Sword (11 page)

This conversation was beginning to remind her far too much of her last few discussions with her father. "Dangerous
how
?"

"I don't
know
, girl. Had I given you answers over the last two years about this prophecy, about our own guesses—that's what you'd have heard most: I don't know. Nobody does."

Arlen looked tired. Arlen looked
afraid
. Kyali stared at her hands, spread possessively over the book, rather than at his face, because that sight made fear flutter in her belly, and she was already queasy enough.

"I can't take it with me, can I?" She didn’t need the shake of his head to tell her that answer. Biting her lip, already regretting the choice, she slid the book back into his hands. "And I can't stay, Arlen Ulin's-son. I
can't
. So we're both spared, aren't we?"

"If you want to call it that," he murmured.

All her resentment fell away from her then, leaving only forlorn gratitude and a desperate desire to take it all back and stay here forever. She stood, still embarrassingly wobbly, and Arlen rose to face her. Mathin and Saraid arrived, Mathin leading her horse, outfitted with a set of saddlebags.

"Are you sure? We can—" Saraid eyed the book, and whatever she'd been about to offer disappeared in the white line of her pressed lips.

"I'm sure," Kyali said, already weary at the thought of journeying down the mountain once more, through the outer villages. She wouldn't have the luxury of pretending to be a villager this time. She'd be a girl in armor, an heir of Corwynall, wearing a Fraonir baldric.

A girl more skilled at the sword than any soldier in the Lardana army, now.

Dispassionate estimation of your own skill
, Arlen said in her head, and she scowled and straightened her shoulders. Arlen gave her a crooked smile.

"Thank you," Kyali whispered, and fell mute, unable to get anything else out past the swelling in her throat. Saraid kissed her cheek, gripped her hand in a surprisingly fierce hold, and then turned away without another word. Kyali wilted a little in relief. She hated leavetakings.

"Arlen—" She got that far and then his arms were around her, lifting her half off her feet.

"You’ll do fine," he said gruffly. Kyali pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling about five years old in his arms. "You carry a Fraonir sword now. You’re a swordmistress of the Clans. I’ve provided a letter saying so. You’ll likely need it—your court has no idea what’s coming back to it, and many won't be pleased at how hard a mark you've become. But you’re ready. Hear me: we could have dithered longer, but you were ready almost a season ago, to tell the truth. Don’t forget it."

She clung fiercely, inarticulate with gratitude and terror. Arlen smiled again and set her back, his eyes suspiciously bright.

"Off you go then, general's daughter. You're ready. You're
good
. Don’t ever believe different."

"Aye," Kyali said, the word half-strangled by the tears she was swallowing. She spun out of his embrace before cowardice could make her say more, beg him to come with her, beg him to let her stay.

There was no more room in her life for such childish wishes.

Ainhearag snorted at her as she pulled herself into the saddle, then pushed through the trees almost as though she knew they were headed home. They came to the wide grassy slope which would become the Maurynim path to the foothills and Kyali loosed the reins, letting the thunder of Ainhearag’s hooves drown out the fear and the sorrow that clutched at her chest. Arlen and Saraid and all the Fraonir lay behind her; ahead lay the court, the House.

The Western barons.

Taireasa. Devin.

She wiped her face, gripped the reins in one white-knuckled fist, and didn’t look back.

C
HAPTER
7

T
here was someone following them.

Devin shifted in the saddle, twisting to look behind him for the third time in the last hour. He turned back when his guard Hewet, a man who looked like he had been carved whole from dark oak but who moved with unnerving grace, hissed through his teeth. Amazing how much irritation such a small sound could hold. He scowled and faced the road ahead, which stretched on endlessly under patches of treeshadow and the blistering blue arch of the sky.

"They're closer," he said sullenly, earning himself another hiss.

Orin's briny, moody winds were far behind them now and the rich fields of Syndimn province lay all around, shimmering under a heat haze. He missed the salt air and the fogs. He missed fish for breakfast, fish for lunch, and fish for dinner. He even missed Duchess Armelle, who had done what not one of the doddering theorists who claimed to be her court wizards had managed, and terrified him into taming his wayward Gift.

She was a frightening lady, Armelle Orin. He understood his Gift no more than he did when he'd arrived, but he could at least play a tune without a flicker of magic now. He was going to miss her.

He was going to miss her heir Ysmena more, though.

Devin sighed, stopped himself from casting another glance backwards just to see if the dust cloud in their wake had grown any larger, and brought out the bone flute in his pocket.

"Put it away, my lord," Hewet said, mournful as a foghorn and utterly unamused. "Now, please."

"Surely even
you
prefer a little music to lighten a long journey, Hewet."

That got him an actual glower. Hewet went back to contemplating the shadows ahead of them, or the sound of the Deepwash running in the distance, or the utter lack of birds in this part of Syndimn, or whatever it was that interested a man who could probably lift a whole horse by himself but instead chose to follow around irritable sons of generals, keeping them from trouble. For his part, Devin went back to contemplating the desultory flick of his horse's ears, but he kept the flute in his hand as a silent, petty protest.

Hewet was Armelle's man, not one of his father's soldiers, who would have put up with his humors. He hadn't given his father time to send one of his own guards for an escort. He'd woken three days ago with an inexplicable need to be
home
, and only Armelle's ferocious scowls had stopped him from leaping ahorse that very moment, his boots half-laced and all his belongings trailing behind him like lost children.

"There are six of them, they carry horse bows, and they appeared on our trail after we passed Savvys village, which is a known crossing point on the Western border," Hewet said, without sparing his charge another glance or even altering his tone to better match the grave nature of that statement. "They may be bandits, but they are more likely border guards from the other side, and here because you look like an opportunity, my lord. We can only hope they don't know what sort of opportunity."

Devin stared at him, gone loose and clumsy in the saddle. After a long, frozen moment, he put the flute away. "What do we do?" he asked in a small voice, when it was clear Hewet would volunteer no more information.

"Why, we keep riding, my lord. I am a hired guard and you a wealthy merchant's son, should we be asked, and we know nothing of Western affairs or border troubles."

That seemed wildly optimistic. "And if we did?"

"We'd still be outnumbered three to one, not counting the pair out by the bannerstone in the field, who are clearly prepared to drive us back to the road should we leave it."

"Oh."

He was going to think only good thoughts about Hewet from now on.

The sound of hoofbeats came to him faintly, a leisurely, insolent pace, and Devin swallowed down a throat gone dry. "Will they... I mean, they wouldn't
break
the king's peace. Would they?"

When he looked over, Hewet's expression was not reassuring.

He sat a little straighter, feeling the skin on his back prickle with the knowledge of eyes and possibly arrows aimed at it, and hoped the man riding next to him had a plan. Surely a man who looked like this, and who could put up with the sniping he'd been doing the whole journey so far, had something in mind.

"Should we leave the road?" Devin said finally, when the silence was strangling him, and received yet another annoyed hiss.

"They're driving us north, my lord, along the border road. They have scouts where they can prevent us from traveling across the fields. They have bows. We would have no chance."

Devin gripped the reins a little too hard, then sat back in the saddle when the gesture caused his horse to dance sideways. He flung a small, slightly desperate glance at Hewet, hoping this was some sort of terrible jest, but there was sweat on the man's brow and a grim look in his eye.

"But what
for
?" Devin bleated. "Who are they? There's been no breaking of the peace on the border, I'd have heard of it—it would be all over the kingdom!"

He said that, and then thought about his sister and Baron Walderan's nephew, and how few people knew the truth of
that
, and his hands went cold. He began to feel a bit sick.

But they wouldn't kill one of the heirs to the Great Houses out in broad daylight. Surely not. There was no way it had gotten so bad out here in the mere half a year he'd been holed up inside Caerwyssis's salt-pocked walls.

"What do we do?" Devin asked again, and Hewet sighed.

"We ride onward, young lord, and hope that these men are following opportunity and not orders, for they will not likely draw and break the peace if that is the case. We hope the Sarmin Mill, which is about an hour's ride ahead, is not occupied by more of them. We have a small chance of losing them if we move quickly, and if the old bridge is intact. We will pick up our pace when we reach the cover of the trees, just ahead, you see? You must do everything I say now, do you hear me?"

"I hear," Devin murmured, imagining the road ahead. He had never seen the old Sarmin Mill, reputed to be the first bridge built when the Western provinces were settled, who-knew-how-many hundreds of years back. He had never ridden the border road before. He was never going to do it again, if he got out of this. "I'll do as you say, Hewet. Lead the way."

His sword was wrapped and packed away in the saddlebags. His bezaint vest was the only protection he had, and it wasn't much, but he swore he would never again complain about how it chafed. He eyed Hewet sidelong and tried to keep his heart from pounding too hard as he slid the flute carefully out of his pocket again to rub his thumb over the worn knobs and curves, an old habit and a comforting one.

They rode under a curving canopy of beech and ash. Hewet nudged his mount carefully, almost nonchalantly, into a faster gait, and Devin followed suit. He could, if he strained, hear the sound of hoofbeats behind them. His heart pounded harder.

Next to him, Hewet slipped the faded blue tie that held his sword in its sheath, the mark of a man bearing a blade in the service of the king's peace. "Young lord," he said, still serene as a man playing draughts over a cup of ale, "If you can find your blade in the saddlebags without sacrificing speed, you should do so now. Do not unwrap it yet."

Good
gods
.

This felt unreal, like a play put on for his benefit, or one of his longer, more dramatic ballads. Devin leaned back, fumbled clumsily at the saddlebags, and nearly lost his balance. Hewet was squinting ahead like a man facing down a high wind. The band behind them was fully audible now. He thought he could hear the two scouts that hid in the fields as well. It was a bit hard to breathe past the dread.

He caught the pommel of his sword in his fingers and slid the wrapped blade out, laying it across his lap. Hewet kicked his horse into a full gallop as the tree cover broke open and let the light back onto them in a blinding wash. Devin loosened his grip on the reins, leaned forward until he was breathing sweat and horse hair, making as small a target of himself as he could manage, and pressed his heel to his mount's side.

The burst of speed that called up startled him nearly out of the saddle.

They passed Hewet, who cast an astonished look after them. They flew down the road in a rising cloud of dust and a welter of hot sunlight, pelting toward the next stretch of trees and shade. Every strike of a hoof on the packed dirt rattled him right to his teeth. He had the sword pinned to his thighs with an elbow and the bone flute clenched desperately in the same hand that held the reins, and he was sliding in the saddle like a sack of turnips, all the muscles in his legs gone shivery and weak. When he and his mad horse crossed the line from sun back into shade, he heard a shout from Hewet. He didn't dare to turn and see; they were moving so fast now that any shift in his balance would send him flying, and he'd probably get a killing blow to the head from a hoof after he hit the ground, if the fall didn't break his neck first.

He brought the flute up.

One-handed and clumsy, he played the first few bars to "Lady Rose's Stables," a slightly filthy song that had been Ysmena's favorite to sing. And for the first time in half a year, he made no effort to curb the headlong rush of his Gift rising in the wake of the notes; instead, he welcomed it and squeezed his eyes shut as his head went light and strange.

Then he opened one eye to squint over the roiling withers of the horse and see what he'd wrought.

Not much
, he thought, disappointed… and then realized the shadows under the trees were twisting in a way no tree branch ever could. He raised his head, blinking when wind struck him in the face. It certainly looked odd, but it was hardly going to deflect arrows or frighten off bandits.

It did produce a series of shouts from behind, and another series from
ahead
, bewilderingly—oh gods, had he tripped an ambush? Hewet was one of the shouters, coming up hard on his heels. There was a sound of steel meeting steel. Devin flung a desperate look over his shoulder, saw Hewet fending off two men behind him, and looked ahead in time to see ten men in light armor ride out of the trees up ahead and drive straight for him. He almost swallowed the flute.