A Dark Sacrifice Page 8

  Ruan’s only reply was a motion of the shoulders; whether he intended to convey something by this action or was merely fidgeting she was unable to decide.

  An hour ago, one of the guards from the bridge had turned up briefly and whisked Aell away to some barracks or mess hall in order to feed him. Sindérian fervently wished that it had been otherwise, not because she grudged the man-at-arms his meal, but because she thought, on the whole, he would have made a more peaceful companion than the Prince.

  “At least,” she ventured once more, “any shred of doubt we had that Winloki and Guenloie are one and the same has van—” She broke off abruptly when brisk steps sounded outside, and a lean, big-boned, fair-haired man entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  He wore a plain golden circlet and a heavy golden chain; his garments were of good cloth, neither rich nor splendid; but there was a certain authority in his bearing and manner that left no room for doubt: finally, they were in the presence of the King.

  Sindérian sprang from her chair and sank down into a curtsy. Prince Ruan’s bow was not very deep, just saved from insolence by its grace and elegance. It had been a long time, maybe, since he had gone down on one knee for anyone less exalted than his own grandfather. Faolein only ruffled up his feathers, staring at King Ristil with his round, yellow eyes.

  “You find us in the midst of councils of war.” The King motioned Sindérian and Ruan to be as they were before, likewise taking a seat for himself. “Otherwise, you would never have been kept waiting so long. My second son, Prince Kivik, is trying to hold a perilous position at Tirfang in the Drakenskaller Mountains, and we have been mustering a great host to ride to his rescue. It leaves tomorrow at first light.”

  At the names “Tirfang” and “Drakenskaller” Sindérian sat bolt upright in her chair. A series of images burned in her brain like cold fire: A long white road. A fortress with high, glittering walls. A cache of deadly jewels. Yet how could the mention of things she had never seen, places she had never been, conjure up such vivid and terrifying pictures?

  “I have been told your names, and who you are,” King Ristil went on. “But I can only guess what brings you so far in such perilous times.”

  Sindérian took in a deep breath and came straight to the point. “Nineteen years ago a wizard of my order was travelling in the north with an infant in his care. Both were lost. Yet we have reason to believe they may have come here.”

  A frown touched the King’s face and then was gone. “I have been expecting you, or messengers like you, ever since Aethon of Sibri was here last autumn. But of course I have known for much longer that someday someone from Thäerie or Leal would come asking questions about a wizard and a child.”

  “Then Éireamhóine was here?” A glance flashed between Sindérian and her father. “Then how…That is, why did no one know? Wizards have been searching for him all these years. The Nine Masters themselves have concentrated so much of their thought and will on finding him that any mention of his name, were it only a whisper, should have reached them long ago.”

  “But in this case he came late at night and few people knew of it.” Ristil was silent for a time, creasing his brow, perhaps dredging up memories that would have grown dim after so much time. Finally he spoke. “Nineteen years ago, we admitted visitors far more readily. The wizard arrived one night between midnight and dawn. Only the guards who had escorted him in knew that he had come, and I swore both men to secrecy afterward. To me, Éireamhóine was already well known, for he had visited here often when I was a boy, and I was shocked to find him so changed. In truth, I hardly recognized him at first, he appeared so wild and strange. And what the guards did not know, because he revealed it to me alone, was that he had carried an infant in with him, hidden under his cloak.

  “When the guards left us,” the King continued, “he allowed me a glimpse of the child: a tiny but most beautiful little girl. He was confused in his mind and rambling in his speech, so that it was a long time before I had the whole story from him or heard how he had been separated from the nursemaid in the Cadmin Aernan, how difficult it had been caring for the child afterward.”

  Leaning forward in her chair, Sindérian opened her mouth to ask about Luenil, but then thought better of it and subsided. Prince Ruan, who had finally settled on a bench by the windows, shifted his jewel-bright gaze in her direction, as if he were aware of things unsaid though unable to divine their meaning.

  After another pause, the King took up the story again. “Éireamhóine told me that his powers were waning, were almost spent. When the last spark was gone, he knew he would not be able to protect the child. Even worse, he was unsure if any of the Furiádhin had survived the avalanche, afraid that one or two might be following him, still intent on destroying Nimenoë’s daughter. He thought that his company endangered the child, as even a ruined wizard must attract Ouriána’s attention sooner or later. And so he had made up his mind to leave her with some trustworthy person, then lose himself in some distant part of the world. Pehlidor he said, or perhaps he might travel south, where the Dark Lady and her servants would never expect him to go. He asked me to take the child under my protection, and after thinking the matter over I consented.”

  “That was generous—but very dangerous!” Sindérian could only marvel at the courage that had prompted him to accept such a perilous charge for the sake of people half a world away.

  He gave a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “I had my own reasons for doing so. We remember the Old Alliance here in the north even if we no longer honor it. And of course, Ouriána of Phaôrax is nobody’s friend. But most of all, I agreed to take the child because—by a coincidence so great as to be miraculous—my own sister had just given birth to twins only hours before, under this very roof.”

  As he spoke, Ristil began idly shuffling through the stacks of parchment. “You will understand that it was necessary to bring my sister into our confidence. When Éireamhóine told her his tale, she sat up in bed and cried out that we should not turn the baby away—no, not if it were the spawn of dragons!”

  “But by that time Guenloie would have been older than the other two children by many months,” said Sindérian, her dark eyebrows twitching together. “How could anyone mistake her for a newborn infant?”

  “Éireamhóine thought there was some strong magic protecting the child, keeping her small—easily hidden, easily overlooked—while the journey and the danger continued. She grew as the other children grew after she came here.

  “And it was not many months,” the King added, with a faint smile, “before people began to notice that Winloki, as we named her, was a most precocious infant, walking and talking at a very early age, long before her supposed brother and sister.”

  “And Éireamhóine? Have you seen him since?” Sindérian asked eagerly. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No,” said the King. “But your wizards should be looking for a bewildered old man, not the Éireamhóine of former days.”

  Ristil sighed, put down the papers he had been handling. A pair of lines between his eyes deepened. “The child that he left behind came to be as dear to me as my own daughters. Yet I have always known, my sister has always known, that a higher destiny awaited her elsewhere, and that someday she would leave us.”

  Sindérian’s hands closed on the arms of the chair; she leaned forward in her seat. “Then as you are already resigned to losing the Princess, may we see her? May we tell her how sorely she is needed in the south?”

  Again the shadow of a frown passed over the King’s fair, strong-featured face. “I wish that I could grant you that favor, but Winloki is not here,” he said gravely.

  Stunned, Sindérian sat back in the chair—fearing the worst, fearing they had come too late. She forced words out from a suddenly dry throat. “Not here? But where—”

  “She is, or was, at Tirfang with my son and his men. But the messages we received from the Drakenskallers are now many days old. The Old Fortress ma
y already be under attack, may already have fallen. I can’t even tell you if she is still alive.”

  Sindérian and the Prince sat rigid and speechless with shock and disappointment, absorbing the news. Faolein fluttered down from his perch and landed on the back of his daughter’s chair. Although she was aware of him, no thoughts passed between them; it seemed that he had no words either. Up on the mantelpiece the last few grains of sand slipped through the neck of the hourglass.

  Prince Ruan was the first to break the silence. “I’ve heard tales of the Old Fortress at Tirfang. They call it invincible; they say that it never has and never could be taken by force.”

  “So they say,” the King answered grimly. “But they also say that the fortress itself is perilous and unchancy, that those who have tried to defend it have always failed. It’s as if the place breeds treasons and misfortunes like a disease.” Then his shoulders went back and his chin came up; his light eyes blazed. “Be that as it may, I will not abandon my son—neither to the ghosts of Tirfang nor to the Eisenlonder barbarians. And so, against the advice of all my counselors, I will take my place at the head of the men who ride out tomorrow.

  “If you wish,” he added, “you may ride with me. But be warned, it is a long journey from here to the Drakenskaller Mountains, and even moving with all speed we may come too late.”

  It was the most they could do to thank him and accept his offer of horses, still reeling as they were from the destruction of their hopes.

  Dinner in Ristil’s spacious, high-raftered hall was simple and hearty: fish, game, and rabbit; bread and plenty of honey; hot soup and blackberry tart. A modest, sensible repast for a royal household. Servants came and went swiftly and efficiently, setting tables with fine linens, lighting tall white candles, tossing herbs into fires to make the smoke sweet.

  The Queen was there at the table, gracious and smiling, along with her bevy of small sons and daughters, and there were so many of Ristil’s sisters and nieces present that Sindérian hardly knew how to keep them all straight. They ate from plates and bowls of thick-walled pottery, drank from beakers made of heavy glass, pale green and palest blue. It was, on the whole, a subdued gathering. Behind an outward display of quiet good cheer, it remained perfectly obvious that all were thinking of loved ones in danger at Tirfang.

  After the meal, Sindérian and the Prince were separated. A serving woman led her to a small, clean chamber in an upper story. There were hides on the floor, a bright woven blanket on the bed, and a green bronze dragon with a fire in his belly and the light shining out through his eyes and mouth.

  The woman indicated a pile of gifts the Queen had sent up for Sindérian’s use on the journey ahead: a change of clothes and some clean shifts, a boxwood comb, soap, and two pairs of thin woolen stockings. There were also packets of healing herbs—only such simples as any good housewife might keep, but welcome nevertheless.

  Sindérian felt tears sting her eyes as the kindness she had received in this place suddenly overwhelmed her. Not since Brill had she experienced such disinterested and unaffected generosity from people who had such heavy troubles of their own.

  Whatever happens, may this house be safe, she thought fiercely. Let the good they do here come back to them threefold.

  And when she was alone again, she began to work a spell of protection, dribbling wax from a burning candle onto the floorboards, sketching out the runes tarien and dünadh, pulling threads from the hem of her gown and weaving them into intricate knots. Finally, she whispered a béanath, a charm of blessing:

  Dioho nélo ani ashladi anaëllen dénes nadath,

  Dioho ansiansé altheönad angen,

  Mûr dei deinnar dioho dir aldeinad ran.

  It might not be much in a world at war, in an age of terrors; yet she hoped it would do them some good, however slight.

  It was the dark hour before dawn when the same servant came back in with a light to rouse her. Sindérian had not undressed, so it was only the work of a moment to bind up her hair and pull on her boots. Meanwhile, the woman packed up the Queen’s gifts in a leather pouch. Then it was back through the halls and out to a courtyard, where she found the Prince and Aell already waiting for her.

  More servants, carrying candles in earthenware pots, appeared to light their way across the bridge through a series of small private gates in the walls dividing the town, then out through the main gate, to the Skyrran camp. Faolein stretched his wings, launched himself from Sindérian’s shoulder, and flew on ahead.

  Outside the great wooden palisade, both camps were astir with activity. By the light of hundreds of lanterns and torches, tents were taken down, folded, and packed away, and men were milling about on a thousand last-minute errands: dowsing campfires, inspecting their gear, tightening girths and adjusting saddles, loading up wagons. It seemed like they would never be ready in time, yet Sindérian knew from experience that they probably would. It was all so familiar: the brassy glint of armor by firelight, the smell of horses, leather, sweat, and excitement. She might almost have been back in Rheithûn before the fall of Gilaefri.

  As the King had explained the evening before, he had divided his army into two unequal parts. The greater part consisted of more than a thousand riders, including the troops from Mistlewald and Arkenfell. These were men prepared to travel swiftly and with tight belts. In addition to what could be carried by a train of lightly burdened packhorses, they took only such food and water as they could individually carry with them, and they wore their shields and spears strapped at their backs. A smaller force, made up of foot soldiers as well as cavalry, would be escorting the heavily laden supply wagons at a necessarily slower pace. Neither party expected to meet up with the other until they reached the fortress in the mountains.

  Amid all this movement and confusion it was difficult for Sindérian and her friends to locate King Ristil. They found him just as the first streaks of lavender and gold were painting the sky—and they might not have met up with him then, were it not for Prince Ruan’s keen eyes. Surrounded by his captains and esquires, the King was grim and businesslike in armor of silver mail, and a sword with a golden hilt was strapped at his side.

  “You three will ride with me in the vanguard,” he told them. At his command, two grooms and a stable boy led forward the horses he had personally selected for their use, already harnessed and saddled.

  By the time the rim of the sun was burning the eastern grasslands to gold, everyone was mounted and ready, awaiting the King’s pleasure. Somehow, the milling crowds had resolved into an organized, disciplined force. At a sign from the King, horns blared, banners were raised, and the first troops set off. At the last moment, Faolein swooped down from a clear sky and established himself on his daughter’s saddlebow.

  Riding along on the elegant black mare the King had chosen for her, glancing back over her shoulder at the equally fine gelding that would carry her during the second leg of the journey, Sindérian felt an uncommon lift to her spirits. To be not only mounted but well mounted, to be riding out in the cool of the day—

  Then an idea that had troubled her during the night came back to plague her, and her high spirits tumbled abruptly. For it was entirely possible—worse, it was more than likely—that she and her companions had arrived at Lückenbörg in advance of Ouriána’s priests simply because the Furiádhin had never been going there at all. They had, as she knew very well, ways of learning things that were not altogether natural, not altogether right, methods that might have revealed to them weeks ago where the Princess was to be found.

  And with that kind of knowledge, they might be anywhere on the road to Tirfang. They might already be so far ahead, it would be impossible to catch up to them.

  After three days of hard riding, changing horses as necessary, King Ristil and his travel-stained and sunburned army reached a region of bony hills at the foot of the mountains, where they set up a camp in a rocky field between great tables of cracked stone.

  Beyond the hills rose the gaunt peaks
of the Drakenskallers, but the middle slopes—which ought to have been green at this time of year—were oddly and ominously white. All along, Sindérian had been testing the winds for omens. Those from the north and east brought ambiguous and confusing messages. At the same time, the stars continued to predict tumults and prodigies. The sight of those white slopes did nothing to allay her fears.

  There had already been two short but fierce skirmishes with Eisenlonders along the way. Fortunately, in each case the advantage of surprise, strength, and familiarity with the terrain favored the Skyrrans, and their numbers had not been greatly reduced. But there were also encounters with hundreds of refugees, all of whom had news and stories to tell, and these encounters served to impress upon the King and his men how badly the war was actually going.

  Not one of them, perhaps, had truly understood that the Haestfilke had become like a desert, emptied of its inhabitants. Because relatively few of the dispossessed had managed to reach the capital, it had been easy to believe that the numbers Kivik and the marshals reported were greatly exaggerated. That illusion was difficult to maintain when a slow but steady stream of the hungry and the homeless came straggling down the road.

  On this first evening in the foothills, some of the scouts brought another party of ragged women and ill-fed children into camp to speak with the King. They found him seated on a camp stool nursing a sprained wrist, where a blow had fallen during the last skirmish and been deflected by his vambrace. The news they carried with them was particularly grim: several days earlier and some eighty miles to the east, an Eisenlonder army of incalculable size and strength had been seen heading into the mountains, their destination unquestionably the Old Fortress at Tirfang, where Prince Kivik was known to be holed up with his men.