Fire and Sword (3 page)

“Heal themselves, as they often do. When we started the clinic, we were to treat only the dying, and only those dying from misfortune, not infirmity. I know you have been treating every child who comes to us.”

“I can’t b-b-bear to see them suffer.”

“We all suffer, your Highness. Ultimately it is our lot in life. But if you continue to help all who are brought to us, then I fear a time will come when you will not be able to help any, not even those in direst need of your healing power.”

Olio sighed. “You are right. I did not recognize m-m-myself this morning. And the dreams are getting worse. They always end with ...” He could not finish.

“End with what, your Highness?”

Olio shook his head. “It does not m-m-matter.” He tried smiling again. “I p—p—promise to look after m-m-myself, Edaytor. I will rest. I will get m-m—more sleep.”

“I think more than sleep is needed,” Edaytor warned him. “You must not attempt any healing for a while. You need to stop using the Key of the Heart.”

“Stop using it? You can’t be serious.”

“I have never been more serious. It is the source of your nightmares and discomfort.”

“B-b-but I can’t stop, Edaytor. You know that.”

“For a while only. Just long enough for you to recoup your strength.”

“How long will that take?”

“You are young. I do not think it will take long. But when you are well enough to resume the healing, it must be as we first agreed: to help only those in mortal peril.”

“This is hard of you.”

“Only those in mortal peril,” Edaytor said more sternly.

Olio nodded wearily. “Very well, m-m-my friend. As you say. You have m-m-my word.”

“I do not need your word, your Highness.” Edaytor went to the prince and put a hand on his shoulder. “I trust you.”

Jes Prado stretched his body, wincing at the pain as muscles locked. “But it is better,” he groaned between grinding teeth. He even acknowledged to himself that a lot of the fat he had accumulated as a farmer in the Arran Valley had disappeared from his frame. He was harder and leaner now than he had been since he had fought in the Slaver War many, many years before.

He slumped back into a chair and started clenching and unclenching his fists. There was almost no pain there at all anymore. He had been practicing with a sword ever since his worst injuries had been treated by the queen’s own surgeon, Dr. Trion.
A funny old cutter,
Prado thought,
but he knows his stuff. I wish I’d had someone like that in my mercenary company in the old days.

He stood up again and dressed slowly. The queen had given him a new set of clothes to replace those torn to pieces during his adventure in the summer. He remembered with a grimace how he had kidnapped Prince Lynan from under the noses of his companions, then was stopped at the last minute from safely delivering him to another mercenary captain called Rendle. And he remembered Rendle’s fury at his failure, and how cruelly Rendle had treated him after that with physical punishment and constant threats to his life. And he remembered the long, dangerous, and exhausting escape from Rendle’s clutches in the far northern kingdom of Haxus all the way back to Kendra, when he had arrived at Areava’s palace more dead than alive.

Rendle, you bitch’s son. I will find you one day and gut you while you still breathe.

One day soon, he reminded himself, if the young queen agreed to his plan. But how to convince her to give him an army? The problem had worried at him since his arrival in Kendra, but over the last few days a plan had slowly coalesced in his mind. There was a way, but it had to be explained to the right people and in the right way.

He went to the window. From his small room in one corner of the palace he could look down on the Royal Guards’ training arena. Soldiers were practicing their sword skills under the careful eye of their new constable, Dejanus.

I never thought I’d ever see anyone bigger than the old constable,
Prado admitted to himself.
Kumul against Dejanus. Now that would be something to see.

He looked on the training guards with an envious eye. If he could have fifty of them, he would march straight into Rendle’s camp and butcher his whole company. But no, that would be asking for too much.

His plan would work well enough, though. He would still get Rendle in the end.

But first Lynan, he reminded himself. Lynan was the key to the whole thing. The thought struck him as morbidly funny. Imagine that useless whelp playing a role in helping him exact his revenge against Rendle. He realized then it was also right that Lynan should be at the center of the design. After all, everything had started with him all those months ago. He wondered if he should let the prince live long enough to see Rendle die. It would not hurt to have a royal prisoner—no matter how out of favor—should things go awry.

Yes,
he thought.
Maybe I’ll let the prince live for a while. A little while.

“The best strategy is clear,” Kumul said. He was walking with a slow determined pace around the campfire and the small group gathered around it. In the flickering light his huge size and gray head made him look like something out of ancient legend. Gudon and Ager followed him with their eyes, while Korigan stared straight into the fire. Kumul’s hands were behind his back, his head down in thought. “We raise an army here in the east of the Oceans of Grass. We are close to the Algonka Pass, and through there to Haxus and Hume. We can keep an eye on our enemies, and do not have so far to travel when we are ready to move.”

Queen Korigan’s gaze did not waver from the flames. “No. That is not the best way.”

Kumul stopped his striding and looked at her. She was young, not much older than Lynan, but Kumul could tell by the way she carried herself that she was already an experienced warrior. She had a commanding, even haughty presence that sometimes reminded him of Areava. When he had first met her, he had noted the ragged sword scar on her left arm, new enough still to be bright against her golden skin. But, for all that, she did not have his experience in warfare.

“We have both fought in many battles,” he said to her. “Oh, yes, I can tell. But how many wars have you fought?”

“I was fifteen when I slew my first warrior,” she said defiantly.

Kumul nodded. “Fighting Haxus or Grenda Lear will not be the same. I have fought against Haxus, and for Grenda Lear, almost my whole life. I know them. I am telling you we need to stay close to their borders; when it is time to move against one or the other, we must move quickly.”

“No,” Korigan repeated.

“I cannot believe you are saying this,” Kumul said. “You are a Chett; no one understands the importance of mobility more than the Chetts.”

Korigan nodded. “That is true. But you insist on thinking about the coming struggle as a military problem. It is more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Prince Lynan has my full support in his struggle. My people have a great respect for the one who holds the Key of Union, and also a great respect for the son of Elynd Chisal.” She looked up at Kumul then. “And also for the famed captain of Elynd Chisal’s Red Shields. But my support will be meaningless if the northern Chetts do not, in turn, support me.”

“But you are their queen!” Ager protested. Korigan and Gudon glanced at each other. Ager did not like the meaning he read in that. “You
are
their queen, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” Gudon said, “she is definitely our queen.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Kumul demanded.

“My cousin is queen in name only.” Gudon spread his wiry arms to encompass the whole camp. “All these Chetts belong to her clan, the White Wolf clan, and would follow Korigan even across the Sea Between if she asked them. But the northern Chetts are made up of many clans, and not all of those would be as keen to follow her.”

“The truth is that some of the leaders of those clans would be queen or king in my place,” Korigan added.

“But your father united them.”

“My father united them against their will. We had a common cause back then: the defeat of the slavers. Once your General had defeated them, some of the clans believed there was no longer any need for the Chetts to have a monarch.”

“But the threat hasn’t gone,” Kumul said urgently. “Prado and Rendle are back.”

“Those clan leaders most opposed to me will not take my word for that. They would suppose I was lying to remain their queen.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“That we move to the High Sooq for winter. The clans gather there to trade and arrange marriages. Since my father’s time, it is also where the monarch consults with the other clan leaders. Last year there was a move against me, but most of the clans would prefer me—someone they believe is naive and bendable to their will—than one of the current clan heads.”

“And truth, that’s our problem,” Gudon said. “If you want to raise an army of Chetts, you’ll need more than our clan. But if Korigan tried to raise the other clans, they will have more reason to depose her.”

“The solution’s simple—and obvious,” Kumul said flatly. “We stay here in the east, watching the Algonka Pass and carrying out raids on our enemies. Word will spread to the clans eventually and they’ll join our cause.”

“Kumul, how many years do you have?” Korigan asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean how long do you have before Grenda Lear will not care whether or not Lynan is alive or dead, forgotten, or reinstated? If they have ten years of peace and prosperity under their new queen, what chance have you of pressing Lynan’s claims against those who murdered Berayma? For it will take ten years to gather an army the way you propose.”

“And what do you suggest we do? From what you have said, the clans would rather depose you than follow you into war.”

“We
all
go to the High Sooq. I try to rally them, but if they waver, Lynan will be our key. They will believe him.”

“Would he be in any danger there?” Kumul asked.

“No one would harm the son of Elynd Chisal,” she said.

“Not even if it means getting rid of you?”

Korigan stared at him levelly but said nothing.

“Then I say again, our solution is simple. We stay here. We carry out raids. We send out messengers to the other clans, gifts, booty, anything we need to do to make them rally to our cause.”

“You do not understand the Chetts. Gifts and booty are well and fine, but they do not feed our cattle, they do not bring rain to the Oceans of Grass, they do not control the seasons. We need a cause, and Lynan can give them that cause.”

“You mean Lynan can secure your throne for you,” Kumul said sharply. Even as he said the words, he knew he had overstepped the mark. There was a sudden and cool silence around the fire.

“Kumul, that was unnecessary,” Ager said softly.

Kumul nodded. “Ager is right. My apologies, your Highness. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Better it had been left unsaid,” Gudon agreed.

“But Kumul
is
right,” Korigan said. “I do need Lynan to secure my throne.” Her gaze never left Kumul. “But do you not need my support to secure Lynan on the throne of Grenda Lear?”

Lynan had feigned exhaustion and retreated to his tent soon after dark. He needed to be alone. He tried to think about his future, about what needed to be done to return to Kendra, to reinstate Kumul as constable, Ager as captain, Jenrosa as student magicker, and himself as a prince of the realm. Most of all, he tried to think about what needed to be done to revenge Berayma’s murder.

Had Areava been a part of the plot? He could not believe it of his half-sister. She had loved Berayma, and anyway would never have done anything to betray Usharna’s last command. But how else could the murderers have hoped to pull off regicide? Neither Orkid nor Dejanus, who had performed the deed, could hope to ascend to the throne themselves. They needed one of Usharna’s children to succeed to the crown, but they had killed Berayma and tried to kill Lynan, and he did not think for one minute they would try to place Olio on the throne. That left Areava. Did she really believe Orkid and Dejanus’ claim that Lynan had murdered his own brother? Or had she been a member of the conspiracy from the very beginning?

Hard as he tried, he could not see his way through it. Something else was occupying his mind. At times just a flash—the exultation he felt when he snapped the neck of the grass wolf—and at other times it was as if he was reliving the whole hunt.

He did not know what happened to him today. He remembered the rage filling his whole being when Gudon’s life was in danger, as hot and great as a summer storm. He remembered spurring his horse out of the protective group and leaping off it to grapple with the wolf. But he did not know
how
any of this had happened. And he did not know where his great strength had come from.

He swung his feet off his cot and stood up. The plain gold circle of the Key of Union dangled from its heavy chain around his neck. When he looked outside of his tent, he saw a few fires burning, some with people gathered around. He could also see the shape of the grasslands gently rolling away from the hill on which they were camped. Far away, he could make out clumps of trees. Gudon had called them arrow trees. Lynan could even see individual leaves as sharp and deadly as the weapon they were named after. While he could barely squint in the daylight, at night his vision was as good as a hawk’s. He stepped outside. Nearby was a large boulder. He bent over and tried to pick it up. It would not budge. He might as well have tried to move the world. Whatever strength he had during the fight with the wolf was gone now. He was just plain Lynan again.

Moonlight reflected off his the pale skin of his hand.
Not quite plain old Lynan anymore,
he thought. Or ever again. He did not fully understand what he had become, but the callow, frightened, and often self-righteous boy who had fled Kendra was no more.

Suddenly he was alert.

He looked around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. What had captured his attention?

He pricked his ears, but heard only the sound of snuffling horses, a few snoring Chetts, the indistinct mumble of close conversation, the crackling of the fires. He could smell the fire smoke, too, and the horses’ hides. And he could smell something else.

That was it. That smell. He slowly turned on his heels. There, to the northwest. He
knew
that smell, had come across it only recently. Karak. He drew in air through his nose. One karak, he was certain.

And then a new sensation. Akin to hunger, but greater and fiercer.

He strode rapidly toward the source of the scent. He passed a lone sentry, who bowed to him. He broke into a trot. The sentry called after him. He waved at her to keep quiet, and she shut up. In a few moments he was almost out of site of the camp. He hesitated. Part of him wanted to return to his tent, to find rest, but another part, a greater and more urgent part, drove him on.

Korigan’s remark left Kumul and Ager speechless.

“You mean you don’t intend for him to replace Areava as ruler of Grenda Lear?” she asked, incredulous.

“Of course not,” Kumul said, his tone more confused than righteous, staring at the queen. “Areava was next in line to Berayma. And after her is Olio, her brother. No one would accept Lynan being placed on the throne.”

“The Chetts would,” Korigan said evenly, meeting his gaze.

“Lynan is of royal descent,” Gudon added. “He has been wrongfully outlawed. Those who actually murdered his brother now rule behind the throne, and if Areava was not complicit in Berayma’s killing, she is certainly taking advantage of it.”

“But we don’t know that Areava knew of the murderers’ plot,” Ager argued. “She was crowned because she was next in succession.”

“And she gave amnesty to Lynan to argue his case in front of the court?” Gudon said.

“Well, no ...”

“Then maybe she does not want to hear what Lynan might have to say.”

“This is ridiculous—”

“What is ridiculous,” Gudon interrupted, “is that neither of you have tried to see to the very end. Whether or not Areava is guilty of conspiracy is meaningless.
She
is Lynan’s enemy now, not Berayma’s murderers, however just it might be to want to reveal their wrongdoing.”

“Lynan will never be safe in Grenda Lear until he is crowned himself,” Korigan added. “And as for cause? He has the blood, he has the goodwill of the Chetts and—from what Gudon has told me—the goodwill of the ruler and people of Chandra as well. Lynan has one of the Keys of Power, the Key of Union, the Key that represents all the provinces in the kingdom outside of Kendra itself.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Kumul said. Ager thought he looked suddenly gray, and his voice sounded uncertain. “We still have to decide what to do
now,
not years ahead.”

“Then shouldn’t Lynan be here?” Korigan asked.

“Ager and I have been advising him. When we have all made a decision as to our best course of action, we will present it to him.”

Korigan’s eyes widened. “Is that how it works in Grenda Lear?”

“Lynan is still young,” Kumul explained patiently. “He was never expected to succeed to the throne, so he was never taught how to rule or how to lead. He must learn these things under our tutelage.”

“Truly, it is better to learn by doing,” Gudon said.

“In the proper time and in the proper way,” Kumul said shortly.

As the discussion returned again to whether the clan should move west to spend winter at the High Sooq or stay where it was, Ager found himself no longer listening to the words. He stood up, excused himself and drifted into the night, his crouching walk making him look like a giant spider in the dim light.

Korigan and Gudon’s words had shocked him because the idea of Lynan becoming king himself had never occurred to him, but the more he thought about it the more logical the Chetts’ conclusion seemed to be. He did not agree with it—his whole upbringing and training as a soldier loyal to Grenda Lear rebelled against it—but he could see the sense behind the argument.

He turned back to the others. The fire flickered dimly in the darkness, the giant silhouette of Kumul casting an eerie shadow across the camp.

Lynan forced himself to turn back.

What was I doing ? I am a prince of the realm, not a beast in the night.

He laughed wryly at his own pride. Some prince of the realm: exiled to the Oceans of Grass, with a future only the greatest optimist would find any hope in, and now plagued by desires that were inhuman. Areava would not be surprised, of course, she always thought of him as almost less than human. He could remember vividly their last conversation on the palace’s south gallery only hours before Be-rayma was murdered; he had seen in her eyes then how she truly thought of him.

With that memory came a very human anger, and the emotion threw out the last vestige of his unnatural hunger.
This is how I control it,
he thought with surprise.
By never forgetting the first cause of my exile and transformation.