As he entered the royal box, Crystalorn leaned over and said, “That was wonderful! I thought he was going to get you with that last stroke; how did you manage to duck in time?”
Eltiron glanced quickly around the box. The only other occupant was one of Marreth’s women, who was seated on the opposite side of the box, gracefully fanning herself. Eltiron took a seat beside Crystalorn, and in a low voice quickly outlined what had happened.
“What are you going to do about it?” Crystalorn said when he finished.
“Nothing. I don’t have any proof that Terrel actually did anything, or Badelian, either. Besides, talking to Vandaris is more important.”
“Why?”
“Terrel’s persuaded Father to do something tonight,” Eltiron said in a low voice. “I don’t know what, but it involves Vandaris. I have to warn her.”
“She hasn’t been back here since the games started, and you’ll never find her in the crowd. You’ll have to catch her coming off the field. So what are you waiting for?”
Eltiron left. The afternoon wore on. Eltiron won another match before he was defeated. He was satisfied that he had made a good performance, though not by any means the best. Still, he was glad to stop and return his mail and stick sword to Kaliarth; the chain and the padding beneath it were far too heavy to be comfortable on a hot day.
Several times, Eltiron saw Vandaris and Marreth in the circles below, but they were never pitted against each other. To Eltiron’s surprise, Marreth won five matches before he was defeated; he was much faster than most of his opponents expected. Vandaris fought seven matches and finally lost to one of the Barinash guardsmen who had accompanied Crystalorn.
When Vandaris left the field after her last match, Eltiron was waiting. He forced his way through the crowd of spectators, courtiers, and well-wishers until he reached his aunt. “Vandi, I have to talk to you.”
You and half Morada’s army of heroes,” Vandaris said as she shrugged off her coat of chain. “Can’t it wait?”
“No!”
Vandaris gave him a sharp look. “All right, then. This way.” She and Eltiron worked their way away from the field to where the crowd was thinner, then started back toward the royal box. “Now,” said Vandaris, “what is it?”
Eltiron glanced around quickly, then told her about the fragments of conversation he had overheard. “So I think Terrel’s planning to have Father arrest you for treason at the feast tonight,” he finished.
“Hah! Marreth knows better than to try that. And even that snake-tongued idiot Lassond should have more sense than to try the same trick twice.”
“Maybe, but Terrel’s been watching you for weeks, Vandi.”
“You think he’s the only one? Half the court’s been eyeing me ever since I got in, wondering whether they’re better off trying to curry favor with the King’s sister or trying to ignore someone Marreth doesn’t seem to like much.” Vandaris grinned. “Unfortunately, I’m hard to ignore. I agree, though; Lassond’s up to something. The question is, what is he planning and what can we do about it?”
“If Father is going to have you arrested—”
“Arlayne’s crown, man, he’ll have a harder time taking me than he had with Trevannon! Particularly since I’ll be prepared for him.”
“Well, but what if I’m wrong and Terrel’s planning something else?”
“If the rivers ran with wine, you’d be too busy worrying about them turning to vinegar to drink anything. I can handle Lassond; he doesn’t know nearly as much as he thinks he does. And Marreth’s easy.” Vandaris smiled wolfishly. “He never has been able to manage anything unexpected.”
Vandaris refused to say any more in the short distance left before they reached the royal box, and once they rejoined the rest of the party there was no opportunity for private conversation. Marreth was already there, beaming down on the final rounds of the sword games and calling for wine. He still wore his chain, and his face was flushed and sweaty from the heat and the unaccustomed exertion. Terrel stood at the King’s elbow; he gave one long, measuring look in Vandaris’s direction, then ignored her completely for the remainder of the games. Marreth alternated between scowling at Vandaris over his wine cup and boasting of his own performance in the games.
By the end of the afternoon, Eltiron was even more worried than before. Terrel seemed to be in a remarkably good humor, which made Eltiron distrust him even more than usual. He was glad when the sword games were over at last and he could return to the castle to prepare for the feast. He welcomed the chance to wash away the dust and sweat of the fight, but he did not intend to linger in his bath. He would dress quickly, then visit Vandaris to find out what her plans were. Eltiron threw open the door to his rooms and stopped short.
The castle tailor and his two assistants looked up from the piles of silk and silver occupying two of Eltiron’s chairs. “Ah, it is Your Highness!” said the tailor, bowing. “It is good that you come so promptly! No, do not come closer until you have removed the dust; we must have a care for the silks! When you are finished, we will proceed to the dressing!”
Eltiron groaned mentally. How could he have forgotten? The castle tailor would hardly trust anyone else to assist Eltiron into the garments he had spent so many days fitting, and he would not be satisfied with less than perfection. Eltiron would be lucky to get to the feast in time; he might as well forget about seeing anyone beforehand. With a sigh he nodded to the tailor and went into the next room to wash.
The bath refreshed him, and when it was finished he submitted with no outward protest to the tailor’s ministrations. Being dressed took even longer than he had feared, and by the time the tailor and his men were finished, Eltiron was ready to explode. In spite of his frustration, he managed to thank them in a reasonably steady voice before he went down to the feast.
When he reached the hall, Eltiron let the doorkeeper announce him while he paused to look for Vandaris. The hall was packed with a glittering throng of Sevairn nobility, as well as ambassadors and representatives from the other six kingdoms. Most of them were standing; a few were seated at the long tables. At the far end of the room, the royal table stood on a raised platform. Marreth, his face flushed, sat in a gold-draped chair at the center of the table. To his left was a delicate, dark-haired woman wearing an elaborate headdress of silver filigree and diamonds.
Crystalorn sat on Marreth’s right, and as soon as Eltiron saw her, he forgot about looking for Vandaris. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a heavy mass of waves that drew attention to the lines of the face below. She looked . . . she looked . . . Eltiron stopped trying to think of a description and made his way to the table. He sat down beside Crystalorn and said, “You look very nice,” then mentally cursed himself for the stupidity of the remark.
“Oh, do you really like my dress?” Crystalorn said. “I wasn’t sure it was quite right.”
“What dress? Oh, of course. I mean, yes, I like it.” Inwardly, Eltiron cringed. Morada’s crown, did he have to sound like an idiot every time he opened his mouth?
Crystalorn giggled. “I see. Don’t say anything else; you’ll spoil it. Did you talk to Vandaris? What’d she say?”
“I told her, but I don’t know whether she’s going to do anything about it,” Eltiron said, after checking to make sure Marreth was occupied with the “lady” on his left.
“She’ll do something,” Crystalorn said, grinning. “This evening’s going to be more interesting than I expected.”
Eltiron thought he would prefer a nice, boring dinner, but he didn’t say so. He watched the doors, hoping to see Vandaris arrive, but she did not come. When Terrel and Salentor were finally announced, Eltiron began to wonder whether Vandaris would attend the feast at all. He saw Terrel seating himself beside Salentor and frowned. Chief Advisers were not usually given a place at the royal table for a wedding feast, though on less formal occasions they might join the royal family by the King’s permission. Then he heard the doorkeeper call Vandaris’s name and
turned his head. He didn’t recognize her at first; then he did and nearly gasped aloud.
Vandaris was wearing the most elegantly barbaric costume Eltiron had ever seen. Her hair had been curled and bound with gold net. Her dress was made of a deep red material that shimmered and flowed as she moved. The full sleeves ended in long cuffs made of gold. Two leather straps, worked in gold, crossed between her breasts, each supporting a curved dagger in a jeweled sheath. She wore a girdle of gold; the skirt below it was slit almost to the waist on either side, and her shoes were gold. She did not look at all like herself, and yet Eltiron could not imagine a formal dress that would suit her better.
She stood in the doorway for a moment as a rustle of astonishment swept through the hall, then moved forward toward the royal table as if she were completely oblivious to the sensation she was causing. Behind her, Tarilane entered almost unnoticed.
“That’s Vandaris?” Crystalorn said as the two made their way through the crowd. After a moment she added thoughtfully, “I like her dress; I wonder if she’d tell me where it came from?”
Eltiron was spared a reply; Vandaris had reached the table and was seating herself on his other side. “Vandi, what are you doing?” he whispered.
“Waiting for dinner,” Vandaris said. “And it won’t be long; looks like Marreth’s getting ready to start making toasts.”
Eltiron turned in time to see Marreth rise to his feet and lift his goblet. He did not even glance in Vandaris’s direction, and Eltiron felt suddenly uneasy. Marreth wouldn’t let Vandaris appear so dramatically without doing something. Eltiron was so worried he almost missed the traditional opening toasts of health to the bride and groom, but as the toasts went on, he began to relax. Perhaps Marreth was still in a good mood; perhaps he wouldn’t do anything at all.
Marreth finished the customary toasts and paused. “And now, my lords, I have an announcement. Tonight we celebrate the wedding of my son, Prince Eltiron Kenerach, to the Princess Crystalorn Halaget of Barinash, but we have another cause for celebration as well. I give you a toast: To my beloved Lord Adviser, Terrel Lassond, and his promised bride—my sister, Vandaris!”
CHAPTER 14
Jermain looked from Carachel to Ranlyn and back. Part of him wanted to shout that Ranlyn’s accusation could not be true, that Carachel could not, would not, have planned such a thing, but another part held him silent. The charge was monstrous, but it explained too many things—Carachel’s reluctance to tell Jermain much about the Matholych, his insistence on holding the Hoven-Thalar against all reasonable military practice, Elsane’s visit ten days before. Jermain felt like a fool; why hadn’t he seen, or at least suspected?
Silence hung over the camp. At last Carachel looked up—not at Ranlyn, at Jermain. His face was a mask, but his voice held a plea. “I do what I must.”
“The wall between ‘must’ and ‘will’ is often hidden beneath the sand,” Ranlyn said.
Carachel’s eyes were still on Jermain. “What I do is the only way to keep destruction from the Seven Kingdoms; I swear it!”
“Do you truly expect me to agree to such a slaughter?” Jermain’s voice was icy.
“Will you have the Matholych come again, and again a hundred years from now, and on forever? I can end this now! If I—”
He stopped suddenly, staring at Jermain’s chest, and his face went white. Involuntarily, Jermain looked down. The medallion Amberglas had given him glinted back at him through the slash Laznyr’s knife had made in his tunic. Jermain lifted it out from under the tunic. When he looked up, both Ranlyn and Carachel were watching the medallion. Ranlyn wore an odd, intense expression that might have been recognition; Carachel looked stunned.
“Where did you get that?” Carachel demanded.
Startled by the irrelevance of the question, Jermain did not answer, and Carachel’s face darkened. “So that is how you crossed the spell that guarded the dueling ring! You led them to me, you killed them so I could not use their power—you, whom I trusted.” Carachel’s voice trembled, and his eyes stared unseeing toward Jermain. “Which of the leaders of the Guild of Mages sent you? Halendarian? Suyil?”
“None of them sent me. I entered your service at your own request, and I am now leaving it.”
“You swore an oath to me.”
“And you lied to me.” Jermain turned on his heel and started toward Ranlyn.
“No! I never lied to you. Never!”
Jermain looked back. “Then you withheld the truth to manipulate me into doing as you wished. Do you think I am a fool? It is as well that the Hoven-Thalar are beyond your control!”
“What do you mean?”
Jermain glanced at Ranlyn, but the nomad’s face was expressionless. He turned back to face Carachel. “The Hoven-Thalar are traveling east, not north. You have no need of an army now, nor of my services to command it. When your army reaches Gramwood, there will be nothing for it to fight.”
Carachel whirled to face Ranlyn. “You! I knew something was wrong in the south. I felt it days ago, and it is your doing!” He raised his right hand to point, and the serpent ring gleamed ominously.
“Would you seek to keep me from fulfilling the debt I owe my people?” Ranlyn said softly. “Then it is well indeed that it is not within your power to do so.”
“I will stop the Matholych despite you!”
“Your will is written in sand,” Ranlyn said calmly. “Whether it remains or vanishes lies with the wind that moves the sand. My people you can no longer touch, and no debt lies between us.” He looked toward Jermain, as if Carachel were of no further importance. “My debt to truth has here been paid. There remains only the Lady of the Tower to seek before I return to my tent.” He bowed, then turned and started walking toward the forest.
“No! I will have no more of your interference!” Carachel gestured and spoke three unfamiliar words.
Ranlyn stiffened and went white. He swayed slightly, but he did not fall or cry out. Carachel’s lips tightened, and he clenched the fist that wore the serpent ring. Ranlyn jerked, then slowly collapsed, and Jermain could see that he was fighting for breath.
Jermain leaped forward and grabbed Carachel’s outstretched arm. He heard Carachel shout, and something like a blow sent a wave of heat across his chest. He reeled backward and fell. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard Carachel cry out in surprise. He struggled to his knees and reached for his dagger. Another blow fell, momentarily blinding him. He rolled, hoping to avoid the next stroke; as he did, he thought he heard a faint, familiar voice say,
“Dear me, how extremely difficult. Not that it’s at all surprising, since—”
“Traitor!” Carachel’s voice was a howl of rage. An explosion knocked Jermain to the ground, surrounding him with flames. He rolled again, shielding his eyes with his left arm. He smelled singed cloth and felt heat on all sides. Then something seared the center of his chest, and he heard Carachel scream. There was a sound like metal shrieking against stone, the flames died, and there was silence.
Jermain twisted, rolled, and came to his feet, dagger ready. Several paces in front of him Carachel lay unconscious, his breath coming in harsh gasps. Ranlyn lay a little to one side, and Jermain saw with relief that he was beginning to stir. Slowly, Jermain returned his knife to its sheath, then checked to see the extent of his own injuries.
He found none, and almost did not believe it; the memory of the pain was too vivid. The only sign of the brief battle with Carachel was the medallion, which was now a black and shapeless lump of metal instead of a silver disc. Jermain stared at it, wondering numbly how the medallion could be melted when the chain from which it hung was untouched. And this was the simple messenger’s medallion he had been so glad to see instead of a magic amulet that might draw him into sorcery! He frowned suddenly. Had Amberglas actually told him the medallion was not magical, or had he simply assumed it?
“Jerayan.” Ranlyn was on his feet; he looked pale, but otherwise unharmed. Jermain started forward, but the no
mad raised a hand and he stopped in midstride.
Ranlyn’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Again, it seems, I owe you a life.” He studied Jermain briefly, then turned and knelt beside Carachel in a swirl of robes. A moment later, he rose again and came forward. “I owe you a life,” he repeated, and reached out. Automatically, Jermain extended his own hand. Ranlyn’s fingers opened, and the serpent ring dropped into Jermain’s palm.
“My debt is paid,” Ranlyn said.
“I don’t—” A shout cut Jermain off in midsentence. His head snapped around, and he saw three of Carachel’s councillors coming through the trees, accompanied by half a dozen men-at-arms.
“Ranlyn!” Jermain jammed the ring into his belt pouch as he jerked his head toward the soldiers. The two men ran for the rear of Jermain’s tent. A second shout told them they had been seen, but Jermain did not stop to find out whether the soldiers were coming after them. Even if the councillors did not order a pursuit, Carachel was certain to do so when he recovered.
Jermain rounded the end of the tent and jerked Blackflame’s tether free. Thank Arlayne he had not had time to unsaddle the horse! Ranlyn went past and vanished among the trees as Jermain flung himself into the saddle. Blackflame tossed his head, then plunged after Ranlyn.
There was a confusion of small branches snapping, and a shout of dismay as Jermain passed the startled sentries. He saw no sign of Ranlyn, and he slowed Blackflame’s headlong gallop. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the camp belatedly stirring to action. Then he caught a glimpse of a big-boned chestnut horse breaking out of a screen of small trees just ahead, and he urged his horse forward once more. A moment later, Jermain and Ranlyn were riding side by side.