His attackers. Wearing the gold-and-white of Berringey. Here to find and kill Lerafi Filoman Kolavar.
Clay grabbed him by the arm. “Out the back,” he said grimly. “Come with me.”
Rafe shook him off. “Where’s Josetta? I have to find her.”
Heedless of Clay’s cry of alarm, he plunged through the melee to the last place he had seen the princess.
At first no one noticed him. The scene was so noisy and chaotic that it was hard to keep track of anyone, and he darted around clashing fighters without drawing any particular attention. He spotted Welchin soldiers in among the Berringese, grimly and valiantly fighting, but they were wholly overmatched—ten, perhaps, to what looked like twenty or thirty.
He looked for Foley, knowing that he would be guarding Josetta. Yes, there he was—and Sorbin, too, charging and feinting and falling back to keep a small circle of safety around Josetta while Berringey soldiers milled around nearby. Oh, but Josetta wasn’t cowering back in helpless terror. She’d ripped a canister of some noxious gas off the wall and was spraying its contents straight into the faces of the Berringese soldiers.
“Josetta!” Rafe screamed, snatching up his own improvised weapon, a long-handled pole that ended in something resembling a hatchet. He fought to Josetta’s side, wielding his weapon wildly, knocking Berringese soldiers to the floor as he charged past
The fear on her face intensified as she saw him. “Get out, get out!” she cried, swinging around to squirt another stream of poisonous chemicals at a soldier creeping up on her left side. “Leave us! Go!”
For an answer, he smashed the sharp edge of his pole onto the shoulder of a soldier who was menacing Foley. The man dropped to the floor, blood spurting from a deep gash on the side of his neck. Rafe felt a moment of utter horror—would the soldier die? Rafe had never killed a man in his life. He waded forward through the blood.
“Rafe!” Josetta shrieked, and he spun around just in time to stave off a blow from behind. But there were three soldiers converging on him—four—all armed with swords and knives and those deadly firearms. Rafe swung his weapon in a wide and violent circle, fending them off, but he knew it was just a matter of time before they closed in on him. Killed him, right in front of Josetta. Maybe killed her, too.
If only he had left for Malinqua already! He wouldn’t mind dying so much if Josetta could survive. The thought made him redouble his efforts, land the pole with bone-jarring force on another man’s head, and another. But someone had him from behind, grabbing his throat with a grip so powerful that he instantly lost the ability to breathe. He dropped his weapon and clawed at the gloved hands around his neck, writhing and contorting with all his strength. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard Josetta’s continued despairing cries. Through the gathering haze in his brain, he waited for the fatal blow to fall.
• • •
When Rafe regained consciousness, it was to utter darkness punctuated with pain and an odd, nauseating dizziness. Concussion, he thought. My head’s swimming. It was a moment before he realized the random rocking motion came from outside his body, not inside. Another moment before he recognized the sounds and smells around him.
I’m on a ship. We’re on the ocean. It couldn’t be too far from land—he didn’t believe he’d been out that long, and he could still hear the sounds of gulls and and other seabirds.
I’ve been kidnapped, not killed, was his next realization. Knocked out, trussed up, and carried to one of the hundreds of boats snugged up to the harbor. Probably one that had hid its colors for the past few ninedays as Ghyaneth’s men looked for any chance to grab Rafe and run.
If he wasn’t dead, maybe Josetta wasn’t dead, either.
If he wasn’t dead, maybe Ghyaneth wanted something from him. Maybe they could come to an arrangement.
Unless the only thing Ghyaneth wanted was a chance to witness Rafe’s death.
Cautiously, because his skull was pounding, Rafe rolled to his knees. That made both his stomach and his head rebel, and for a moment he stayed as motionless as possible, panting as he tried to calm his senses. Even so, he could already get a better feel for his situation now that he was upright.
It wasn’t dark; there was a heavy cloth bag over his head, blocking out light and air. His hands were tied in front of him, but his legs were unbound. His captors must have figured that, once they put out to sea, he would have nowhere to run even if he slipped his bonds. He shrugged cautiously, to see what other aches were woken by movement. He’d taken a knife in the ribs, judging by the sharp pain in his side, but he didn’t think the gash was too deep. He was probably bruised on every square inch of his shoulders and torso, but he didn’t seem to have sustained any real damage. Once his head cleared, maybe he could work his hands loose, maybe he could dive overboard, swim for shore—if they were only a mile out, maybe less, he could make it that far—
He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, a cluster of them, five or six people at least. Just as he braced himself for whatever was coming next, someone whipped the bag off his head, and he was blinking into the sullen glare of late afternoon sun.
And into the equally sullen glare of a pair of curious eyes. A man about his own age was bending down, staring at him, his whole demeanour one of hatred and disdain.
“So you’re my cousin Lerafi,” he said in Coziquela.
Rafe gazed up at him in turn. His first thought was that Corene had been right; he was wearing one of the turbans she’d described, and it looked pretty stupid. This one was made of soft gold cloth, wrapped in complex folds around his head and carefully arranged to cover the prince’s ears. Which are probably sliced just like mine, Rafe thought. My cousin Ghyaneth.
His second thought was that they didn’t look much alike. Ghyaneth had olive skin and dark slanted eyes, characteristics that Rafe’s father had probably shared, though Rafe hadn’t inherited them. The shape of the mouth was similar, but that was a subtle thing. No one would see them together and exclaim that they must be related.
“That’s what I hear,” Rafe replied. His voice came out as little more than a croak, and the effort of speaking made his throat hurt. That was when he remembered that one of Ghyaneth’s men had tried to strangle him.
“I have gone to quite a lot of trouble to find you,” Ghyaneth told him.
“You’ve tried to kill me,” Rafe corrected. “I’m surprised I’m alive right now.”
Ghyaneth’s face showed dissatisfaction. “It would be better if you were dead,” he agreed. “But my spies tell me you’ve become enmeshed with one of the princesses. I think Darien Serlast is less likely to fire on my ship if he believes you are on it. And alive.”
“I’m a hostage to your safe passage.”
“Exactly.”
Rafe’s eyes had had time to adjust and now he took a quick look around. Ghyaneth, a few of his soliders, and Rafe were clustered on the deck in the stern of a large, oceangoing ship. He could spot two even more massive vessels on either side, about a ship’s-length behind them; their flags were down, but Rafe assumed they were escorts for the prince. On all three of them, the big white sails drooped, not even half full, as the wind was uncooperative on this sunny day. They were moving, but slowly, and the shore was indeed less than a mile behind them.
Which cheered Rafe up a good deal, but even more encouraging was the sight of twelve or fifteen smaller, faster ships in close pursuit, all of them flying the rosette symbol of Welce.
“Looks like you might have trouble outracing the Welchin navy,” he observed, not even trying to keep the note of satisfaction from his voice.
“I doubt they will follow us all the way to Berringey. You cannot be worth that much to them.”
Rafe agreed, though he wasn’t about to say so, but Ghyaneth didn’t wait for an answer. “Though I should not be running from them! I should be berating them,” he declared, his voice aggrie
ved. “I thought we were treating in good faith, and yet I find they have been harboring my greatest enemy! They are without honor, and I will tell my father so. We will not make alliances with them.”
“They didn’t know I was your enemy,” Rafe said, though he didn’t think Darien Serlast needed Rafe’s help explaining his motives. “I didn’t know. I just found out who I am a few ninedays ago. There’s no reason to kill me, because I never had any thought about taking the throne of Berringey.”
“It doesn’t matter what you thought or what Darien Serlast thought or what anyone in this backwater land thought,” Ghyaneth said grandly. “You are a threat to the throne of Berringey, and therefore you must die.”
Rafe shifted on the hard planks, trying to get more comfortable. It was something of a strain to tilt his head back to argue with Ghyaneth, but he didn’t particularly want to stand up to confront his cousin. He didn’t want to do anything to make Ghyaneth strike him dead.
Resettling himself on the deck made every separate bone and muscle shriek with protest. It also made him aware of a light, compact weight hanging from his shoulders.
The flying bag. Still strapped to his back.
How might that be turned to his advantage?
“So you’re going to kill me yourself,” Rafe said slowly. “I admit I’m surprised. I wouldn’t have thought you’d spend all this time skulking around Welce, looking for me.”
“I wasn’t skulking around,” Ghyaneth defended himself. “I’ve been in Soeche-Tas for a much more fruitful visit than the one I spent in Chialto. My men brought me word of your activities, and I decided to wait at the harbor for a few days to see if you could be found. And you were.”
“I suppose my father is dead,” Rafe said abruptly.
Ghyaneth added. “Of course. He took his own life, as an heir should, the night your mother fled with you.” Ghyaneth’s voice turned bitter. “He believed that both of you died at his side. He prepared potions for all of you—the gentlest elixirs, toxins that offer no pain at all, just a quick escape into a deep sleep from which there is no waking. The servants said your mother pretended to drink hers, pretended to feed your own portion to you—pretended to be sleeping at your father’s side until the house was quiet. Then she slipped out and vanished into the night.” He fell silent, still brooding on this monstrous injustice.
“She was courageous and clever,” Rafe said.
“She was deceitful and wicked,” Ghyaneth said sharply. “And if she minded death so much, why didn’t she care that the entire household was executed after her disappearance?”
Rafe flinched, though he had been acquainted with none of the people who were sacrificed on his behalf and all of them had been dead more than twenty-five years. “From what I know of my mother,” he said quietly, “she would have considered their blood to be on your hands, not hers. She had a pretty fierce sense of justice.”
“Well, all of her machinations are pointless now,” Ghyaneth said with a certain zest. “You will be dead soon enough.”
Before Rafe could answer, a loud boom rang from one of the pursuing ships. A cannonball ricocheted off the starboard side of their craft and splashed noisily into the water. There were shouts all around them from soldiers and sailors leaping to assess the damage and take up combat stations.
“Looks like Darien Serlast doesn’t care that I’m on board,” Rafe said. “He’ll sink you anyway.”
Ghyaneth grabbed Rafe by the back of his tunic and jerked him to his feet, hauling him to the railing. Rafe was unsteady enough that the sight of the dark water churning below made him dizzy. Without Ghyaneth’s grip, he thought he might have pitched overboard.
“We still have him and he is still alive!” Ghyaneth called to the pursuing ships. They were close now, maybe only fifty yards distant; no doubt Ghyaneth’s voice easily carried that far. “If you sink me—if you set me on fire—he dies alongside me!” He shook Rafe hard enough to make his head wobble.
“Return him to us!” came the shouted reply. It was distorted by wind and water, but Rafe was pretty sure the speaker was Darien. “We do not wish you harm! But we will not let you take him.”
“Do not interfere in matters that do not concern you!” Ghyaneth shouted back. “He belongs to Berringey, and you cannot prevent me from taking him!”
On the words, the ocean grew motionless as glass.
The sails, which had begun to strain and billow with sea air, lost their tautness and fell limply against the masts. The escort vessels were similarly becalmed. The three Berringese ships might as well have been on solid land baked hard by an unforgiving sun. They did not move at all.
Rafe heard the closest sailors begin to mutter and curse. He didn’t understand what they were saying, but a few of them made gestures that looked like religious signs designed to ward off malicious spirits. He imagined the sailors on the other Berringese ships were engaged in much the same activities.
Ghyaneth shoved Rafe away from him and turned toward a nearby soldier, a tall, forbidding man wearing what Rafe guessed was a captain’s insignia. The prince was angry and just a little apprehensive. “What is happening?” he demanded. “Why have our ships stopped?”
“The wind—” the captain began.
“We have rowers,” Ghyaneth snapped. “Set them to work!”
The captain barked an order to an underling, who dashed away. Rafe permitted a smile to come to his face as he leaned against the railing, looking down at the satin-smooth surface of the water.
“You won’t make any headway,” he said. “It is not by accident you’ve stopped moving.”
“What do you mean?” Ghyaneth demanded.
Rafe nodded toward the Welchin ships, which were rapidly drawing closer. “I’m guessing that among your pursuers are Kayle Dochenza and Zoe Lalindar. The primes of air and water. They control the wind and the sea, and if they don’t want your ship to travel, it will stay here until the end of the world.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Ghyaneth snapped. “No one controls the elements.”
“Well, they do,” Rafe said. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. You still won’t move.”
Below him, at the ship’s waterline, he heard the sound of many oars splashing into the ocean more or less at once. Ghyaneth gave him a thin smile. “We’ll see about that,” he said.
Some sailor belowdecks bawled out a command followed by a rhythmic exhortation. Row! Row! Row! At each word, the oars swept through the water again.
The ship didn’t travel so much as an inch. The water was so still that the craft didn’t even rock on its hull.
“Ghyaneth!” came Darien’s bellow from across the water. The lead Welchin boat was close enough now that Rafe could identify the figures standing in the prow. The regent, of course; Kayle and Zoe, as he’d suspected; and Josetta, Foley, and a dozen others. Maybe twenty soldiers massed behind them on the deck, and each of the other Welchin ships carried at least as many troops. “Release Lerafi Kolavar, and you will be free to sail away! But we cannot permit you to take and murder him.”
“This is Berringese business, and none of your affair!” Ghyaneth called back.
“I have made it my affair,” was Darien’s reply. “As you see.”
Indeed, the Welchin navy had surrounded Ghyaneth’s escort, four ships to each of the Berringese vessels. The Welchin soldiers were clearly poised to board, waiting only on Darien’s order. The Berringese soldiers were also preparing themselves for battle; Rafe could see thin streamers of smoke rising from braziers set up alongside the Berringese cannons. He spared a moment to wonder if Nelson Ardelay could damp those fires if he chose to—and another moment to wonder if the sweela prime was among the Welchin contingent.
“We will bring our ship alongside yours,” Darien continued. “Return Lerafi safely to us, then be on your way.”
There was a brief sile
nce while Ghyaneth seemed to think this over. Rafe had a moment’s hope that his bloodthirsty cousin would choose his own safety over an arcane tradition. But suddenly Ghyaneth whirled around and clouted Rafe across the face, driving Rafe to his knees with his head ringing and his bound hands braced on the planking. Ghyaneth had struck him with a weapon of some sort, he realized, probably the hilt of a heavy dagger. At any rate, it left Rafe as dizzy as he’d been when he first regained consciousness.
He heard feminine voices raised in alarm, their bright syllables skittering to him across the water. But he didn’t have time to sort out if it was Zoe or Josetta pleading for his life, because Ghyaneth had crouched beside him, that same dagger now point-first in his hand. The expression on the prince’s face was unadulterated, fanatical rage.
“You shall not take the throne of Berringey if I have to die to keep you off of it,” Ghyaneth snarled, and he laid the tip of his weapon against Rafe’s throat.
Rafe threw himself sideways to avoid the thrust, swinging his bound hands up to try to knock the weapon out of Ghyaneth’s grip. He landed hard on his elbow and scrambled awkwardly to his knees, then to an ungainly crouch. As he struggled to keep his balance, he pawed madly at the straps across his chest, trying to find the one that would inflate the chemicals in the flying bag. Ghyaneth whirled around, grabbing a patch of Rafe’s hair with his left hand and jerking Rafe’s head backward to expose his throat. The dagger was still firmly clutched in his right hand.
“This blood should have been spilled long before now,” Ghyaneth panted, and sliced at Rafe’s neck.