Reader and Raelynx (38 page)

“I see that,” Valri said in an icy voice. “But you—what are you
doing
in here? I thought you were sleeping with the Riders.”

“Well,” said Cammon. “No.” He remembered their last conversation at Ghosenhall. “I thought you had decided you didn’t mind if Amalie and I—” He waved a hand in lieu of completing the sentence.

Valri threw her hands in the air. “I didn’t expect you to be so brazen! Now half the camp will be gossiping about your relationship.” She sighed and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “I’ve been too lax. Ever since the attack at the palace—I haven’t been as watchful as I should have been. Time for strict propriety again. Time for me to be sleeping here in Amalie’s tent at night.”

“Instead of at Arrol’s campfire?” Amalie asked politely.

Valri’s frown grew blacker. “I don’t think—”

Amalie sat up straighter in the bed, letting the covers fall to her waist. “Valri, you have guarded me so long and so well. And now there is very little you can do for me. You cannot hide my magic anymore. You cannot keep me safe. You will always be my most treasured friend, but you can spend some attention on your own life now. I hope you
are
sleeping at Arrol’s side tonight, but I was only guessing.
I
will be sleeping beside Cammon. Don’t even try to talk to me about it. Just go back to bed.”

Valri hesitated a moment, obviously unwilling to shirk her duty but unsure of what she might be able to accomplish in the middle of the night in the middle of a war. “You’re still too young,” was what she said, leaving them to guess at the rest.
Too young to fall in love. Too young to lose your father. Too young to face armies trying to steal your throne. Too young to make momentous decisions on your own.

“I better not be,” Amalie said. “For this is what my life holds now.”

A few seconds longer Valri waited, then she sighed and spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Then sleep now, and talk to me in the morning,” she said, coming close enough to kiss Amalie on the cheek. She just looked at Cammon, then shook her head and quickly left the tent. But he thought she might have been wearing a faint smile.

“Do you think it’s safe to put out the candle this time, or will someone else come barging in?” he asked.

“I can’t think who. Blow it out,” Amalie replied, and they snuggled together in the darkness. “Do you
really
think she’s sleeping with Arrol right now?” she whispered against his chest.

“That’s the name of Ellynor’s cousin, right? Well, I can’t be sure, but there’s a part of her that seems almost blissful. So I think so.”

Amalie drew closer. “Good. Valri has given up so much for me. I want her to do something that brings her happiness.”

They were both silent for a while, thinking their different thoughts. “Amalie,” Cammon said at last in a low voice. “You weren’t controlling it, were you? The raelynx just attacked that man all on its own.”

She didn’t answer at first, and then she shook her head. “I think I would have slept through the whole event if you hadn’t woken me up. Well, and if that man hadn’t screamed.”

“That’s a little frightening.”

She drew closer. “I find it reassuring.”

S
ENNETH
was starting to hate the very feel of fire.

She had taken to keeping her hands down at her sides so that no one noticed the blisters on her palms. She imagined soot in her hair, cinders under her nails; the smell of ashes clung to her skin. At night she was haunted by images of flames. By day, her whole world was heat and color.

And frustration.

It had never been this hard to call fire, to bend it to her will, to make it leap and dance and bow and settle and flare up again. Once she had tried to burn down a house in the middle of a rainstorm, and the timbers refused to light and the soaked thatch of the roof stubbornly resisted every intrusive spark. She had spent a good hour forcing the flames to catch and then willing them to take hold in the water-soaked wood, and when she was finished she had been in such a bad temper that a migraine had dropped her where she stood.

Trying to cast a spell on the Arberharst armies was very much like trying to ignite a building in the middle of a downpour. Except it was an exercise that was lasting for days, it was more important, and she was having even less success.

And when she did succeed in finding a raw pocket of unmixed Gillengaria soldiers, and she was able to ring them with flame and cause their very uniforms to light, then she had to hear the terrified screams of soldiers who were burning to death. Because of the magic in her hands. Because of the conviction in her heart.

More than once during those opening days of battle, she wished she could not summon fire at all.

She tried, possibly a dozen times, to direct her smoldering weapon at the enemies she believed most deserved to die. It was hardly a surprise that she was unable to incinerate Halchon Gisseltess. He was inimical to her magic, and apparently his immunity extended even to his clothing and his horse.

Coralinda Gisseltess was covered in so many moonstones that Senneth’s magic had no real effect on her, either. In fact, Senneth kept remembering what Cammon had said—that moonstones actually stole magic from mystics and fed it to whoever was wearing the gems. In which case, every time she tried to set Coralinda on fire, Coralinda merely grew stronger. Even if the theory wasn’t true, it unnerved Senneth so much that she desisted after the second or third time she tried to make the Lestra’s hair go up in flame.

She had hoped to have better luck with Rayson Fortunalt. Every morning she prowled through the battle lines, weaving past sword fights, trying to get a better look at the arrogant, disdainful marlord of Fortunalt. As soon as she spotted his puffy red face, she would fling her arms out and wish fire upon him, but it did no good. Oh, twice she caused his horse to go mad, rearing and biting as if to rid itself of hot sparks, and one day a curl of smoke drifted up from the front of his sash. But Rayson himself would not catch fire. She suspected he had dressed himself in Arberharst clothing, or anointed himself with oils imported from Karyndein—something that resisted Gillengaria magic, something she could not penetrate. Who knew, perhaps he had invested in a blessing from a foreign god, and her own goddess could not overcome it.

Even though her fires would not take hold in the places they would do the most damage, she could still use flame to cause some disruption in the enemy camp. So she continued wreaking havoc where she could, for three days, for five, for six. And she succeeded well enough to scorch her skin and please her brother and earn the praise of the regent—and feel grave despair about the uses to which she was putting her formidable talent. And she failed miserably enough to feel rage and disappointment and profound exhaustion. And fear.
We could so easily lose this war, and I am not able to help as I should.

So, it was particularly disheartening, a week into the war, to have Donnal return one night from an aerial scouting mission to report that more troops were marching in from the south.

“Looked like a couple thousand men,” he told Romar and Kiernan as they all gathered in Amalie’s tent. Kirra, who usually tried to skip any conference that included the regent, had joined them this night to hear Donnal’s news. “Some cavalry, most infantry. The lead men were carrying flags with what looked like a spray of grass on a brownish background.”

Senneth looked straight at Kirra, whose blue eyes were wide with dismay. “Nocklyn!” Kirra exclaimed. “Oh, I knew it! Mayva’s horrible husband is bringing his soldiers to war against us.”

Kiernan shrugged. “It is hardly a surprise. We always counted Nocklyn among our probable enemies. The only surprise is that they waited a week to join the rebels.”

“Wanted to wear us out first,” Romar said briefly. “We’ve suffered heavy losses, but we’ve held our ground. They wanted us complacent or hopeful before bringing in reinforcements.”

“There appeared to be a second army traveling with the first,” Donnal said.

Kirra slumped on her stool. “
Not
what we wanted to hear.”

“What was the heraldry?” Romar asked.

“I didn’t see a flag, but the soldiers were wearing maroon sashes.”

Kirra sat up and Senneth felt the first wash of hope she’d felt in days. “Maroon?” Senneth repeated. “Rappengrass?”

Kiernan shook his head. “Ariane Rappengrass would hardly be riding against us in company with Nocklyn troops.”

“Maybe Nocklyn’s not against us after all,” Senneth said.

“That’s almost too much to hope for,” Kiernan said.

“I have to agree,” Kirra said. “When we talked to Mayva last year, don’t you remember? Everything was ‘Lowell says this’ and ‘Lowell thinks that.’ And Lowell is Halchon Gisseltess’s cousin. Our best hope was that Nocklyn would stay neutral. We can’t expect it to ride for the crown.”

“But Ariane,” Senneth said. “She
wouldn’t
betray us. Rappengrass is as loyal as Brassenthwaite.”

Even Kiernan was nodding. “I agree.”

“Well, I’ll leave the wounded to Ellynor tomorrow and fly down there to meet with Ariane,” Kirra offered.

Senneth took a deep breath. It meant submitting to Kirra’s drastic magic again—but it meant a day’s reprieve from internal and external infernos. “Change me,” she said, “and bring me along.”

A
RIANE
was standing with three of her captains, eating cold rations and clearly discussing a point of strategy, when Kirra swooped in for a landing. Senneth spared a moment to hope none of the Rappengrass soldiers thought that a hawk and a mouse looked like good bets for dinner before Kirra had a chance to restore them to their proper shapes. The transformation left her feeling dizzy and unsteady, but the Rappengrass folk staring at her looked even more off balance at her sudden appearance. She could not help but smile at their stunned faces.

“Ariane,” she said as coolly as possible. “How good to see you on the road to Ghosenhall. Coming to Amalie’s aid, I hope.”

Ariane gave a sharp bark of laughter and strode closer to give Senneth a hard embrace. Ariane was big-boned and gray-haired, a plain-faced, strong-willed, utterly indomitable force. “Senneth,” she said in her low voice. “I didn’t know you’d added shape-shifting to your long list of tricks.”

“I haven’t. Kirra brought me.”

The explanation was unnecessary as, on the words, Kirra stood before them, making a pretty curtsey. Senneth was slightly aggrieved to see that Kirra appeared neither disoriented nor disheveled as a consequence of transmogrification. “Ariane,” Kirra said, giving the marlady a kiss on the cheek. “We are
so
pleased to see you.”

With a wave of her hand, Ariane dismissed her captains. “Tell me the news,” she said. “Baryn is truly dead? We heard the rumors, but any official couriers got turned back on the way.”

“Murdered by hired soldiers who infiltrated the palace,” Senneth confirmed. “Amalie currently keeps her title as princess. The regent stands beside her. Forces from Fortunalt, Gisseltess, and Storian have marched against the throne, augmented by hired blades from Arberharst—against whom magic has no effect, much to the chagrin of mystics like me. We have picked our battlefield and are currently contesting a plot of land somewhere between Brassenthwaite and Kianlever. But we are overmatched.”

“Yes—I knew it—but I had to put my own House in order before I could come,” Ariane said. Her full lips compressed in a frown; Senneth wondered what measures she had had to take to quell any Thirteenth House mutiny. “These are all the men I could spare.”

“And we are grateful for every one of them,” Kirra assured her. “But, Ariane! You march with Nocklyn? All this time we have been expecting Lowell to raise men for his cousin’s army.”

Ariane’s plain, broad face brightened to a smile. “As did I. And I was very worried about my position then, surrounded by enemies on all sides.” She shook her head. “Mayva has surprised us all.”

Kirra’s head whipped around so fast her hair went flying. “Mayva? Is here?”

Ariane pointed. “Leading her own troops, though I can’t imagine she’ll be any good on a battlefield.”

Kirra’s eyes grew huge. “What about Lowell? The flighty little serramarra I talked to last was no match for the cold Gisseltess man.”

“It’s an interesting tale—ask her yourself. But she’s no longer a serramarra, more’s the pity. Els died a week ago. She’s marlady now.”

“I
must
hear this story,” Kirra declared. “But first, tell me, how is Lyrie? Still well, I hope?”

Ariane’s smile came back. “Strong and lively and smart, smart, smart. My favorite of all my grandchildren, though I know I shouldn’t say it. She speaks of you often, and the time you turned her into a dog to save her life. If she could figure out a way to make herself magic, she would do it. I think her greatest disappointment is that she is so ordinary.”

Kirra laughed. “I didn’t think she was ordinary at all.”

“No,” said Ariane, “and I don’t, either.”

“Let’s go talk to Mayva,” Senneth said. “I want to hear her story.”

One of Ariane’s captains returned. “Marlady,” he said, casting a wide-eyed glance at her unconventional visitors. “We’d best be on the move again.”

Ariane nodded. “Find my friends a couple of horses and let them ride with us awhile.”

In a few moments, Senneth and Kirra were mounted, the whole army was on the march, and Ariane was leading them to the head of the column. Yes, there was the wheat-and-ochre flag that Donnal had described. Riding a few feet behind it was Mayva Nocklyn.

She looked very little like the shallow and impatient young woman Senneth had met several times before. Her face was still round and childlike, but the sulky expression was gone, replaced by a look of deep sadness. Instead of curling in ringlets around her face, her dark hair was pulled back and tied with a plain scarf. The full lips looked like they had not smiled in a very long time.

Kirra cantered up alongside her. “Mayva! What are you doing so far from home, riding in the company of soldiers?”

Mayva’s face showed first astonishment and then real pleasure. “
Kirra?
How did you get here? I did not see you arrive! Oh—I suppose you flew in, like a butterfly or a bird or something like that.”

Kirra laughed. “Something like that,” she said. “Mayva, you remember Senneth Brassenthwaite, do you not? I brought her with me.”

“Oh—serra—of course,” Mayva said as Senneth rode up on the other side of Kirra. “Why have you come? Both of you?”

Senneth answered. “We heard rumors of a Nocklyn army on the move and we had to make sure it was coming to help us, not harm us.”

Mayva’s pretty face tightened. “If my husband were here, he would be leading Nocklyn troops to Ghosenhall to try to push the princess off the throne.”

Kirra looked around as if in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Where is Lowell?”

Mayva’s chin lifted. “In a common prison cell in Nocklyn Towers.”

Kirra practically choked. “Mayva, what happened? You always seemed so—well—I thought you allowed Lowell to make many of the decisions in your House.”

“He killed my father,” Mayva said.

Kirra was horrified. “No! I thought—Els has been sick for a long time—”

“Poisoned,” Mayva said in the bleakest voice imaginable. “I discovered it quite by accident. My father had gotten much worse, and I had brought a woman in to watch him during the nights. One evening I spent a few hours at his bedside, but he never woke up. The nurse said I looked sickly, too, and I said my head was aching. I said I would return to my room and take some powdered silwort. And she said, ‘Oh, serra, that’s no good for pain. That’s only something you spread on a wound to fight infection.’”

“It is,” Kirra said. “It works marvelously well, but if you swallow it—” She shuddered. “You’d need to take a lot to die from it, though.”

Mayva nodded. “Indeed you would. A lot over a long period of time. Lowell had been feeding it to my father for months.”

“But—surely—I mean, didn’t you hire doctors?” Senneth asked. She was trying to keep an accusatory tone from her voice, but no one could have been that stupid. “I know Lowell would not have allowed a mystic healer in the House, but there are trained physicians—”

“There most certainly are,” Mayva said in a flat voice. “We brought in the best. All the way from Gissel Plain. Nocklyn doctors weren’t good enough for my father, Lowell said.”

“Wild Mother watch me,” Kirra murmured. “There’s a cruel and cold-blooded man.”

“So cruel,” Mayva said. “So cold.”

“What did you do?” Senneth asked.

“I did not want to let Lowell know that I suspected something was wrong. A troop of Gisseltess guards had been brought in recently, ostensibly to help keep order if there was any unrest among the vassals—as there has been so much unrest at other Houses. I did not want to accuse Lowell and have him call his soldiers against
me.
But I knew my father had always completely trusted the captain of his guards. I had never dealt with Worton much—I had never thought about swords and soldiers! Why should I? I left such things to my husband—but I sought him out that night once Lowell had gone to sleep.” She laughed mirthlessly. “You will not be surprised to learn that he despised Lowell. He was happy to see me there, eager to swear fealty. He picked five of his best men and followed me back to the rooms I shared with my husband. They kept Lowell under guard for the next few days while I rode to the homes of my father’s favorite vassals. None of them, as it turned out, cared much for my husband. All of them were willing to organize their own house guards and send a small army back with me to overcome the Gisseltess men camped in my courtyard.”