The Fall of Neskaya (9 page)

Over the next few days, the countryside remained rugged and their speed uneven. Rafe stopped a number of times to dig up edible roots, the wild ancestors of Midwinter vegetables, and to trap small game. The rabbit-horns were smaller here than near Verdanta, but more easily snared.

Coryn sat in front of the fire, knees drawn up against his chest, chin resting on his folded arms. He would rather be curled up in the darkness of the lean-to shelter, trying to ignore the nausea which had grown more intense with the smell of roasting meat. He was shivering again, visibly this time, so Rafe ordered him to warm himself by the fire.

Before his eyes, the flames danced and flickered. At least, they were honest yellow and orange, with only a tinge of blue at the very base. But when he looked away, into the dark of the night, past the little meadow where they’d camped and the thin, poor forest beyond, the world shifted uneasily.

Coryn set his teeth together and forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. He would get through this night. He must. If only he didn’t have to eat any of the brown-crisp roasted rabbit-horn, its fat dripping into the fire to send up puffs of smoke.

Rafe, who had been bending over to check the meat for doneness, suddenly and without straightening up whipped his knife from its sheath. Every line in his body tensed with alertness.

“Come out, and give your names!” Rafe called.

“Put down the knife!” came a voice from the dark beyond the circle of firelight. “You’re surrounded and outnumbered.”

Rafe, still crouched in a fighting stance, called back, “I hear only one. Who are you? What do you want?”

From another direction came a second voice, and then a third. “ ’Tis you who should explain yourselves, trespassers!”

“Captain, the boy wears the colors of Verdanta!”

“Leynier!”
the second voice roared. “Leynier spies!”

A man stepped into the light, tall and grim-faced, holding a drawn sword. His cloak, thrown back from his shoulders for fighting, had borders stitched with the emblem of Storn of High Kinnally. Coryn rose to his feet, keeping his hands well away from his body. The Storn captain’s eyes flickered to Coryn and then back to Rafe.

“You cannot win, old man. You may know how to use that knife, but by Aldones, I’ll skewer you before you can touch me.”

Rafe shifted his stance. The silence deepened. With a flick of the wrist, a small knife appeared in his other hand. A throwing knife. The captain’s eyes widened in understanding. His weapon might outreach Rafe’s, but he would never get close enough to use it.

“This stalemate can only end in bloodshed,” the captain began. “For the boy’s sake—”

“Stop this nonsense at once!” A woman’s voice rang out in the night. “Both of you!” An instant later, a small, delicately-made woman with an air of unquestionable authority stepped forward. Firelight reddened her gray cloak and touched unruly auburn curls.

The Storn captain lowered his sword, but did not put it away. Rafe remained as he was.

The woman’s eyes snapped, and she looked as if she would stamp one foot and scold them all like naughty children. Instead, she spoke calmly. “This boy and his guide are henceforth under my protection. You will not harm them, nor will you,” with a look in Rafe’s direction that sent Coryn trembling again, “make any threat toward
my
escort.”

“But, Lady—” the Captain protested.

“Is that clear?”
She had not raised her voice, yet power rang through her words.

Coryn’s knees went powdery. He thought that if he had been holding a knife, he would have dropped it instantly. The Storn man looked about to do just that before he hastily put his sword away. Rafe’s weapons disappeared, the long blade back into its sheath, the throwing knife to wherever it had come from.

As the woman moved closer to Coryn, he saw that she was not young. Silver frosted the coppery curls and a filigree of delicate lines bracketed eyes and lips. A half-smile danced around the corners of her mouth.

“Come with me,
chiyu.
We have much to discuss.”

She turned and plunged into the darkness. Coryn followed, his feet unable to do anything else. A few steps beyond the circle of firelight, a ball of white light burst into being over her outstretched hand.

She turned to smile at him. “Hardly. It isn’t magic, what we of the Towers do, as you will soon learn.”

“Who
are
you?” Coryn blurted out, feeling stupid.

“Bronwyn of Tramontana,
leronis
of the Third Circle.”

“Tramontana! That’s where I’m going!”

Lady Bronwyn paused, the ball of light flickering over her features. “And who are you, who are destined for the Tower?”

Coryn hesitated. The Storn armsmen already realized he was from Verdanta. If they knew he was Lord Beltran’s son, even a third son who would not inherit, they might hold him for ransom or worse.

“Listen to me,” the lady said sharply. “I don’t care if you’re from Verdanta or Valeron or the far side of the Wall Around the World, for that matter. You managed to reach me with your unaided mind. Have you any idea what that means, to be able to do that at your age? Do you think we would let such
laran
talent run wild? Or didn’t you realize what you had done?”

For a moment, he was back in the stony shelter with rain pelting and rocks pummeling the hillside. Blue flames licked at him once more. The smells of blood and fear filled the darkness.

“You don’t sound anything like—like the voice I heard.”

The ball of light over Lady Bronwyn’s hand shrank to a pinpoint. “Why, what do you mean?” she said, her voice echoing as if from a distance.

“Bells,” he whispered, reaching vainly for the memory, for something to hold on to. “Silvery bells.”

Silvery—silvery—sil—ver—ry
. . .

The world slid sideways and went white. Coryn’s jaw clamped shut, the muscles of his back and legs locked in spasm. Breath hissed between his teeth, then stopped. Pain lanced up his calves, his thighs, his arms. Fire exploded from his solar plexus. He fought for another breath.

Dimly, Coryn felt his body topple. Shadowy hands reached out to catch him, to cushion his fall. Under his back, the ground felt prickly and cold. He heard a woman’s voice, jangled bells, crying out commands.

“No, don’t restrain him. Get my pack from camp—hurry!”

Footsteps receded, then approached. A hand, soft and warm, brushed his forehead, laced fingers with his. A familiar voice whispered through his thoughts.

Let me guide you through this. Threshold sickness can be frightening. But you are not alone, I am here to help you . . . yes, that’s right, breathe softly. I’m right here
. . .

“Who’s
he?
” came a new voice, like a sulky child’s.

“Hush, now.” Lady Bronwyn spoke again. “One of you men, take her back.”

“I don’t want to go back! You can’t order me around!”

Coryn’s heart skipped a beat. The next moment, he could hear nothing at all. His muscles, which had begun to soften at Bronwyn’s mental touch, locked tight. Arms and legs jerked under the sudden force of the contractions. His spine arched, throwing back his head. For what seemed an eternity, he could neither hear nor see.

Coryn became sensible of his body once more, his limbs thick and sluggish as clay. His chest heaved, drawing breath into his lungs. The harsh white light of the witch-fire, for he had no other term for it, softened with yellow torchlight.

“No, it’s not over,” Lady Bronwyn’s voice seemed to come from afar. She bent over him. He felt her breath sweet on his face. Something smooth and cold pressed against his lower lip. “Drink this. Quickly, before the next round.”

“Whu—”

“
Kirian.
It will help the seizures.”

Kirian!
Rumail’s vile potion!

“N—nuh—” Coryn threw his head from side to side.

“Hold still!”
For an awful moment, Coryn’s struggles halted, as if he were suddenly encased in ice. Hands, men’s rough, strong hands, pinned his body to the ground. In his bones, he knew this had happened before—

From the corner of his blurred vision, Coryn caught sight of Rafe’s face, grim with concern. It wavered, shifting form to another man’s, now gray and terrifying.

A scream tore from Coryn’s throat.

Coryn lay helpless to resist as the neck of a glass vial passed between his teeth. Cool lemony fluid filled his mouth. His traitorous throat swallowed once, twice. Tears sprang to his eyes. He wanted to cough it up, but it was too late. Warmth spread through his stomach, outward to his limbs, melting tight muscles, easing his breath.

Coryn’s arms and legs began to shake, little tremors laced with pain. Any moment, he feared, they would build into another bone-wrenching spasm, but after a minute they subsided. As the quivering left him, he sank into the earth in relief, deep and deeper . . .

H
uge and low on the horizon, the Bloody Sun cast slanting crimson rays over the walls of Castle Ambervale. Men stood at attention at the gates and along the battlements. Tents, picket lines, and food storage bins sprawled across the broad fields to the east, where once summer trading fairs were held. A squadron of spearmen drilled under the shouted orders of an officer, while other men walked sweating horses dry, cleaned weapons, and raked the ground smooth for tomorrow’s armed practice. Smoke arose from the cooking pits. To the south, a village, still bustling with activity, hugged the river bank. A breeze brought the aroma of bread newly baked for the evening meal.

Rumail of Neskaya nudged his horse forward, though the weary animal needed no encouragement with home in sight. A shouted hail went up at his approach. At the threshold of the castle, two guards stepped to his side, greeting him with that deference born of fear to which he was long since accustomed. As he rode through the sally port, between the newly reinforced gates, he glanced up at the twin banners of Ambervale and Linn, noticing the bright stitching, the freshly oiled hinges, evidence everywhere of discipline and readiness. With Verdanta secured bloodlessly by marriage, Damian could turn his attention to Acosta, maybe even the outlying provinces of Aldaran. And from that mountain stronghold, the hill kingdoms leading to the lowlands, Valeron and the Hastur lands. Yes, his brother would be pleased with his news.

In the courtyard, a gaggle of maidservants wearing white caps and aprons chattered as they swung their buckets to the well. Other servants carried baskets of green-and-gold summer marrows and baskets of steaming round-loaves and meat buns to the kitchen.

Rumail’s lower back twinged as he swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to an impeccably-liveried servant. Years of service in the Towers had sapped his physical vitality, yet he would gladly pay that cost a thousand times over. Let ordinary men think him a sorcerer, for their superstitious terror was far better treatment than he’d received as an impoverished bastard. Even the respect accorded him as his brother’s representative, voice of the King, paled by comparison to the heady sense of power born of his own abilities.

The
coridom
of Ambervale Castle welcomed Rumail with a deep bow, escorting him to his quarters himself, rather than delegating this task to an underling. Having bathed, shaved, and dined on roasted barnfowl with bramble-berry compote and soft white bread, Rumail presented himself to his brother.

Damian Deslucido, King of Ambervale and now Linn and tomorrow who knew what besides, sat in his high carved chair on a raised dais, talking easily with his
coridom
and a pair of men Rumail did not recognize, but guessed must be lesser nobles, possibly from Linn by the cut of their vests and the embossed leather trim of their boots. Empty scabbards hung from their belts.

“Your Majesty,” one of them said as Rumail approached, “the levies are too much. We have not enough men to bring in the harvest as it is. We still have not refilled our granaries from your—from the war.”

“We will speak more of this later. Once true peace is achieved, full bellies will surely follow.” Damian dismissed the man with a gesture. As the
coridom
escorted the two men from the presence chamber, Damian stepped down and embraced his brother.

Rumail was struck, as many times before, by how compelling and yet how uncomplicated Damian was. Not handsome, he radiated something deeper, something which drew men to him and fired them with his visions.
Charisma
or
glamour
came close to describing it, but neither were accurate, for then Rumail would have been able to defend against it with his
laran.
No, this was something different, so that whenever he came into his brother’s presence, all resentment at his lesser status melted away as he gave himself willingly to Damian’s cause.

And what a cause it was. Their father, the unlamented King Rakhal, had left Ambervale half in ruins, the people starving on lands overfarmed to pay for his gambling, his women, and his search for the Elixir of Eternal Life. Neighboring Linn had already annexed miles of the most productive lands between them.

Now Linn knelt at Damian’s feet, as farmers worked their land without the threat of
clingfire
or any of the other devil-try which stalked the war-torn Hundred Kingdoms. All flourished in Damian’s golden sun. Only a few malcontents grumbled at the armed vigilance necessary to maintain this peace.

“So, brother, what news from Verdanta? Was the old man reasonable?” Damian put one arm around Rumail’s shoulders, not being bound by the etiquette which restricted casual physical contact among telepaths, and started down the hallway toward the private quarters.

“Verdanta will be yours on your own terms,” Rumail replied, his words inflected with the honorifics due his lord. “And you were right—”