Sovereign (39 page)

'The point is my grandfather accepted the overrule of the Rosethemes, and Chandra has benefited from it. Our borders became stronger, our trade flourished, our people grew in numbers.'

Barys leaned forward now, sensing that Tomar was about to cross a river and that its consequences would be irrevocable. 'You are talking still about loyalty?'

'God, yes,' Tomar breathed. 'As king, my loyalty must ultimately reside with my own people.'

'Agreed.'

'But is loyalty best served by politics or truth?' Tomar caught Barys's gaze, and the champion realised the moment had arrived. This is what Tomar had been debating within himself since… he thought back… since the day he had escorted Magmed and the knights into Sparro. That was when he had received the first of the letters from Kendra. And, obvious now, when he had also received the letter from Lynan. But Tomar could no longer put off a decision because Charion had arrived, unannounced and unexpected, in his lap. If it had been any other refugee a conundrum would not exist, but Chandra and Hume were rivals within Grenda Lear, and before that had been actual enemies with a history of countless border wars. Indeed, it had been the constant threat of incursions from Hume that had convinced Tomar's grandfather to accede to union with the Kingdom. The fact that both were now provinces within that Kingdom eliminated open conflict between them but did nothing to reduce the ancient enmity.

'This is a question you have had time to consider,' Barys said carefully. 'What is it you need of me?'

Tomar handed over the letter and Barys read it twice. When he finished he asked, 'Do you believe this? That the chancellor and this Dejanus actually murdered Berayma?'

'He is the General's son,' Tomar said.

'And it makes sense,' Barys conceded. 'It fits in with your fears about Aman's growing power in court, something Lynan himself may not have been aware of at the time he was forced into exile.'

'Usharna made sure Lynan was kept out of politics and the court. For what reason I do not know, perhaps for his protection because of his half-commoner heritage, but it made him the perfect figure of blame for Berayma's murder. Orkid and Dejanus would have killed him outright and left Areava—who had no love for Lynan—with no choice and no doubt.'

'She still has no doubt,' Barys pointed out. 'Remember the Great Army which she is gathering on your lands.'

'Should I go to Areava with this letter, then?'

'She would execute you outright!' Barys said, astounded at the thought. 'Lynan has led an invasion into her territory, slain her husband, taken one of her great cities… The original cause of all of this no longer matters!'

Tomar slapped the table with one hand. 'It matters to me, Barys!' He stood up abruptly and walked around the room, his hands behind his back. Barys watched him patiently, saying nothing. Eventually the king stopped, turned back to his champion.

'The immediate issue is whether I accept Areava's request to allow the standard of the Great Army on my territory, or whether I accede to Lynan's request.'

'To give his army free passage across Chandra to Kendra itself.'

'Exactly. Do I side with my queen, and thereby side with Orkid and Dejanus and all that that means? Or do I side with Lynan, rebel and invader of this Kingdom of Grenda Lear, and all that that means? Which is the greater betrayal?'

'What is best for Chandra?' Barys asked.

Tomar's shoulders sagged and he shook his head in frustration. 'I do not know, old friend. I do not know.'

CHAPTER 23

From a hill near the end of the Oceans of Grass, Makon looked over a great camp. First light was returning colour to the sky, and the curling grey smoke of last night's fires was dispersing in a morning breeze,

Makon had never thought to see again anything like the gathering of Lynan's army at the High Sooq the previous winter, but now he was witnessing something similar in the homeland of the Horse Clan. From the north, from the west, from the east, clans that had already sent so many of their own to war under Lynan's pennant now sent more to help Eynon and his people exact their revenge against the Saranah and Amanites. The original plan had been to call for reinforcements under Lynan's name at the next High Sooq, but word of what had happened to the Horse Clan and others in the south of the Oceans of Grass travelled quickly, and soon individual clans were sending detachments to join Eynon without being asked.

Makon was old enough and wise enough to recognise what Lynan had done to the Chetts was unite them properly for the first time, despite the previous efforts of Korigan and her father, something perhaps only someone from outside the clan system could have done. Makon also recognised that what Lynan had created would not be destroyed easily, whether or not the White Wolf won the throne of Grenda Lear. Now, watching the warriors gather to fight for a single purpose without quibbling about command or payment, Makon understood what unification meant for his people. The Chetts had become a power, not just on the Oceans of Grass and its margins, but throughout the continent of Theare.

What was less certain for Makon was whether or not it was entirely a good thing. His instinct told him it was, that it was
always
a good thing to be stronger, but the Chetts had broken through the wall of their isolation in a way that would make it difficult for the rest of Theare to regard them in any way but as invaders. There would be a cost for that, maybe not due for a generation or ten generations, but it would come, and he was smart enough to see that it would be paid for by losing what it was that made them Chetts and by being absorbed into the general stream of civilisation.

Lynan had given the Chetts a new future, but he had also ended forever their old way of life. By bursting onto the world in the way they had, they were ensuring that eventually they would diminish as a distinct people.

Wennem came up beside him. 'Is it not terrible to see?' she said, looking over the gathering as it stirred in the morning. There was an excitement in her voice he had not heard before. As a Chett he should have shared that excitement, coming as it did from the anticipation of making war against their enemies, but he could not help wishing that something other than the prospect of revenge had stirred her.

Tents were being lowered, fires put out, horses saddled. Riders joined their troops and then their troops collected into clans. Eynon had neither the time nor the inclination to reorganise them into banners independent of the clan system as Lynan had done with his force. In some ways, that would have been counterproductive—after all, this army had come together to revenge what had happened to them as clans. By the time the sun was actually over the horizon, seven thousand warriors were ready to ride south from the Oceans of Grass.

'Eynon will be expecting you,' Wennem said, Together they rode down to the head of the gathering, where the remnants of the Horse Clan, together with the lancers and the Red Hands, were ready to lead the way,

Eynon nodded to the rise they had been on. 'Get a good view?'

'Thank you,' Makon said.

'Are we impressive?'

'Very.'

Eynon grunted, but Makon could see he was pleased.

'I had a new pennant made up last night.'

Makon glanced up at the Horse Clan pennant Eynon's force had been using. It was a narrow, fluttering cloth, nothing like the grand pennant the main clan would have flown before they were massacred by the Saranah.

'I cannot see it.'

Eynon gave an order and a rider behind him unwound a large, rectangular flag from the staff he was holding. It caught the morning breeze and spanked in the air, and when Makon saw the gold circle on the blood-red field he could not help laughing in surprise.

'It is Lynan's pennant!' he called.

Eynon shook his head. 'It is the standard for the Chetts now, however Lynan goes in the east.'

Baterus had almost figured it out. Wrapped inside the ornate Chandran rug strapped to his back, right on top of the small brass ewer he would give to his wife, were fourteen brooches, seven pins and two ornately carved daggers. Although a heavy load, it was still lighter than the food and extra arrows he had carried to the Oceans of Grass as part of Dekelon's war band. The only problem was the wound in his calf muscle—nothing dangerous, but it slowed him down enough to be useless in Dekelon's fast-moving campaign, so he had been ordered back home with a pile of booty.

The calf muscle twinged and he cursed under his breath. He had gutted the Chett brat who had sliced him there, and that gave him some satisfaction as he pushed the pain to the back of his mind.

Yes, he had almost figured it out now. He owed the Saranah three quarters of his booty. Say eleven of the brooches, five of the pins, one of the daggers and he would keep the rug. He chewed his lower lip. No, no, the tribe would not think that entirely fair. Say twelve of the brooches. They would not spite him one of the daggers, especially since he had lost his own fighting on behalf of the Saranah; admittedly that had been a rusty old iron blade with a cracked bone handle. Still, he could not go without a dagger. He knew which one he wanted, too: the one with a grip carved from ironwood into the shape of an eastern courtesan. Lovely. Good blade. Lovely.

So, he thought, give the tribe twelve of the brooches and all the pins—he did not need pins—and one of the daggers. That would leave him two of the brooches, and he would give the shell one to his wife and another to sweet Madro (and who knew what might come of that), the dagger for himself and the rug.

Ah, the rug. That was the real problem. It was worth more than all the other pieces put together. The tribe might not look favourably on Baterus taking it for himself. But the tribe could not use it communally. And it would be a shame to sell it on for nothing but gold coins. Gold coins did not buy beauty, and this rug was the most beautiful thing Baterus had ever seen. Woven from fine wool, dyed in colours he had never imagined before, showing pictures of a great cavalry charge from some ancient myth or story. He would have it in his home, and all his neighbours would think him the finest among them because of it. In winter it would help him keep his feet off the hard, cold floor. In summer it would help him keep his feet off the hard, hot floor.

It was so fine, in fact, that even Dekelon himself might take it as part of his share of the booty. The idea made Baterus instantly feel glum. It would be fair, he admitted to himself. Dekelon had done more for the tribe with his war band than any previous chief since the exile from the Oceans of Grass. Every Saranah would be immeasurably wealthier because of Dekelon's initiative and daring.

He hefted the rug higher on his shoulders. We
will see. Dekelon may already have another rug in mind. Or two
.

A rumble. It was a feeling rather than a sound, like the most distant thunder on a suddenly cold summer night when the stars seem to drag across the sky. He looked up at the horizon. The other Saranah in the file, all laden down with loot, stopped and looked up as well. The sky was clear.

It was something deeper even than thunder. Something not from the sky but from…

Baterus glanced down at his feet. Earthquake? No, his body was not shaking, his feet not slipping away from under him. He stamped the earth with a foot as if answering some subterranean call. A fragment of a story popped into his mind then, a story about the old days when the Saranah were riders on the plains with so many horse that when the clan moved it sounded like…

'No,' he said slowly under his breath. He dropped to all fours and put his ear to the ground. 'Yes.'

He did not cry out a warning, did not bother to unstrap the rug to arm himself with the lovely dagger, did not turn to see the doom falling on him and all the other Saranah from the north. He just waited, the thunder swelling around him like the beginnings of a storm.

The Chett army found their first enemy within hours of leaving the plains, a small band of returning Saranah warriors, all of whom had already been wounded in previous battles. They were shown no mercy, and two of them were set aside for torture so the location of their settlements could be learned. With that information, Eynon divided his force into four columns.

'This is a dry land and if we stay together we will strip it of all its grass and drink all of its water before we are through,' Eynon told his commanders. 'There are seven Saranah settlements within four days ride of us. Three columns will take two settlements each; my column will take the last settlement, the one furthest from the plains. We will wait for the rest of you to catch up with us there. Take no prisoners, no booty, leave behind no living animal, foul every water source after you have used it. Use whatever means necessary to find out where other settlements are located so that we may destroy them as well.'

The commanders looked uncomfortable.

'What is it?' Eynon demanded.

'What do we drink on the way back?' one of them asked.

'We don't come back this way,' Eynon said flatly. 'Once we have finished here we hit Aman, and from Aman we can join up with King Lynan's forces in Chandra or Kendra.'

'Aman is full of mountains,' another commander said. 'How will we conquer it? We are people of the grass, not the rock.'

'We are not going to conquer it. We are going to gut it. By the time we have finished they will have no more farms or towns or villages within ten leagues anywhere along our route. We are going to pay them back a hundred fold for sending the Saranah against us. We will teach the people in the east such a lesson that they will never again send an army into the Oceans of Grass to kill our people, steal our riches and destroy our herds!'

Eynon spoke with such passion that most of the commanders gave him their support immediately, the wisdom of which they would later come to ponder. They knew he was expressing the exact sentiments of most of their own warriors: what the Saranah and the Amanites had done to them could not go unpunished.

Makon's first impression of the lands to the south were that they were different to anything he had experienced before. The plains of his home and the rolling, gentle landscape of Hume were both covered in grass, a pale green and coarse on the plains, richer and gentler in the east, but the ground made the same sound under his horse's hooves. The hard arid land of the south, however, made all sounds sharper, like stone hitting stone or bone on bone; there was not enough soil to protect the world from itself. Too, while Makon was used to the heat of summer back on the Oceans of Grass, here the light bounced off the ground so it surrounded you. The column moved through a shimmering heat haze even though it was now well into autumn, and horse and rider suffered.