THREE DROPS OF BLOOD (11 page)

When the time came to return to the Warhawk's fortress, Mrillis did not hurry, though he
knew each day brought the fall storms closer. The last ship for Moerta would leave Quenlaque's
docks just about the time he would reach the Warhawk's fortress. He had planned to be on that
ship, intending to work with the other enchanters to study the condition of the tunnel under the
sea as they sailed above it.

For the first time since Pyris went to take over the kingdom of Goarlotte and become a
minor king under Efrin Warhawk, Mrillis would finally be able to visit his grandson. He hadn't
seen Pirkin since he had returned from killing Endor. The boy had been a babbling, toddling,
laughing little creature who didn't know him, but Mrillis had promised himself he would become
a part of his grandson's life. In all that time, he had never been able to go to Moerta, too busy
protecting Lygroes from Endor's followers, from Encindi enchanters, and then seeing to the
protection of Meghianna and Megassa. Pyris had come only a handful of times to the Warhawk's
Court in all those years, but he had been faithful in sending Mrillis reports on Pirkin's
welfare.

Mrillis knew Pyris wasn't delighted to know he would finally visit the court of Goarlotte
and meet his Noveni wife and spend time with Pirkin. His former son-by-law had never said
anything to discourage Mrillis from visiting, but there had always been a sense of relief in the
letters of response when Mrillis wrote to say, yet again, that he wouldn't be able to visit as
planned.

Something in the air, some sad song ringing through the Threads muffled the urgency he
felt to get to Quenlaque and join the ship, silently whispering that there was no hurry.

More understanding must have come to him in his dreams, he reasoned later, giving him
warning. He was not surprised, and only a little hurt, when he found Pyris' letter waiting for him
on his return to the fortress.

My Lord Mrillis,

I must request that you not come to Moerta for the winter, as you intend.
If you must come on the Warhawk's business, I ask you not to come to
Goarlotte.

I know that you have the right by law to come, and even if I mustered all
the soldiers of my domain against you, the Warhawk would send a thousand
Valors to stand with you. I ask you for the sake of the pain we both share, do not
come.

The honest, bitter truth is that Pirkin does not remember you. My wife is
the only mother he remembers, and her parents are his only grandparents. For
you to come now, after such a long absence, would only cause him confusion and
pain. Yes, I am aware that the upheavals in both our lands kept you away these
many years. I do not condemn you for putting the safety of our kingdom and the
High King above your grandson.

Here I must confess my dishonesty. I have never passed on to Pirkin your
messages or your gifts. Or when he did receive the gifts you sent, he was told they
came from the Warhawk, from friends in the court, not from you.

Condemn me, and justly, but have pity on your grandson and spare him
further pain. For Emrillian's sake, and the love she bore me, do not bring distress
on my dear wife, who admits she suffers some fear of my memories of Emrillian,
and who lives in terror of you, as the great Rey'kil enchanter, the power behind
the throne. She loves Pirkin as if he came from her own womb, and for you to
make your claim as his grandfather would threaten the love they share, simply by
reminding her that she is not his blood-mother.

I humbly beg you, for the honor and wisdom of your reputation, rightly
earned, do not come to Goarlotte. Let us live in peace.

Pyris, King of Goarlotte by grace of Efrin Warhawk.

Mrillis read the letter through three times, slipping a little further into the heavy sense
of quiet that threatened to weigh down his mind and heart. He supposed he would feel some
great tearing pain later, when he had time to digest Pyris' carefully, politely worded letter.

The bitterly amusing part of all this was that Pyris was wise to make his request. If
Mrillis had been able to visit every winter as he had intended since Efrin gave Goarlotte to the
former chieftain of the Valors, this would not have been necessary. Pirkin would have grown up
knowing his grandfather, even if only distantly. Lynzette, Pyris' second wife, would have had a
chance to see him as something other than the power that brought Braenlicach back to the
Warhawk's throne. They might have even become friendly, sharing their love for Pirkin.

Sighing, Mrillis put the letter away, far in the bottom and back of the chest he used to
store important documents and mementos. Then he closed his eyes and reached through the
Threads to notify Balin that he would not sail with the team of enchanters after all, and they
could set sail as soon as they wished.

* * * *

As the sisters grew older, Meghianna found some amusement in realizing that Megassa
didn't need her with the same strength that she felt toward her younger sister. She knew Megassa
loved her and missed her when they were separated for moons at a time, but didn't share the
sense of wistfulness Meghianna felt when fall came and she left the Warhawk's fortress to return
to the Stronghold.

The sisters wrote to each other often, with their message packets sometimes crossing the
width of Lygroes twice each moon. Efrin gifted his daughters with ney-hawks the spring of their
eighth year, to carry messages back and forth between them. He teased that he did it to save wear
and tear on horses and horseshoes and saddle leather, not to mention exhausting messengers who
had far better things to do. Ney-hawks were a lesser breed of the same species as the warhawks,
but smaller, faster, less intelligent, and therefore more easily bound with magic spells to bond
them to their owners. Mrillis personally saw to the knotting of the Threads that tied the
ney-hawks to the girls, so no one else would ever be able to take the message from the leather cases
on the hawks' legs.

Megassa's messages were always full of news about their father, about the latest
renegade Encindi attacks, and plans for the grand adventures the sisters would share when
Meghianna came home in the spring. Meghianna sometimes felt an odd tearfulness whenever she
read her sister's references to the fortress as their shared home. That was a surer sign than any
more blatant words that Megassa loved her. She thought her sister pitied her for having to study
magic and the duties of the Queen of Snows, and considered the life of a warrior far preferable
and more enjoyable.

As she grew older, and the time of her full investiture as Queen of Snows approached,
Meghianna sometimes found she agreed with her sister. Though she couldn't imagine any other
fate she would want or any duty she would be suited for, other than to serve Lygroes, sometimes
weariness and a portent of great loneliness would descend on her at the thought of decades and
perhaps centuries of duty and honor and responsibility lying ahead of her. Usually such feelings
descended on her in that misty realm between waking and dreams, and her spirit would rise up in
drowsy protest, wishing and reaching for... something she couldn't quite imagine, let alone
name.

She welcomed Megassa's exuberance and mischievous spirit when she went to the
fortress, to drive such thoughts and forebodings from her mind for all the moons they were
together.

The summer after they turned fifteen, everything changed.

It started subtly, enjoyably enough, with Megassa and Gynefra riding out to meet
Meghianna's escort halfway across Lygroes. The spring day shifted often between chilly rains
and bright sunshine. The sisters laughed and urged their horses to ride just a little faster, to splash
through puddles so often, Gynefra gave up cautioning them to slow down and save their mounts'
strength. Megassa was full of news, most of which centered on the crop of new Valor trainees
who had come to the fortress for the summer. Ten of the fourteen were from Moerta.

"You'd think they'd been insulted, to find out they had
imbrose,
" Megassa
added, after offering that bit of news. "What's wrong with them?"

"Noveni who aren't used to working with magic or seeing it at work regularly are afraid
of it, I suppose," Meghianna said. "Captain? What do you think?"

"I think anyone who resents a tool put into his hands is a fool," Gynefra said with a
sharp nod. "These new Noveni are going to be a problem. We've been warning the Warhawk's
Council for several years now. The new generation coming up on Moerta have taken it into their
heads that because the Encindi rebels practice blood magic, and keep trying to steal children
from
imbrose
-strong families, to use their magic when they're grown, that makes
all
magic dangerous, so no one should study or practice it. That's like refusing to pick
up a sword lying on the paving stones--"

"While you walk around barefoot, with your eyes closed," Megassa broke in, obviously
interrupting one of Gynefra's pet phrases. The sisters grinned at each other, their faces
half-hidden from their elders by the deep hoods of their cloaks.

"Far too smart for your own good," the guard captain growled, and landed a gentle slap
against the back of Megassa's head.

"They are being foolish and harming themselves," Meghianna agreed. "Magic is still
needed to purify the land from raw star-metal all over Moerta. And most healers use magic, of
one level of strength or another. How would they feel about magic if they had to rely on
guesswork, and nothing but herbs and knives and needles to tend their illnesses and
wounds?"

"That is the voice of reason we need traveling across Moerta," Lord Rondell said. The
retired chieftain of the Valors, he had asked to lead Meghianna's escort this spring. He and
Gynefra shared a nod and a look that communicated far more than Meghianna could pick up in
just the few seconds she saw it. "It's a pity you can't travel Moerta and talk to all the minor kings
and chieftains."

"Why not? Is it that dangerous?"

"You're fully Rey'kil, Meggi," Megassa said, eyes narrowing and mouth flattening in
displeasure. "Why would they listen to you? You're living magic, even more than Papa with
Braenlicach glowing in his hands."

"Unfortunately, you're right," Gynefra said with a sigh. "I'm proud you're clever enough
to see that."

"Then what can I do?" Meghianna said, fighting not to wail. Or was that a whine of
frustration trying to seep into her voice?

"Maybe you aren't supposed to do anything." Megassa's somber expression cracked into
a grin. "Maybe that's what I'm supposed to do." She tapped the leather-wrapped grip of the sword
anchored to her belt. "Beat some common sense into idiots who keep trying to tear the roof off
just as fall storms come in."

"Threats won't work, but earning their respect might," Gynefra said, nodding. "Lord
Rondell? What do you think?"

"There's nothing better for making a man sit up and take notice than a beautiful maiden
who knows how to handle a sword," the gray-haired warrior said with a chuckle. "Especially
since she has your royal father's gift for eloquence... and a reputation for only possessing half
his patience."

Megassa blushed. She tried to scowl, but a moment later, she joined in the laughter from
the remainder of their band. Meghianna was the last to laugh, and she wondered why it took her
so long to see the humor in the situation. Maybe she had grown up too quickly, just as Nalla
sometimes complained? Was she old before her time? She was more relieved than she liked to
admit when Megassa returned to the subject of the young Valor trainees, just as they emerged
from a gloomy stretch of forest and started across a wet green plain.

"Some of them are rather handsome. It's just unfair that the most handsome ones are the
worst dancers," her sister complained, pouting with such exaggeration, it was clear she was
joking.

"Dancing? Papa lets you dance with boys now?" Meghianna nearly choked on jealousy,
just for a moment. "Will I be allowed to now?"

A heartbeat later, she thought about the young Valor trainees' distaste for magic, and
wondered if anyone at all would ask her. She was, to all intents and purposes, Queen of Snows.
What foolish, magic-hating Noveni would want to be in the same room with her, much less touch
her hands as they circled the room together?

"I wouldn't, if I were you." Megassa's mouth pursed in distaste.

"But you dance with them."

"Danced. One evening. Then I overheard them talking--"

"Eavesdropped," Lord Rondell interrupted. He barked laughter when Megassa stuck out
her tongue at him.

"They're only interested in me as the Warhawk's daughter, and they think I wear the
knot of Valor trainee because of my royal blood, not because I know how to use my sword. And
they've decided that since Papa still doesn't show any interest in any of the royal ladies who
come to court, that it's time someone married his daughters and got the Warhawk to name one of
them his heir."

"Ah." Meghianna nearly choked on a thickness in her throat that was partially sympathy
for her sister, partially laughter, and partially a sickening feeling that she fought to prevent from
filling her stomach.

She and Megassa had foiled the machinations of an even dozen noble ladies who had
thought that mothering the Warhawk's daughters would earn them royal notice, and eventually
marriage and a crown. The sisters' tactics were as numerous as the ladies and their various
attitudes of sympathy, pity, friendship, cooing adoration and sternness. It didn't matter if they
faced the woman down in public and blatantly told her they didn't want to be friends because
they didn't want her to become their stepmother, or if they played dozens of nasty little tricks, to
discourage her--the candidates kept coming.

And now it seemed that the sisters had become fodder for the marriage market.
Meghianna realized with dismay that even though she and Megassa were far too young for
marriage itself, they were quite old enough for courtship and betrothals.