The priests and the prince had drawn back from the blazing altar where the prisoners burned. Ranadar turned from the altar and motioned to his men to follow him. Andariel and Rhodorix collected the guards and marched off behind their rhix in an untidy mob.
Ranadar led them all the way back to the new stables, where they clustered around him at his command.
“I want you all to know,” he said, “that I forced the priests to kill those men before they were thrown onto the fire. They wanted to lay them alive on the altar.”
Rhodorix’s stomach twisted in disgust. Andariel shook his head and shuddered. Several of the guardsmen swore.
“They told me,” Ranadar went on, “that the times demanded sacrifices beyond the usual. The cows weren’t enough, they said, since the gods were so obviously furious with us. I told them I wouldn’t take part unless the men died first.” His rage vanished, and his voice suddenly wavered in self-doubt. “They kill the cattle first, don’t they? I haven’t cursed us all, have I?”
“They do, my prince,” Andariel said. “I think you’ve saved us all from a worse bane than any priest could lay upon you.”
“My thanks.” Ranadar paused, gathering his breath. “And the sun is rising. Well, it’s done, no matter what the outcome may be.”
Rhodorix had been hoping along with Gerontos that his brother’s leg would heal up straight and sound. As the winter days wore on, each a little longer than the last, his hope vanished. A month or so after the solstice rites, Gerro started walking without leaning on a stick, but he limped with a sideways roll from a frozen knee. Though neither wanted to voice it, both men knew he’d never fight on foot again at his former level of skill. Eventually, however, when the snows turned soft during somewhat warmer days, though they still froze again at night, Rhodorix brought the subject up.
“About that leg—”
“I know. I’m worried, too,” Gerontos said. “Paraberiel suggested I go talk with his master in the craft,”
“I’ll go with you. You’d best take that walking stick.”
Gerontos turned on him, his face bright with rage, but he caught himself. For a moment he stared at the ground.
“True spoken,” he said at last. “Hand it to me, will you?” Rhodorix gave him the stick, then picked up the basket with the two crystals. While he himself could understand much of what the people said, Gerontos still knew only a few words.
They walked slowly down the long corridors leading to the herbroom, where the door stood partway open. Rhodorix could hear talk inside. When he peered around the open door, he saw Hwilli, her master, and the Mountain woman Vela. They were discussing building something they had in mind—as if any of us can build anything, he thought, as if any of us will live that long! “Hola?” he called out. “Hwilli, may we come in?”
“Of course.” It was Jantalaber who answered him. “Have you brought us your brother?”
“I have. Come on, Gerro.”
Jantalaber helped Gerontos hoist himself up onto a marble-topped table then knelt in front of him. He ran his hands along the withered leg, shook his head, tapped it here and there with a thoughtful forefinger, and finally prodded the muscles along the calf. He stood up with another shake of his head.
“This doesn’t look good,” the healer said into the white crystal. “I’m sorry, lad, but the bone was smashed, not broken cleanly. The muscles aren’t adhering properly, and the long bone has healed just ever so slightly off center.”
“I see.” Gerontos said emotionlessly. “Well, my thanks, anyway, for everything you’ve done for me.” He glanced Rhodorix’s way. “Will you help me get back to our chamber?”
“Of course.” Rhodorix made his voice as cheerful as he could manage. “Looks like you’re marked for an archer now.”
Gerontos shrugged. From his mask of an expression, it was impossible to tell what he might be thinking.
“Hwilli?” Jantalaber said. “You may go back with them, if you’d like. You should tell your man your good news.”
“What’s this?” Rhodorix turned to her, but her smile told him before she could speak. “You’re with child?”
“Yes, I am.” She was holding her head high, on the edge of defiance even in her happiness. “Are you glad of it?”
“Very glad!” Rhodorix held out his hand to her.
She took it and smiled at him sideways, abruptly shy. He gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead in deference to the presence of her master. A man needs to know that something of him will live after him, Rhodorix thought, but that’s a bit gloomy to be telling her.
Some days later, the last of the Mountain axemen arrived at Garangbeltangim. They’d taken advantage of the slight warming and temporary thaw to leave the northern city and head south to join up with their kinfolk. Wrapped in his scarlet cloak, Prince Ranadar met them out in the snowy courtyard. Rhodorix and Andariel stood nearby, ready to find the men somewhere to sleep and eat in the overcrowded fortress.
“We would have stayed to the end in Tanbalapalim,” their avro, Tarl, told the prince. “But Prince Salamondar told us it would be a waste of our lives. Go guard your women, he said. Live and remember us.”
The hardened warleader leaned on the haft of his ax and wept. As if to drown the sound of his grief, the bronze gongs on the priests’ tower began to clang and clatter out the passing hour.
The winter snows melted early that year. When Hwilli looked up to the high peaks, she saw them still white and gleaming, but down near Garangbeltangim only dirty streaks and heaps of snow lay in spots with deep shade. Everywhere else, brown mud lay over the land like filthy blankets.
“The winter wheat will be sprouting soon,” Hwilli told Jantalaber. “And the farm folk won’t be returning to keep the deer and wild goats away from it.”
“Very true,” the master said. “I’ll have a word with our prince tonight.”
Ranadar listened to the word, apparently, because he ordered a contingent of those guardsmen who had no horses to patrol the wheat fields. They grumbled, but they went down to the village. Hwilli went with them that first day to tell them how to repair the huts. They needed rebuilding every spring, as did the fences that marked out the fields. Master Jantalaber was waiting for her at the gates when she returned.
“Do you think they’ll be able to do the work?” he asked her.
“I doubt it, not without someone to tell them how,” Hwilli said. “Will I have to teach them?”
“No. I’ve already spoken to Paraberiel. I don’t want you down there, the only woman in a village full of soldiers. Par comes from a farm family, too, you know. I’m sending him down on the morrow.”
“Thank you! I can’t tell you how grateful—”
“Most welcome, I’m sure. Now, the two terraces just below us are a different matter. If you could lend your knowledge there? The mounted men will be sowing hay for their horses.”
“I’ll be glad to do that, yes. I’m starting to think that Rhodorix is right. The horses are the only safety we’ll have as things go on.”
Jantalaber looked away, suddenly weary. “If things go on,” he said. “Ah well, the gods will send us what they will, and there’s naught we can do about that.”
Once the last of the snow had melted, and the days were noticeably warmer though the nights still froze, Hwilli took to spending her mornings down on the terraces with Rhodorix and his men. They complained, as soldiers have always complained about undignified work, but they learned to clear ground and plow, to plant and to fend off hungry birds instead of Meradan. Those few days seemed so peaceful, so unseasonably warm and soft, that Hwilli could let herself pretend that the summer would stretch out the same, with the Meradan somehow kept far away.
But of course, news of the Meradan came early that spring as well, some days before the equinox. The sprouting hay had dusted the first terrace with pale green, and she stood at the edge of the field, talking with Rhodorix, when one of the guardsmen called out in surprise.
“
Runners coming up!” He was pointing to the road. “But only two of them.”
The royal runners, the messengers whose speed and stamina helped the mages keep the scattered princedoms together, generally traveled in groups of four. Hwilli felt her heart thud in her chest as the two men jogged, stumbling weary, across the second terrace.
“Go down and meet them!” Rhodorix designated men with a sweep of his arm. “Carry them up here, or they’ll never reach us alive.”
The men ran off to follow his orders. When they brought the messengers back, cradled on their joined arms, Hwilli realized that both runners were wounded. Old blood crusted one man’s face and neck; the other had wrapped a clumsy bandage around his thigh.
“Get them to Master Jantalaber!” It was her turn to give the orders. “I’ll come with you.”
The man with the wounded leg gasped out a few words, “Meradan. Tanbalapalim’s fallen,” before he fainted.
Hwilli wanted to scream aloud, but she concentrated only on the work ahead of her, saving the runners’ lives. The guardsmen carried them up to the infirmary and laid them onto plank beds. Jantalaber took over caring for the man with the head wound, whilst she cleaned, treated, and stitched the other runner’s slashed leg. It was a miracle, she thought to herself, that he’d not bled to death. Once he was bandaged, she helped him drink water for his thirst and a healing infusion for his wound.
She’d barely gotten him comfortable, and Jantalaber was still tending the second runner, when Prince Ranadar himself strode into the chamber. Behind him clustered frightened advisers like sheep behind a ram.
“Can he speak?” Ranadar said to her.
“Some, Your Highness,” Hwilli said.
The runner tried to sit up. She grabbed pillows and arranged them under his head and upper back. “Lie still,” she said. “The prince doesn’t expect you to bow to him.”
“Quite so,” Ranadar said. “When did Tanbalapalim fall?”
A few words at a time, the exhausted runner stammered out the tale. The Meradan had appeared at the first sign of melting snow, an army of them, several thousand, perhaps, including a large contingent of the Children of Aethyr. They had surrounded the walled city but sent no heralds. When Prince Salamondar tried to parley, the Meradan slaughtered his heralds and threw their heads back over the walls.
“Why didn’t his farseers warn me then?” Ranadar asked him. “We could have marched to break the siege.”
Or try to, Hwilli thought, with our few men.
“They tried, Your Highness. They said there was too much rain and snow.”
“Of course. Somehow one always hopes—” He let his voice trail off. “Ah well, go on!”
“They made some sort of ram, Your Highness, and they kept on battering, screaming, pounding . . .”
Eventually the Meradan had broken down the gates. They scaled the walls; they were reckless and fearless, apparently, because they’d gained entry to the outer city within a few days. From the walls, the heartsick defenders of the citadel had watched the Meradan loot, burn, and kill helpless civilians.
“We wanted to go down, Your Highness,” he whispered. “The priests wouldn’t let us. They said, ‘Guard the temple towers.’ They would have cursed us. They made us stay.”
“I see.” Ranadar’s voice had turned into a growl of rage. “Go on.”
The fortress held out longer, giving eight runners a chance to escape by a bolthole dug under one of the towers. Two of them had lived to reach the edge of the Meradani camp. The others had not. The plan was for the men in the fortress to sally once the runners were well away.
“We reached the hills nearby. We looked back and saw the inner citadel burning.”
“So much for the sally,” Ranadar said. “Very well. You and your companion rest now.”
The runner nodded and let himself sink back into the pillows.
That night, the news spread in a wave of panic through the fortress. The prince and his council shut themselves up in the royal chambers. Master Jantalaber and the mages closeted themselves in Maraladario’s suite. The various court officers wandered here and there in the complex, trying to reassure the garrison that Garangbeltangim was a stronger fortification than Tanbalapalim, with its civilian population, could ever be. Hwilli doubted if anyone believed them.
“It’s the numbers,” she said to Rhodorix. “There are thousands of Meradan, aren’t there?”
“A horde of them, truly,” he said. “But what’s swelling their ranks are people like us. I wonder how many others there are, off to the north, waiting to join the looting?”
“People like us. I suppose they’re like us.”
“Ye gods, Hwilli, do you doubt it?”
“Not doubt it, but I don’t want to think we could be so savage.”
He snorted in disgust. “Why not? Look at how the People treated your mother! Slaves will always rise up if there’s someone to lead them against their masters. The Rhwmani war taught me that, if naught else.” He smiled with a bitter twist of his mouth. “Why do you think Ranadar sent the farm folk away?”
“To spare the food they’d eat, I suppose. Or did he think we’d rise against him?”
“Most likely both. There are more guards down in the south, from what Andariel tells me, and they have more leisure to keep the slaves under control.”
“Slaves? They never called us that, but I suppose that’s just what we are to them.”
“Most of us. They make exceptions for the likes of you and me.”
“How can you go on fighting for them?”
“Because I gave Prince Ranadar my word of honor that I’d serve him. Why do you go on doing your work here?”
“Because the people I heal are sick and injured and need me.” Hwilli heard her voice begin to shake. “They’re not to blame.”
Hwilli managed to keep from weeping only through her fear of disgracing herself in front of the man she loved. He put his arms around her and drew her close to stroke her hair. At least I have him, she thought. The gods have given me that much in life. When she remembered how much she’d feared growing old, she had to suppress a mad impulse to laugh. She had wasted her fears on something that very likely would never happen.
“They’ll come here next, won’t they?” Hwilli said. “The hordes, I mean.”
“Most likely,” Rhodorix said. “I won’t lie to you.”
“You have my thanks for that. And they’ll take the fortress, won’t they?”
“Unless the gods stop them. No one else can.”
He looked oddly calm, his eyes stripped of all feeling. She realized, that night, just how completely men like him lived to die. I’ll have to be as strong as he is, she told herself, when the time comes.
In the morning, news of another sort swept through the fortress like a winter wind. The prince had decided to hold out against the Meradan as long as possible, and thus drain off men from the Meradani stampede down to the coast, in order to let Rinbaladelan reprovision and fortify. He was planning on stripping Garangbeltangim of every servant, every woman, wife or not, and every child. Even the mages and priests would leave, every single person who could not fight, but who would prove a drain on the fortress’ provisions in case of siege. They were to march east with the Mountain Folk and try to make some sort of new life for themselves in some safe place.
At first Hwilli thought little of the news. As a healer, she would stay, or so she assumed. Master Jantalaber disabused her of that delusion with the noon meal, which they ate together in the herbroom.
“You’ll be coming with me and the others, of course,” he said.
“What?” Hwilli stared at him. “No. I can’t leave Rhodorix.”
“Yes, you can, and you will. This is the last meal we’ll have in Garangbeltangim, Hwilli. Pack up your things as soon as you’re done eating.”
“No!”
“Am I your master in your craft or not? You’ll do as I say. Don’t you think I’m heartsick, too? But we have our work.
We have the place of healing to build.”
“I don’t care—” Her voice choked on tears. “I’m too weak to matter to the work.”
“Not so! Your life is precious, the first person of your kind to study magic and succeed.”
Cold, icy cold, despite the sun falling through the tall windows, despite the warmth of the stove in the herbroom—Hwilli could hardly breathe from the cold that had gripped her entire body.
“You’ll be coming with me,” Jantalaber went on. “Come now, Hwilli. Think about this—Nalla will be joining us when we reach the Lake of the Leaping Trout. You’ll see your friend again, at least.”
Hwilli pushed back her chair and stood up. Jantalaber rose as well and held out one hand.
“Hwilli, please, think of the work! I know you love your man, but once the Meradan have been beaten off, we can return. And then, after the wars are over, won’t our people—both our peoples—need the place of healing more than ever?”
She could only shake her head and stare at him.
“Go pack up your belongings,” he said. “Say farewell to your beloved. I know it won’t be easy, but—”
“No!” She screamed out the word. “No! Once we leave, we’ll never come back here. Can’t you see that?”
She turned and ran—sprinting from the herbroom, running down the corridor, bursting outside into the cool spring sun with tears drenching her face. Where was Rhodorix? She would have to find Rhoddo, have to tell him she’d never desert him, never! For what seemed like days she searched for him, running back inside to their chambers, running out again, back to the stables, up to the walls, down again to question every man she saw, “Where is Horsemaster Rhodorix?”
At last someone told her. He’d gone down to the first terrace to bring back the men who’d been working there. She started to run to the gates, but already those who would leave were assembling in front of them. Master Jantalaber stood at the edge of the growing crowd, looking this way and that. When she came up to him, panting in exhaustion, he smiled, but it was a mournful smile, and his eyes were moist with sympathy.