest split skirt beneath her overrobe—unlike Soraya.

“I didn’t realize you were coming with me, madam.” Soraya transferred Merdas into her outstretched arms, and he settled on her hip, reaching for the feathers in her hair. But for once he didn’t have Sudaba’s full attention. Her lips tightened as she took in the baggy men’s trousers Soraya wore for riding. Not ladylike. Not proper for a deghass.

But making a scene in front of the servants wasn’t proper either. “I thought it best to accompany you, daughter, in this difficult time.”

To support Soraya in her troubles? No, to make certain her orders were obeyed. As if Soraya were an infant. Soraya scowled, but there was nothing she could do. The jumped-up page boy, Jiaan, looked startled, but Sudaba would care even less for his wishes than her daughter’s.

Sudaba’s maids brought out her baggage—far more than Soraya had brought—and several more mules were added to the caravan. Merdas’ nurses scurried out and took him from his mother’s arms.

“We’re ready to depart, madam,” Jiaan told Sudaba respectfully. He didn’t even look at Soraya.

Sudaba mounted and set off, the armsmen trotting after her. But Soraya went to Merdas and covered his face with big, smacking kisses that made him giggle.

“A present when I come back,” she promised, and then turned swiftly to her mare. The groom’s cupped hands caught her bent knee and tossed her expertly up into the saddle. Soraya wrapped her legs around the mare’s broad barrel and took her out without a backward glance. More regal that way. For if she looked back and Merdas reached for her, she might weep. And if he was indifferent to her departure—a perfectly normal reaction for a toddler, who had no idea how long she might be gone—she’d feel cheated. Besides…

She snickered, and Jiaan, who was trotting up beside her, stared, his annoyed scowl fading into curiosity.

If he’d been impertinent enough to ask why she laughed, she wouldn’t have said anything, but he just watched her and let the silence stretch. And he looked almost embarrassingly like her father.

“I was just thinking that any grief Merdas showed would have been for his vanishing horseback ride, not for me.”

Jiaan grinned, but his pale, greenish eyes—lighter than her father’s, his peasant blood showed in that—were full of speculation.

Soraya knew what he was thinking. She’d heard it for almost two years—whispers in shadowy stalls, in the bushes in the courtyard, behind her back: “She really loves the boy. Or seems to. How can she when her mother…”

But Merdas couldn’t take away affection that Sudaba had never given her in the first place. If anything, she’d come to understand her mother better since Merdas had been born, for the need to be mistress of her own house, to be the first woman in it, had been setting its heels to Soraya’s sides lately as well. And her father’s recent letters had hinted that marriage, a fine marriage, was under consideration. So what was this ridiculous sacrifice business? Certainly the priests demanded sacrifices of gold, but the sacrifice of life, of blood, hadn’t been demanded since the days folk truly believed in the power of the djinn. Soraya sighed. She had to discuss this with her father. Sudaba needn’t have worried that she’d rebel; in fact, Soraya would have gone even if her mother had forbidden it. This was the first important thing her father had asked of her.

THEY TOOK THE ROAD
that followed Little Jamshid Creek, which flowed eventually into the Jamshid River. Sudaba rode at the head of the party, as a high-ranking deghass should. Soraya kept her horse back, but she maintained her dignified silence, answering Jiaan’s occasional conversational attempts politely but not expanding on them. He soon gave up and stopped talking.

That suited Soraya. It was almost a full day’s ride before the farms of the first village disrupted the sweeping plains of her father’s estate, and silence was the proper greeting for windswept grass and the huge, open sky.

At dusk they began to encounter the kind of fields you weren’t supposed to ride over—though sometimes, in the heat of the hunt, you did. When that happened, her father would send a groom to find the farmholder, with a small purse of copper stallions or a few silver falcons to set it right, but Soraya knew most deghans wouldn’t bother to do the same. You had to eat, of course, but most deghans regarded plowed land as a waste of good pasture.

The inn at the small village was crude, but Soraya had stayed there before, and she knew it was clean and had a decent bathhouse. She frequently accompanied her parents on the six-day journey to Setesafon. It was Farsala’s capital city, because the gahn’s palace was there.

Soraya tossed her reins to the groom and slid off her horse. It had been a long ride, even for someone accustomed to the saddle. The innkeeper was already bowing Sudaba through the door. Soraya followed, waving over the first maid she saw to command a bath. Her escort would pay the tab.

AROUND MIDDAY THE HORSES
picked their way down the shallow cliffs that separated the upland plains from the near-solid farmlands—the flatter, wetter country where the lesser noble houses held land.

Then a short canter across country brought them to the Great Trade Road. No matter how many times she’d seen it, the wide, dusty tracks always intrigued Soraya. The carters who drove it tried to move their carts around, to keep any one set of ruts from becoming too deep, but after a while they deepened anyway, and the road shifted a bit to the north or south to make new tracks. Over the centuries it had become not one road, but dozens of twining trails, weaving their way from the Sendar Wall at the western border of Farsala to the invisible line in the east where the border deghans held back the Kadeshi.

Some of the laden carts on this road had come from even farther away, carrying second-rate steel and mechanical creations from the Iron Empire of the Hrum, to trade for glass, spices, and dyes from the savage lands of Kadesh, for even the Hrum’s second-rate steel was better than anything the Kadeshi could produce. Some traders from both directions stopped in Farsala to trade for Farsalan silk, which was so strong that armor could be made from its gathered layers, like the padded tunic Jiaan was wearing—armor both stronger and lighter than the leather armor most folk used. Sometimes they traded for horses, too. Farsala’s horses were the finest in the world, and even the culls from their herds were worth much in other lands.

Traders liked Farsala, Soraya’s father said, and paid their travel tax willingly because the deghans kept the road free of bandits. Soraya had never met anyone willing to pay taxes, but the traders were a cheerful lot, calling out greetings and talking of the lands they’d visited as you rode beside their carts—though they wouldn’t unwrap the mysterious bundles and crates of their loads unless you had coin in hand and were interested in buying more than a trinket or two.

On past trips Soraya had talked to the traders for candlemarks, to her father’s amusement and her mother’s disapproval. Sudaba would never permit casual conversation with such low-born men on this journey, just as Soraya’s trousers had been taken away by her mother’s maid and replaced with the voluminous, awkward split skirt.

Soraya sighed again. When she married, she would choose a man who let her wear what she pleased and talk to whomever she wished, like her father did. When she was married…

THE WEATHER HELD GOOD
for two more days. The harvest was beginning, the fields full of peasants in their vulgar, brightly dyed clothes. Even little ones, barely older than Merdas, were fetching empty baskets for their elders or chasing off the birds. But midafternoon, on the fourth day of their journey, the clouds to the south began to build and darken.

Jiaan scowled at them—her father’s scowl—the rising wind ruffling his curly, peasant hair, and he asked Sudaba if they could stop at the next village.

Soraya bit back the urge to argue. She might love a thunderstorm, but she knew the horses wouldn’t.

So it came about that Soraya found herself, in the late afternoon, with time and energy to spare, cooped up in a bedchamber that was too small even to pace in. There were peasant designs painted on the furniture, and the painted shutters of the single, small window opened onto the inn’s kitchen yard. The trees on the other side of the yard’s wall rustled in the wind, their upper branches beginning to toss; but the window faced north, so that was all of the storm she could see.

At home Soraya had a south-facing room. She could sit at her open window, blanket wrapped around her, and watch the winter rains rush in, spitting lightning and growling like a lion, as the wind clawed at her hair. Sometimes she didn’t close the shutters when the first drops struck her face. Sometimes she even went out in the storms….

There was a shed roof not four feet below the windowsill.
Why not?
Her mother’s maids had only taken away
one
pair of trousers.

Soraya pulled her next pair from inside one of her shifts, where she’d concealed them on the first night of the journey. She pinned her overrobe tight, grateful that it was split up the back for riding. It was the work of moments to swing one leg over the sill and pick her way down the shed’s roof, rope-soled riding boots secure on the rough slats. Off to one side was a wood bin, conveniently placed for a girl who wasn’t tall to reach with one toe and then wobble down to the ground.

Soraya grinned at the startled cook, who’d stopped pulling loaves from the oven under the shed’s roof to stare at the source of the overhead footsteps. Then she turned and made for the gate that would lead to the inn’s garden and, hopefully, to some open place where she could watch the storm come in.

Yes.
Once she passed the trees, she saw a small rise that began where the garden ended. She’d almost reached it when a hand fell on her shoulder.

Soraya squeaked and spun, one hand clenching into a fist, as her father had taught her, the other reaching for the small eating dagger she wore at her belt. But the dagger went undrawn, for her fist smacked into a warm, strong palm, and a warm, strong voice said, “That’s my leopard cub! But you should have the dagger out by the time your fist hits, girl.”