The Guardian Read online

  Ryadne watched from the outer wall of her city. She stared at the gaily colored pavilions, at the banners fluttering there. At the comings and goings of her attackers. Sometimes she caught sight of Talan, circuiting the walls in his splendid golden chariot, magnificently armored. Sometimes he flourished a bejeweled spear, at others the jar that held her husband’s head. But he never ventured within bowshot; he was too careful.

  Thrice, the queen had allowed her commanders to persuade her to send out skirmishers, in what had proven vain hope of slaying Danant’s king. And three times the mounted raiders had been slaughtered. Her finest archers watched the golden chariot with narrowed eyes, shafts nocked ready, but Talan stayed always out of range. Ryadne hated him as she had not known she could hate a man, and nightly prayed that the gods send him a fever or toss him from his chariot, or some camp whore infect him with the rotting sickness. But still, each morning, he presented himself—safely distanced—and hailed her.

  “Shall you surrender now, or suffer my wrath? Better now, eh? Your city and all its folk shall suffer else. Surrender now, Ryadne, and I’ll let your people live.”

  She doubted that. Already Danant stripped the land. What few animals had been left on the farms were slaughtered, the farms burned; cavalry trampled down the harvest and foot soldiers hacked away the vineyards and the orchards. Beyond that horrid ring of light stood a great swath of wanton destruction. And every so often the Danant men found Chaldor folk and brought them before the walls and slew them—or nailed them to crossed wood, or set them to roasting over slow fires—so that their screaming pierced the days and the nights. Ryadne gave orders that her bowmen put merciful shafts in any they could reach, save they could not and so the screaming went on and on.

  The gods knew, but she hated Talan—and scryed his victory.

  Albeit that was only a dim scrying, she still felt certain he must prevail. She exercised all those disciplines taught her by the Dur wisewomen, meditating and consuming such herbal potions as augmented the talent, but still her scrying was a misty, undecided thing. It was as if Talan’s Vachyn sorcerer clouded her vision, weakened her ability. She could no longer sense Ellyn or Gailard, as if that aetheric plane she traversed in dreams had become fogged by the Vachyn’s more powerful magicks, and she could only pray they lived.

  She had recognized the Vachyn on sight. That fading part of her that still commanded the talent knew him like an aching in her bones, the smell of rain on the air. He was the black-robed one, his face aquiline, sallow as diseased flesh, framed with an oily spill of long black hair. Often he stood alone, staring at the walls, and then it was as if he stared at Ryadne and knew her as she knew him.

  She wondered when he would send his magic against her city, and felt a terrible dread.

  It would be easy enough to die—she felt no fear of that journey—indeed, she thought suicide preferable to this awful waiting, but she must concern herself with her people, Andur’s people, and seek their survival above her own wishes.

  And all the time the drums beat and the trumpets sounded and tortured folk screamed and the preparations for siege went on until she feared she might go mad and open the gates only to end it all.

  She put on a smile and turned to her escort.

  “Does Talan intend to attack us, or bore us to death with this display? The gods know, but he wearies me with his prancing—so I’ll leave him to it. Should he cease his strutting and do anything constructive, you’ll send me word, eh?”

  Her captains laughed, voicing their agreement, and watched their queen depart.

  “She’s brave,” one said.

  “But only a woman,” said another. “And a Dur, besides.”

  “Our queen, and worthy of Andur’s throne,” said a third.

  “Even so, I wish Andur was with us.”

  There was no answer save that admission, and the captains turned to study the forces massed against them.

  Ryadne found her chambers and allowed her women to remove the light armor she wore, agreed that a bath be drawn. Her chambers smelled of roses and a multitude of other scents: it seemed incongruous. Roses and perfumes when beyond the walls there was the porcine odor of burning flesh? Were these the Highlands, she thought, and these fluttering women the sisters of her Dur homeland, they’d be girded for battle, ready behind their men with knives and billhooks to gut any attacker. But this was Chorym, the heart of the Bright Kingdom, and these were court women—more used to wielding a needle than a knife. She stifled a sigh that might have become a sob and allowed them to undress her, lead her to the scented bath.

  Rose petals floated on the steaming water and reminded her of blood, but she said nothing, only sank beneath the surface and closed her eyes as she thought of Ellyn.

  Where was her daughter now? Had Gailard taken the child to her grandfather or back to his own Devyn? She had not, deliberately, asked where he would go—for fear the Vachyn plumb that knowledge and find Ellyn; she could only hope they were both safe. She had only the single certainty: that Ellyn was the key to victory, Chaldor’s hope. She did not know how or why, save that Ellyn shared her blood and thus owned the talent. She closed her eyes and endeavored to scry her daughter’s whereabouts, her welfare.

  But all she saw was Nestor’s face, as if it rose from the steam and the rose petals to mock her. She mouthed a silent curse and called for drink.

  “Wine?” a waiting woman asked.

  “No.” Ryadne shook her head. “Bring me a glass of brose. Bring me a mug of brose.”

  The woman looked shocked and Ryadne splashed water, drenching her, then felt immediately sorry.

  “Forgive me, please. I’ve much on my mind and I forget my manners.”

  “No matter, my lady.” The woman wiped nervous hands down her soaking dress. “These are difficult times, and you’ve much to concern you.”

  Ryadne began to laugh and could not stop.

  “Why not now?” Talan slammed his goblet hard against the table’s top. “Why not attack now?”

  Egor Dival sighed and ran a hand across his balding pate. “We face a great city,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child. “A strong-walled city with all its forces there.”

  “Ours are greater,” Talan snapped. “We’ve more men.”

  “Indeed.” Dival wiped his sweaty palm against his shirt. “But we face walls, and therefore need siege machinery. Until we’ve the towers and catapults, we cannot attack. It would be pointless. Better to wait—the gods know, we’ve all this land to support us and they’ve only what they’ve stored. We can starve them out, and lose few men.”

  “And how long shall that take?” Talan demanded.

  Dival shrugged. “A year?”

  “I’ll not wait so long.” Talan swung his head toward Nestor. “Can you not bring down the walls?”

  The Vachyn sorcerer smiled.

  “In time, yes.” “In what time? How long?”

  “I cannot say,” Nestor replied. “I’ve yet to test their strength. It might well be as Egor says, a year.”

  Talan drank, staring at the sorcerer from across the brim of the goblet. “I hired you with sacks of gold,” he said. “And now you tell me you can do no more than my own army? Is my coin all wasted?”

  Calm, dark eyes met his angry glare. “I gave you Andur,” Nestor said, gesturing at the jar that stood obscene between them, “and drove Chaldor’s forces from your land. I’ll give you Chorym, are you a little patient. But do you want the city now, then you must hire more of my kind. Say, five more—and the walls shall fall to our command.”

  “Five?” Talan’s stare lost its heat. “The gods know, but you alone cost me enough. I cannot afford five of you Vachyn.”

  “Then you must be content with me.” Nestor shrugged. “I’ll fulfill my contract. Chorym shall be yours—but you must be patient.”

  “For a year?” Talan scowled.

  Dival said, “War’s not all swift victories, my lord, it’s often boring.”
/>   Talan grunted irritably, “I do not enjoy boredom. I want this city now, and I want Ryadne for my bride. Her or her daughter, eh?”

  “Ellyn’s but a child.” Dival’s ruddy face expressed disgust. “She’s what, fifteen?”

  “Old enough,” Nestor murmured.

  “For you Vachyn, perhaps.” Dival studied the sorcerer with undisguised contempt. “But to me she’s a child.”

  “Child or no,” Talan said, “I’ll wed her, can I not have her mother. I’ll lay my claim on this land however I can, and do any dispute my right …” He stared at his companions.

  Nestor ducked his head. “Your wish is my command.”

  Dival frowned, but said, “I obey my king.”

  “Then win me this city,” Talan said. “Give me Chorym and all Chaldor. Give me Ryadne or her daughter.”

  Nestor smiled; Egor Dival rose and went to inspect his troops.

  When he was gone and they were left alone, Nestor said, “Your general fights old battles, Talan. He’d keep you waiting for this victory.”

  “You agreed with him.” Talan drank more wine. “You agreed it might well be a year.”

  “I’d not … upset … your general.” The Vachyn smiled slyly. “At least, not too much. Better that allies trust one another, no? Egor does not trust my magic. He’d sooner rely on his towers and catapults; his men.”

  “Damn what Egor wants,” Talan growled. He poured more wine.

  “And yet he’s your general,” the Vachyn murmured, “and commands the loyalty of your army.”

  “Yes, my army. Not his.”

  Nestor shrugged. “You are, undoubtedly, the king. But such power is a subtle thing, no? It is, I always think, akin to a tripod—dependent on three legs. One is your right to rule—and that is undisputed.”

  Talan nodded sagely, wondering where the Vachyn’s conversation led him.

  “Another,” Nestor said, “is the support of your people.”

  “I’ve that,” Talan declared. He poured another cup of wine. “The people love me, and do I conquer Chaldor and control the Durrakym, they’ll love me better for the wealth that brings.”

  “Absolutely,” Nestor agreed. “But the third leg is the army. Do you lack the support of the army, then you’ve no strength; the tripod collapses.”

  “You say that Egor would betray me?” Talon frowned, frightened by the notion. “That he’d take the army from me?”

  “No, no.” Nestor shook his head, his hands moving in placatory gestures. “I say only that he doubts your methods. He’d fight this war as he’s always fought wars—in the old, time-honored ways. He does not approve of my presence, nor what I bring to your side.”

  “Shall I dismiss him then?” Talan asked. “Have him assassinated?”

  “No!” Nestor waved an urgent negative. “That would lead only to trouble. We need him, for the common soldiery trust him. They’ll follow him.”

  “They’ll follow me!” Talan cried. “I can lead the army. I do lead the army.”

  “You command the army,” Nestor said. “You are too important to lead it into battle—better leave that task to such as Egor.”

  “I don’t understand.” Talan’s handsome brow furrowed as he frowned. “What do you say?”

  “That we need Egor Dival for now,” Nestor answered. “And that you must be a little while patient. Let him build his machinery. Indeed, let it pound Chorym’s walls awhile—say a month?—and then I’ll use my magic and give you the city. Then, when we’ve no more need of Egor, it should be as well to dispose of him.”

  Kerid had never seen Hel’s Town before. He’d heard the stories—every riverman had; the place was a legend—but his voyaging had not yet brought him so far north, and the first sight of so fabulous a location prompted him to gape as his captured boat drew closer.

  The Durrakym stood at its broadest span here, the banks lost in the sunlit distances of midmorning, but the islands that comprised Hel’s Town dominated the channel like some great toll post, which in a way it was. Little traffic worked the river without paying dues to the inhabitants of the islands.

  There were seven, wide craggy outcrops linked by arching bridges and floating walkways, their slopes all covered with fantastical structures that glittered bright as a jester’s coat. Wharves and jetties thrust into the river like the legs of some unimaginable insect. Boats bobbed on the current: fat-bellied traders out of Naban, Serian’s sleek galleys, fishing boats, and the low, lean river raiders. No few flew Danant’s pennants, and at least three boasted Chaldor’s colors. Kerid supposed they had fled north when Talan invaded, and was torn between cursing their captains for cowards and thanking the gods that he might claim them.

  “That might be difficult,” Nassim told him when he expressed the thought. “Hel’s Town gives allegiance to none save Mother Hel, and she’s a law unto herself.”

  Kerid nodded, recalling what he knew of the place.

  Some claimed it was founded by the Sea Kings, in ages long past, when those legendary rovers sailed upriver; others that it was, and had always been, a pirate stronghold. What was certain was that the islands occupied a kind of aquatic no-man’s-land. Chaldor’s borders, like Danant’s, ended to the south; those of Naban and Serian began to the north. Between lay unclaimed wasteland, with Hel’s Town at its waterborne center. It had never been conquered: it was easier to leave it be, a place where all might meet on neutral ground.

  “What’s she like?” Kerid asked.

  Nassim shrugged. “I’ve not met her. My father did—though I suppose he likely met her mother. You know of the succession?”

  Kerid grunted an affirmative. Hel’s Town was always ruled by a woman descended from the original Mother, whose palace occupied the highest hill on the island at the center of the cluster. He squinted into the brightness, seeing gold flash, and brilliant lapis lazuli, and guessed that must be the palace.

  “We’ll be taken there,” Nassim opined, “when you tell them why you’ve come.”

  “But they’ll trade us warboats?” Kerid thought of those three Chaldor flags. He’d lay claim to those boats and barter them for raiders.

  “Likely,” Nassim allowed, “but it shall only be by permission of the Mother.”

  “I’ll persuade her,” Kerid declared.

  Nassim grunted and cut himself a wad of tobacco as their captured craft eased gently to anchor.

  This close it was easy to see why none chose to invade. Beyond the jetties the dockside ended on a high machio-lated wall, surmounted with arbalests and mangonels, the gateway protected by a barbican. Not even Chorym was so well defended, and as Kerid brought his boat in armed men waited to greet the newcomers while others watched from the walls. Two of the heavy throwing machines were trained on the boat.

  Kerid sprang to the dockside and flourished an elaborate bow.

  “Greetings, friends. I am Kerid of Chaldor, and I seek sanctuary and trade.”

  A man in fish-plate mail faced him. He carried a long sword; the rest bore spears that were angled toward Kerid and his men. “That’s a Danant boat, Kerid of Chaldor.”

  “Indeed it is.” Kerid beamed. “We captured her.”

  “And the crew?”

  “Dead.”

  The officer sniffed. “Your war is nothing to do with us.”

  “Nor would I bring it here,” Kerid said. “Only put up awhile and talk trade.”

  “Your enemies say the same.” The officer pointed toward the Danant flags. “Shall you hold peace with them in Hel’s Town?”

  “Have I a choice?”

  “Of course. You can obey our laws, or not.” The officer chuckled and swung his sword to indicate ten cages hung from the walls. Each one contained a naked man. “Five from Chaldor, five from Danant. They brought their troubles here, and thus suffer the Mother’s judgment.”

  “What did they do?” Kerid asked.

  “A tavern brawl,” the officer replied casually. “They looked to continue your war. Now they’ll rot�
��an example to others.”

  “We’ll give you no trouble,” Kerid declared. “My word on it. We’d only trade this boat for a better. This, and the other Chaldor craft.”

  “That,” the officer said, “shall be decided by the Mother. Come with me.”

  “And my crew?” Kerid asked.

  “Have the freedom of Hel’s Town. But unarmed. And do any cause trouble …” Again, the sword indicated the cages.

  Kerid nodded and ordered Nassim to keep the men in check. He gestured that the officer lead on, and the man smiled grimly and told him to remove his weapons. Reluctantly, Kerid obeyed, then he followed the officer into the barbican.

  Beyond that, a tunnel through the deep wall, and then a steep flight of walled stairs led up to an avenue that ran like a gulley between the close-packed buildings. Narrow alleys intersected the climbing path, and Kerid thought there was not a hand’s span of open ground anywhere in Hel’s Town. He climbed dutifully, legs grown long accustomed to a boat’s deck aching, and the air—after the open river—was thick with the mingled odors of densely packed humanity, food, and, he realized after a while, the multitude of cats he saw inhabiting the gutters and window ledges and balconies. He was grateful when the avenue gave way to a thin plateau, across which rose white walls; behind, the gold and brilliant blue he’d seen from the river.

  The officer approached a gateway of polished wood and banded brass, and dropped a heavy golden knocker. The gate opened, words were exchanged, and Kerid was ushered through to find himself in a bailey where roses grew and fountains played, shedding rainbows over harlequin flagstones of marble and jet. The air was rich with the flowers’ scent, and small birds darted, singing shrilly. The officer was no longer with him, and he was now escorted by two tall men he guessed from their color to be of Nabanese stock. They wore white surcoats that could not quite conceal the mail shirts beneath, and each wore a sheathed blade. They did not speak, only beckoned him to follow and took him across the courtyard to an arched doorway, where he was given into the charge of two others dressed in scarlet slashed across with black and silver.