The Hidden Stars Part 8

With the others, she made a cold supper of bread and cheese, washed down with water from the brook. Aell and Jago sat a little apart, keeping watch on the road. By the time they had finished eating, the shadows of the trees lay long on the gra.s.s, and the sun had disappeared behind a hill to the west.

"It will soon be night," said Ruan. "But the moon is already up, and waxing near to full. Surely after the horses have rested we can keep on for several hours more."

Yet the hour was so peaceful, no one felt inclined to move. Sinderian wondered if the others felt as miserably stiff and sore as she did, after such a long ride yesterday, a longer ride today. As she sat trying to knead the pain out of a muscle in her calf through the folds of her skirt, she could not even remember the last time she had spent so many hours in the saddle. However long it was, she thought glumly, she paid a heavy toll now in aches and pains.

A flock of birds flew overhead, dark against the reddening sky, and as the shadow of their wings pa.s.sed over, two of the horses squealed and pulled at their pickets.

Ruan's head came suddenly up; his nose wrinkled, and his lip curled as though he, like the horses, caught a whiff of some unpleasant odor that eluded the others. The flock wheeled in a great circle, hanging briefly silhouetted against the round yellow face of the moon, and the Prince sprang to his feet, calling out a warning. "Wyvaerun-and they have seen us!"

He and his guards all drew steel; the wizard reached for his staff. The horses stamped and whinnied their alarm. Sinderian darted looks in all directions, seeking some weapon with which to arm herself, something more effective than her small ivory-handled eating knife.

But it was already too late. With thin piercing shrieks, the wyvaerun descended: black wings beating, iron beaks and claws slashing, scaly tails glittering in the ruddy light of sunset. A creature the size of an eagle died on the point of Aell's blade; Jago beheaded another. Prince Ruan's sword flashed in the dusky air, accounting for two with a single stroke, and Faolein's staff burst into flame. For a moment, the wyvaerun bated and rose, hovering overhead, but then they attacked with redoubled fury.

Raking talons struck at Sinderian's face; she ducked to avoid them, and flung up her knife to ward off the next attack. But somehow, Prince Ruan and his sword were between her and the wyvaerun, reducing the creature to a heap of oily feathers and b.l.o.o.d.y scales. "For the Light's sake, keep down," he hissed at her furiously. "A blade that size is no use at all." Then he turned his back on her and killed two more of the hybrids.

Remembering, suddenly, the stream nearby, Sinderian slid down the gra.s.sy bank to the water's edge. Bending low, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up small stones from the shallow streambed, sent them whistling through the air with a spell of true-aiming. Four of her missiles struck home, killing two wyvaerun, and disabling two more.

But as she reached for another stone, there was a storm of wings overhead, and steely claws fastened in her hair and cloak. Struggling to pull herself free, she felt herself lifted off the gra.s.s and into the air. And there she hung suspended, panic drumming in her blood, for what seemed like hours-six feet-eight feet-a dozen feet above the ground, with wings beating like thunder all around her, the musty serpentine odor of the hybrid filling her throat and lungs, and the wyvaerun, laboring under her added weight, striving to rise higher and still higher- Until Faolein's flaming staff flew like a meteor through the night air and struck the creature dead. Sinderian heard the creature's dying shriek, like rending metal, at the same moment the claws lost their grip; and she felt herself falling, helpless to stop her sudden descent.

Then she hit the earth with such bruising force that the wind was knocked out of her and the world went dark.

8.

On the night before the day he was to sail for Mirizandi, Prince Cuillioc was vexed and troubled by a remarkably vivid and unpleasing dream.

For it seemed to him, as he drifted off to sleep in his great silver bed, that a nightmare-a little wizened bat-winged creature with basilisk eyes and tiny wrinkled hands-flew in through a high, arched window and sat gibbering atop one of the bedposts for all the long hours between midnight and dawn.

There was little of sense to be gained from its rambling discourse, which climbed the scale from hysteria to delirium. Yet every now and again, as it chattered and stammered, while Cuillioc lay helpless and motionless under the brocade coverings and the silken canopy-unable to speak, to stir, to wake-he seemed to divine some secret, sinister meaning mixed in with all the nonsense. At c.o.c.kcrow, the creature vanished. Released from its spell, the Prince sat up in bed, all quaking and sweating, threw off the bedclothes, and called for light.

The house slaves came in, soft-footed across the tile floors, bearing flaming torches dipped in scented oils to perfume the air. They offered him potions and cordials to drive off the night-fears, brought him heated water in a malachite bowl. He sent them all away, m.u.f.fled himself up in a great cloak, and went out to the balcony that opened from his bedchamber, to watch the sun rise over Apharos.

The air was cool and very clear; as intoxicating sweet as wine. This was the one time of day when Ouriana's capital was touched by beauty: the th.o.r.n.y towers and dagger-pointed obelisks burning crimson and gold, the tangled maze of lanes and alleys flooded with a warm orange light. On the rooftops and upper ledges of the great houses the stone monsters stretched their gilded wings as if poised to take flight; and, a mile to the south, that greater monstrosity which was the New Temple glittered with rare jewel-like colors. It was as though a kindly spell lay, however briefly, over Apharos-a transformation that seldom failed to raise Prince Cuillioc's spirits. But the horror of the dream was still on him, cold serpents of fear still writhed in his belly, and it would have taken more than the sight of his city flaming into sudden beauty to raise the oppression that weighed on him.

It was more than a hundred feet from the balcony where Cuillioc watched the sunrise to the hard dark stones of the courtyard below-and another hundred to a grove of wind-bent olives and plane trees below that-and a hundred more to the base of the cliffs, where the sea boiled white between jagged rocks. For the palace at Apharos is built upon a rocky spit of land, surrounded on three sides by water during a high tide. Nine great towers of rough-hewn dark marble perch on the heights, with gardens and orchards, groves, fountains, vineyards, and bowers descending in terraces on the south, east, and west, all enclosed within a mighty curtain wall shimmering with plates of beaten gold. It was built (some say) in imitation of that ancient citadel, now in ruins, which once stood at Ceir Eldig, the City of Princes, in Alluinn.

At that hour, every sound seemed magnified: the pounding of the surf, the beating of his own blood, the shrill morning chorus of blackbirds in the grove below. Then a party of hors.e.m.e.n came riding round the curve of the bay from the harbor, pa.s.sed through the gate of ivory and horn, and clattered through the stony streets. From Cuillioc's vantage point on the balcony, he could just make out their colors of lavender and purple, though he was unable to recognize the devices. Nevertheless, their very haste was ominous. Remembering his dream, he felt another stir of apprehension; his hand closed hard on the marble railing.

They disappeared from view behind the bulk of the hill; moments later, he heard armored fists hammering on the palace gate. Someone replied faintly from within. While the Prince strained to hear, words were exchanged, questions asked and answered. Then he heard timbers sc.r.a.ping, iron hinges creaking as the gate swung open, followed by the clamor of iron-shod hooves on flagstones as the men rode through.

He was eating a halfhearted breakfast-spiced wine and honeycakes and small yellow grapes-when the summons arrived. A page in Ouriana's livery stumbled through the doorway and out onto the balcony, breathless after the climb. The boy wheezed out a message: the Empress would see Prince Cuillioc.

Springing up from his seat, Cuillioc brushed past the messenger. He entered his torchlit bedchamber, calling out for shaving water, his sword, his boots-He dressed swiftly, turning aside all offers of a.s.sistance. There was no time for ceremony. This early audience was almost without precedent, and he feared that something had occurred to arouse his mother's displeasure.

Buckling on his sword belt, he left the room, took the long spiral staircase to the ground floor, and emerged in a shadowy courtyard. The walls were so high, there were places where the sun rarely came; aconite, toadstool, mousefoot, and other strange funguses flourished in the damp shade. He followed a mossy pathway, pa.s.sed through an avenue of yew and dark cypress struggling toward the sunlight, and came at last to the ma.s.sive block of the central tower, which he entered through a high, narrow door.

Despite the early hour, large groups of courtiers and officials had gathered in the wide corridors, looking interested and excited. Their garments, of silk and cloth of silver, of velvets cunningly embroidered, displayed the new heraldry that honored the Empress, and was therefore watery and lunar: crabs, crayfish, clamsh.e.l.ls, lymphads, the moon in all her phases, fish, eels, crocodiles. The hues were reds and purples, golds and oranges, sable and grey, a heraldry of subtle shadings, of intricate devices displayed on seal rings and brooches, on the borders of garments, st.i.tched color on color-a heraldry of the court, meant to be appreciated at close quarters, not for the battlefield, where they all wore Ouriana's colors and fought under her banner.

As Cuillioc strode past, he heard voices rise to a greater pitch of excitement, saw faces avid with curiosity turn his way. He did not stop to learn what it was all about-yet again his stomach clenched tight with apprehension; a cold sweat came out on his skin.

Outside the audience chamber, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and steady himself. If something had occurred to make his sailing impossible-if the Empress had decided to replace him as commander of the expedition-but no, he had done nothing these last weeks that could have possibly displeased her; there was no way he could have fallen even further from favor than he already was. Yet his pulse pounded, and his palms grew slick with sweat as he entered the immense chamber, walked past the guards, and pa.s.sed between long rows of pearl-encrusted pillars leading up to the dais.

Ouriana's lovely face was blank, unreadable, as Cuillioc threw himself down kneeling on the top step, and she gave him, at arm's length, her cool white hand.

"Empress and G.o.ddess," he whispered, around the constriction in his throat. He pressed her long, smooth fingers reverently to his lips, then released them. "Have I offended?"

There was a pause before she answered-hardly more than the pause between breath and breath, though it seemed to Cuillioc to last an age. As always, he was tremulous and amazed, as men must be in the presence of a G.o.ddess, even her own sons-almost afraid to look at her, for the dread of what he might see. It was a fearful thing to be the son of a divinity and mere mortal clay himself.

At last, turning away with a little disdainful shrug, she said, "Your brother Guindeluc conquered nine cities for me before he died, but what have you done? You have lost me Quirabon!"

Cuillioc's head came up abruptly. His eyes met hers: greener than his own, with golden lights, and velvety-dark lashes. Not a line, not a blemish marred the smooth perfection of her skin, which glowed faintly in the dim chamber; yet looking into those eyes one could guess at her age; they held too much knowledge, too much experience. Oceans existed in her gaze, vast seas filled with living things: fish and whales, turtles, porpoises, eels, rays, and sinuous sea worms.

"It was I who took Quirabon," he said, stumbling over the words, though at last he understood what news the hors.e.m.e.n brought with them at dawn: the great city he had gained after a long, bitter siege seven months ago had changed hands once more. He felt himself go cold with shame at the realization he had disappointed her again.

Ouriana sat down on her throne, which was decorated with seash.e.l.ls and coral, with bits of carved whalebone and silvery freshwater pearls. Her gown was of velvet, the luminous yellow-gold of the harvest moon; and gemstones-opals and moonstones and pearls-glittered in the heavy coils of her rich auburn hair. There was a sweet, almost cloying scent about her, which dizzied and confused him, making him think of strange hothouse flowers opening their white fleshy petals, or of bright many-tentacled anemones swaying in mermaid gardens under the sea.

And just as it always did, her beauty wounded him like a knife, but crueler still was the edged contempt in her voice, in her words. "It was because you gave too easy terms when Lord Deryx surrendered that he and his men were able to take the city back."

Where he had been cold before, the Prince felt himself blushing hotly. And the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. "They were honorable terms. If we expect our foes to deal honorably with us-"

"They were generous terms. You must learn, my son, that there is no place for generosity in war. Had Deryx and his sons been executed-or sent here to Phaorax prisoners, as Guindeluc might have done it-we should have avoided another long, b.l.o.o.d.y, and wasteful battle. And so, for that matter, had the unfortunate people of Quirabon. Sometimes, one must be cruel to be kind."

Cuillioc felt himself flushing even more painfully than before; he started to speak, but the words withered on his tongue. There was nothing that he could say, for he knew that she spoke the truth: Guindeluc had had his chivalrous impulses, too-all the world spoke of his magnanimity, his open-handed n.o.ble courtesy-but he had always tempered that with wisdom and foresight. Lacking these qualities, Cuillioc's attempts to emulate the brother he worshiped almost invariably fell short and produced some disaster.

He remained on his knees, heartsick and shaken, waiting for his mother to speak the words that would crush his hopes. And he was suddenly aware that they were not alone. Two Furiadhin stood about twenty feet from the dais, grim, ghostly, and powerful in their crimson robes, flanked by a half-dozen acolytes in sooty black cloaks. They had not been there when he first entered the room.

Ouriana raised her hand, and one of the priests mounted the steps with a rustle of scarlet silk. There were those who could hardly tell the creatures apart, who found them, in spite of their deformities, confusingly identical, with their bone-white faces and cloudy hair. But Cuillioc was not of that number, he knew them each one. He knew this one particularly well, one who dogged his mother's footsteps on all occasions.

"If you are an honorable fool, you brother Meriasec is an overconfident one," the Empress told her son coldly. "There is not much to choose between you, if the truth were known. But now that Guindeluc is gone, you are the eldest-therefore my heir. It would not be wise to show a lack of faith in you; that might give our enemies too much to hope for. You will go to Mirizandi as I had originally planned, and you will retain the command. However, I am going to send an...advisor...with you. One on whom you may utterly rely for wise counsel, given without flattery or fear." She turned, then, toward the priest. "Can you be ready to sail at the change of the tide this evening?"

The furiadh prostrated himself before the throne. Cuillioc jumped to his feet and stood scowling down at him. "Iobhar? If you must send someone, why not Camhoinhann?"

"Camhoinhann serves me best where he is. Should I recall him from his vital work elsewhere to suit your whim?" she said. As the priest rose gracefully to his feet, between Ouriana and her votary there pa.s.sed a look, sudden, then gone; but Cuillioc saw it, and his heart sank. "Surely you can have no objection to Iobhar...or to anyone else I might decide to send with you."

The Prince could only bow his head, biting his lip almost until the blood came, for it was plain that the matter had already been settled.

In the late afternoon, the Prince and his household went down to the courtyard outside the stables, where their horses were saddled and waiting. A pair of glossy black ravens settled on an archway, and watched with wicked yellow eyes as they rode out the gate.

On his high-mettled silver stallion, Cuillioc moved through the complex maze of the city, going by chosen byways and streets less crowded and dirty. He rode in a brooding silence, looking neither to left or right, his mind much occupied with his dream. Some instinct told him there was a connection between his nightmare and the ambiguous prophecies of the old madman, Maelor.

Look for a knife in every hand, poison in every cup, so said Maelor. Such were the stock phrases of the mountebank, as the Prince knew very well, trite and familiar. In this case, however, they rang true.

Many of the lords who would sail with the fleet were men whom he could not trust. But that was nothing. There were only a handful in all Apharos that he did trust, and all were members of his own household. Men of honor, men of courage, men of integrity, the war had claimed far too many of them over the years, and those few who had survived were scattered across the map, fighting Ouriana's battles, governing conquered cities. And from the horde of petty schemers who made up her court, men of large ambitions and small talents, the Empress had chosen a half dozen, no better or worse than the rest, to accompany her son. Knowing them for what they were, he would be on his guard: but he did not fear any of them as he feared the priest, Iobhar.

The Furiadhin had strange powers. Riding toward the harbor, under the baleful gaze of snakes and gargoyles, Cuillioc considered what he knew of Ouriana's warrior-priests. They were no longer quite human. For the lame, the sick, the deformed, a man ought to feel compa.s.sion, but the Furiadhin had chosen to be as they were, had made themselves monstrous.

Yet, the Prince thought confusedly, by doing so they served the Empress. Certain magics had their price, and her priests paid that price so that Ouriana-G.o.ddess though she was, imprisoned in a mortal body-need not pay it, ever.

But, he reminded himself, they also served their own ambitions, their own hunger for power. Only Camhoinhann, the High Priest, was free of that taint, and over the years Cuillioc's boyhood infatuation, his admiration for that great and tragic figure, had gradually waned. Camhoinhann, too, was a monster, though a splendid one, a glorious one. The other eight-those of the original twelve who were left after the disaster in the Cadmin Aernan nineteen years ago-they were simply loathsome.

When Cuillioc reached the harbor, it was all hustle and bustle: wagons and oxcarts, barrows and pushcarts, went in and out, bringing supplies for the fleet. The Prince's flagship, already provisioned, rode at anchor out in the bay, her scarlet sails furled and her sixty pair of oars at rest, and another galley of similar size was just being towed with much labor clear of the docks, by two small rowboats.

When Cuillioc dismounted, handing the reins over to one of his grooms, he saw a sudden flurry of movement on the ceremonial barge that was to take him out to his ship. Apparently, no one had told them he was on his way. Waiting for all to be made ready, he glanced around him, and despite everything he felt his mood lighten, for the brawling life of the docks never failed to interest him.

There were men rolling barrels-casks of wine, tuns of salt, kegs of oil for light and for cooking-longsh.o.r.emen moving crates of oranges or baskets of figs and raisins and sugared dates; merchants in rich brocades come down to supervise the loading or unloading of their goods, peddlers singing out, fishwives wrangling and cursing. Gulls screamed overhead; parrots and peac.o.c.ks screeched in their wicker cages; and a sailor played on a whalebone flute, while one of his shipmates danced a hornpipe. Beyond them all surged the restless blue waters of the bay, crowned with whitecaps.

But there was one sight in which the Prince took no pleasure at all. On the next quay but one, a gang of dirty and emaciated prisoners, chained together in a long line with heavy iron fetters, were being herded toward a galley of thirty oars. Catching sight of one of the prisoners, a small boy of no more than eight or nine, so thin and weak that he could scarcely stand, Cuillioc felt an uncomfortable jolt of surprise. Disturbed and not a little curious, the Prince sent his guard captain to fetch the overseer.

The slave driver arrived, bowing and sc.r.a.ping, darting sidelong glances. "Pardon, Great Prince," he said with a cringe. "Had I known you'd be boarding just now, I'd never have offended your eyes with this filth from the prisons."

"I have seen uglier sights in the war," Cuillioc answered shortly. The wind had changed, blowing off the land, bringing with it the stench of the city. He felt his gorge rise, as much from the brute's servility as the reek of sewage and rotting fruit. "But how is this? The laws have grown harsh indeed if mere infants are now being sent to the galleys."

"'The law is stern, but the law is just,'" the overseer quoted. He jerked his head in the direction of the prisoners. "That boy over there is a sneak thief, Lord Prince."

Cuillioc frowned, for this could mean almost anything. "A cutpurse?"

"Most like. They train these young rogues to a variety of trades, as you might say: to cut purses, s.n.a.t.c.h cloaks, filch goods from the marketplace. This lad, now, he was caught where he'd no business to be, holding what he'd no business to have. Entirely wicked and unrepentant, too."

"He doesn't look strong enough to pull an oar!" blurted out one of the Prince's companions. "Poor little gutter rat."

"No more he does, Great Lord. They use little 'uns like him to beat the drum. That frees one of the men to take up an oar."

"By the look of him, he won't last many days even at that," said Cuillioc, with a measuring glance. "He will be shark bait inside a week." That the boy was shiftless, dishonest, as unrepentant as the slave driver painted him, he did not doubt. He tried to convince himself that the young thief's fate was no concern of his. And yet-and yet the thought of a child, any child, being chained belowdecks with those rough, violent men was simply intolerable.

Cuillioc gave up the struggle with his too-tender conscience. Cruel to be kind, said the Empress, and stern but just, said the slave driver-but the Prince only knew that he was already tormented by too many nightmares, and he had no wish to make them worse. "My page is ill with a fever and can't sail," he said with a sigh. "This boy will take his place. You may turn him over to the Captain here, then go on boarding your other prisoners."

The overseer gaped, at a loss for words. Then he became fl.u.s.tered, stammering out a protest. "Great Prince, I haven't the authority. It's as much as my position is worth. And the boy-the boy was sentenced to the galleys."

"He will be on a galley. What becomes of him there is no concern of yours. Or do you-" Cuillioc asked, with a glinting smile in his long, green eyes "-do you question my authority to do as I wish with your prisoner?"

To this the slave driver had no ready answer. He merely cringed, abased himself, and hurried off to loose the young thief from his chains.

Satisfied, Cuillioc nodded, turned to his guard-captain, and instructed him to have the boy made presentable before bringing him on board, and immediately lost interest in his new acquisition.

An hour later, in his luxurious cabin on the galley, the Prince surveyed the newly scrubbed and more or less decently clad urchin with a mixture of humor and dismay.

"You are scarcely prepossessing, are you?" he said, with a rueful glance.

Lamps had been lit, and the cabin was bright, if a little close and stuffy. It was plain to see that the boy had not been improved much by washing and dressing. His mouse-colored hair stuck up in tufts and cowlicks; at least half of his teeth were missing. He had eyes like two grey pebbles in a thin, pale face, and the dirt in the creases of his neck and his hands was apparently ineradicable-though the Captain had a.s.sured Cuillioc that he did his best.

The retreating tide tugged at the galley, so that she strained at her anchor. It was a warm, windless evening, and Cuillioc heard a clatter down below as oars slipped into their locks, a murmur and a groan as slaves took their places on the benches and prepared themselves for the long hours of labor ahead. "I wonder if you have any least idea what I have saved you from?"

The urchin muttered something unintelligible in response. He would, Cuillioc supposed, have the accent of the stews and a foul tongue besides. And thinking of his former page, left behind at the palace-a handy, well-trained, efficient lad from an excellent family-he expelled a deep sigh.

The Prince sat down on his bed, linked his fingers together, and rested his chin on them. "I would imagine the qualities of a sneak thief are much the same as those of a spy," he said, more to himself than to the boy. "To move silently and un.o.btrusively. To listen and to observe the movements of others while remaining unseen yourself. Perhaps, occasionally, to obtain by stealth letters I might wish to look at."

Opening a small gilded casket by his bed, Cuillioc extracted a sweetmeat: a dried apricot dipped in honey, then rolled in nutmeg and ca.s.sia. He tossed it to the boy, carelessly, as he might throw a sc.r.a.p to a dog. There was a movement so swift as to be almost imperceptible-the urchin caught the sweet in midair and popped it into his mouth.

The Prince reached into the coffer again and produced another sugarplum, which he offered this time on the palm of his hand. It disappeared even more quickly than the first.

"I don't expect you to be grateful, that much is certain," he said, with a grimace. "You could hardly have studied grat.i.tude, the life you have led until now. But I do expect you to be useful-I hope that you may be."

9.

The air reeked of blood and sweat and burning feathers, rang with the harsh metallic cries of wyvaerun. Sinderian did not want to wake. There was a pounding inside her skull, her head ached intolerably, and she did not want to open her eyes, but she knew that she must. When she finally forced her eyelids open, the sunset sky blurred overhead, then gradually came back into focus. She rolled over on her side, put her hands to the ground, and pushed herself into a sitting position.

The gra.s.s around her was littered with black-feathered bodies, but the battle raged on. Faolein's flaming staff barely glowed; it gave off puffs of dirty white smoke. The wizard's movements were stiff and slow-he looked, Sinderian thought, as though he were fighting underwater. The guardsmen, Jago and Aell, fought on, their faces pale and streaked with sweat; it was evident that they, too, were tiring. Even Prince Ruan moved more clumsily, his lithe body less quick and agile as he avoided the strike of an iron beak. They had killed dozens of the wyvaerun between them, but they were still outnumbered. It was a question, she realized, of how long their strength would last.

I ought to help them, Sinderian thought. If I don't do something, we will all die. Yet a great weariness was on her, a heaviness weighed on her limbs, on her will. Halfheartedly, she scrambled to her knees, fumbled in the gra.s.s for more stones that she could throw. She picked one up, aimed, searched her mind for the same spell she had used before. Her lips moved but she could not form the words, could not even remember them-and her head ached so, she thought that perhaps she might not mind dying after all, just to be quit of the pain.

Then, unexpectedly, the surviving wyvaerun all rose simultaneously high into the air, and, as if in response to some unheard command, went winging off toward the south.

In the sudden silence that followed, Sinderian's companions gathered around her. Speaking in low, tense voices, they took stock of their situation.

The men had sustained only minor injuries: scratched hands and faces; a deep cut over Aell's left eye, which bled and bled as head wounds will, but did not look serious. Sinderian realized she was by far the worst. Feeling under the hair at the back of her head she found a lump the size of a pigeon's egg, and when she tried to stand her knees buckled; the ground tilted beneath her. The dark sky was not where it should be; constellations danced, stars burst into rainbow showers around her, and a pain like red-hot iron shot down her neck to the base of her spine. Faolein threw out a bony arm to catch her and carefully lowered her to a seat on the gra.s.s.

Sinderian put her head down on her knees, drew several long, deep breaths. I will not be sick, she told herself fiercely. Yet her stomach continued to heave, the world refused to settle into place around her. She felt sticky with sweat and as weak as a kitten. Might it be a concussion? She struggled to remember the symptoms, but it was agony even to think. If she could not help herself, how could she possibly hope to help anyone else?

Then she felt Faolein's hand laid gently on her shoulder. The life force surged in her veins, and a little clarity returned to her. Her father was aiding her in the best way he could. He could not work a healing spell, lacking the requisite fineness of touch, the trained mental reflexes, but he was pouring some of his own strength into Sinderian, so that she could heal herself.

"Enough," she whispered after a moment, when she felt his power begin to flag. Looking up, she saw that his face had gone grey with fatigue. Out of concern for her, he had given more than he ought to have spared. She removed his hand from her shoulder, took it between both of hers, held it for a moment to her lips. "I will be entirely myself in another moment or two."

It was a lie, and they both knew it, but he wisely withdrew. The danger might not be over; one of them had to remain as strong and alert as possible.

She dropped her head back down on her knees and allowed herself to drift off into a waking dream.

Finally, Sinderian felt well enough to stand. Shaking her hair out of her eyes, she gathered the long dark weight of it up in a knot on the top of her head, picked up the silken veil, which had fallen to the ground, and pinned it securely in place. Then she joined the men in the deep shadows under the trees, where they had begun to discuss what they ought to do next.

Their faces were grim in that failing light, and the eyes of the men-at-arms wary and a little wild.

"This was no chance attack," Prince Ruan said, as she walked up. "That creature you saw back in Tregna, the way the wyvaerun swooped down on us without provocation. It is too much coincidence."

"I think you must be right," she said unsteadily. "It was the abominable Goezenou who sent the wyvaerun. And he may not be done with us."

The men exchanged glances; their faces grew grimmer still. "You think that he saw you and knew you, that he guessed where we are heading?" asked the Prince.

Sinderian shook her head and regretted it; the motion made her so wretchedly ill. "He recognized something; he recognized one of us. I don't flatter myself it was I. What was one more healer on the battlefield to Goezenou?"