Lhind the Thief (39 page)

The future emperor of Charas al Kherval, twenty kingdoms
spread over two continents and countless islands, held my hands tightly,
waiting for me to make the first move.

And so I did. “State affairs,” I said, “can wait their turn.
And so can evil emperors. About that kissing. Can we try that again?”

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Lhind the Thief

Sherwood Smith

Book View Café August 20, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-61138-292-1
Copyright © 2013 Sherwood Smith

Cover illustration © 2013 by Sherwood Smith

Cover design by Amy Sterling Casil

Production team:
Copyeditor:
Tamara Meatzie;
Proofreaders:
Patricia Burroughs,
Hallie O'Donovan;
Ebook formatter:
Vonda N. McIntyre

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Sherwood Smith
was a teacher for twenty years, working with children from second grade to high school, teaching history, literature, drama, and dance.

She writes science fiction and fantasy for adults and young readers.

Her most popular book,
Crown Duel,
is currently in its 16th printing. The ebook edition contains extra material not available in the print edition.

Though she is known primarily as a fantasy writer, Sherwood and fellow BVC member Dave Trowbridge have collaborated on
Exordium
, a five-volume space opera.

A Posse of Princesses
Barefoot Pirate
The Wren Series
Wren to the Rescue
Wren’s Quest
Wren’s War
Wren Journeymage

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From the tower lookout in the royal castle—highest tower
in all the kingdom of Nym—Princess Rhis peered down through the misting rain at
a messenger on the main road.

This rider slumped in the saddle of the long-legged lowland
race-horse plodding up the steep road, occasionally hidden by tall stands of
deep green fir. The messenger had to be from the lowlands. Anyone raised in
Nym’s mountains knew that the only animal for the steep roads was a pony. Their
sturdy bodies and short legs fared better on steep slopes.

The rider’s cloak was crimson, a bright splash of color in
the gloom of a rainy afternoon. None of Nym’s royal messengers wore crimson
cloaks. This one must be an equerry from the Queen of faraway Vesarja. Rhis
turned away in disappointment and resumed pacing around the little room.

Once, many years ago, the old tower had been a lookout for
Nym’s warriors, no longer necessary since the kingdom had established magical
protection. Now the small, stone tower room had become Rhis’s private retreat.

Her parents considered themselves too elderly to climb all
those stairs any more; her older brother, Crown Prince Gavan, was too busy, as
was her older sister, Princess Sidal. And Gavan’s wife, Princess Elda, was too
stout—even if she’d approved of frivolities such as spending time in tower
rooms, which she didn’t. Something she mentioned rather often.

Rhis loved the lookout. It was cozy, and had a nice
fireplace (with a magical firestick in it that burned evenly all winter long),
a comfortable cushioned chair, a desk, a small case containing all her favorite
books, and a tiranthe—the twenty-four-stringed instrument that Elda insisted
only lowly minstrels played. Here Rhis could practice and not disturb, or
disgust, anyone. Here she could sit and read and dream and watch the
ever-changing weather and seasons over the tiny mountain kingdom. She could
also write wonderful ballads.

At least . . . she hoped they were wonderful.
Would be, some day. Maybe.

She stopped pacing and frowned down at the paper on the
desk, close-written with many, many scribblings. She loved music, and stories,
and ballads—especially the ones about people in history who had gone through
terrible adventures but had succeeded in finding their True Love.

When she’d begun her first ballad, it had seemed easy. All
she had to do was picture a forlorn princess, one who was tall with brown
hair—someone a lot like herself. Only instead of having a cozy retreat, this
princess was locked up in a tower room, she wasn’t quite sure why yet, but for some
horrific reason, which would require her to escape secretly down all 538 steps,
slip out into the treacherous snows of winter, and away—meeting a prince along
the road.

Rhis frowned. She knew what kind of prince the princess had
to meet. He had to be brave, and good at overcoming vast numbers of evil
minions, but he also had to be kind. He absolutely must like music—especially
ballads—but he had to be a good dancer. He had to look
like . . . 

That was the part that she always got stuck at. Rhis dropped
onto her chair and reread her verses about the mysterious prince. Every line
began with “The best” or “The greatest” or “The finest”—he had the darkest
hair, the bluest eyes, he was the best dancer, but still, somehow, he seemed
so . . . um, boring.

With a heavy sigh she dipped her pen and struck out the
latest words that just a while ago had seemed so wonderful. What were
the bluest eyes
, anyway? Were eyes the
silver-blue of the morning sky bluer than the dark blue of evening?

Blue eyes were stupid anyway. Everyone in ballads either had
eyes of emerald or sapphire or amber. How about something
really
unusual, like red eyes? Or yellow and purple stripe? But
would those be handsome? Rhis frowned and tried to picture a fellow puckering
up for a kiss . . . handsome lips, handsome nose . . .
and right above, a pair of yellow and purple striped eyes? No. Well, how about
red? But what kind of hair would look handsome with red eyes? Not red,
certainly, though her favorite color was ‘hair of flame’, which sounded more
romantic than anything. But crimson eyes and hair of flame? He’d look like a
measle.

Not blond, either. She didn’t want a blond prince, for the
people of Damatras far to the north were supposed to be mostly light haired and
paler than normal people, and everyone knew they lived to make war.

How about—

A tinkling sound interrupted her musing. It was the summons
bell that her mother had magically rigged so that the servants wouldn’t have to
climb 538 tower stairs just to remind Rhis not to be late for dinner.

The summons couldn’t possibly be about the messenger. No one
ever sent her messages, except for dull letters from Elda’s younger sister,
Princess Shera, and those always came with the green-cloaked messengers from
the kingdom of Gensam.

Rhis wrinkled her nose. It could only mean that Elda wanted
her—and always for some dreary task, or lesson, or duty, and if she dawdled too
long she also incurred a lecture given in that sharp, annoyed tone of voice
that never failed to send servants whisking about their business, and made Rhis
feel two years old.

Rhis’s feet knew all 538 of the worn tower stairs. She
skipped down and dashed onto the landing. A glimpse of pale blue caused her to
veer, and she narrowly missed running down Sidal, who tottered, struggling with
a stack of books in her arms.

Rhis reached up to steady her sister’s pile. “I’m sorry,”
she said contritely.

Sidal recovered her balance, and peered over the topmost
book. “A slower pace, perhaps?”

Rhis grimaced. Elda was forever lecturing her on always
using a sedate step, as a princess ought. “I will,” she promised. “But I was in
a hurry because someone rang the bell.” She looked around for one of Elda’s
maids.

Sidal smiled. “I did. Papa just received a letter from
Vesarja. It seems that Queen Briath Arvanosas has invited you to attend the
ceremonies arranged for Prince Lios, who is officially being appointed Crown
Prince.”

Rhis clapped her hands together. “Oh! Oh!”

Sidal tipped her head in the other direction. “They are in
there discussing it now.”

“Oh, Sidal,” Rhis breathed, dancing in a circle around her
sister. “I’ve never gone anywhere, done anything—”

“I think,” Sidal said in a quiet voice, her eyes just
slightly crinkled, “you ought to go in and hear what they have to say.”

Rhis whirled around. Sidal was like Mama. She never raised
her voice, or said anything unkind, but when either of them dropped a hint, it
was always to the purpose.

Rhis knew at once what Sidal was hinting at: Elda was in the
audience room.

Despite her promise to be more sedate, Rhis fled down the
carpeted hall, her pearl-braided hair thumping her back at every step. She
slowed at the corner just before the audience chamber, took in a deep breath,
and with proper deportment walked around the corner.

A waiting servant—Ama, mother to the upstairs maid—saw her,
bowed, reached to open the door, then paused. She pointed in silence over one
of Rhis’s ears, and Rhis clapped her hands to her head. A strand of hair
floated loose. How Elda would glower!

“Thank you.” She mouthed the words as she tucked the hair
back.

Ama smiled just a little, and opened the door.

The first voice Rhis heard was Elda’s.

“. . . and she has, despite all my efforts, no better sense
of duty than she had when she was five years old.”