THE HOST came within sight of Hurlen on the twenty-ninth in the early afternoon. Torisen reined in. The River Road dipped sharply here. To the left was the Silver; to the right, a series of natural stone ledges called the Upper Hurdles, which cut across the top of the Upper Meadow to the woods some two miles beyond. The citizens of Hurlen usually grazed their sheep here, but not one white back broke the green expanse now. Cloud shadows chased sunlight over the sward down to Hurlen, perched on its cluster of islands where the River Tardy rushed into the Silver. On Grand Hurlen, the nearest island, stone spires showed white, then gray under the shifting light. Opposite it on the far bank rose another, much larger city, this time of brightly hued tents.
"So the Prince made it after all," Torisen said to Harn. "How many troops, d'you think?"
Harn peered down the slope, shading his eyes. "Nine, maybe ten thousand. Not bad considering Karkinor has no standing army. Still, we'll see how long this lot stands when things get lively. Amateurs. Huh."
They rode on with the Host behind them. Here the river bent sharply to the east and swerved back a mile later to rejoin the road. Downstream, where the Silver narrowed slightly, ferries waited on either bank, linked by cables to huge winches. Powerful draft horses also waited in harness, swishing at flies, to set the winches in motion. Hurlen derived its modest prosperity as a sort of dispatching center for goods coming down the Tardy from Karkinor bound either north or south on the River Road.
Soon, the ferrymen would be busy carrying the Karkinoran army fifty at a time over to the west bank battlefield and undoubtedly making more money in a day than they usually did in half a year. War was proving good business for Hurlen.
Just beyond the ferries, where the Silver met the Tardy, the water broadened almost into a lake studded with about thirty islands, ranging in size from Grand Hurlen to rocks barely ten feet across. All of them had been hollowed out millennia ago, perhaps to serve as dwellings for some long-forgotten religious order. The work was far cruder than that of the Builders, and much older. Later generations had built up the walls, first with stone blocks, then with wood. Stone bridges connected the lower stories. Two of them also extended to about fifty feet of each bank, ending in wooden drawbridges. The wooden spires rising above the islands' masonry were laced together with catwalks. Laundry fluttered like bright banners from them.
The Host pitched camp in the Upper Meadow opposite the city. The Highlord's tent was barely up before Burr began pressing Torisen to rest. For this solicitude, he got a ringing snub. It was five days since the near-fatal crisis, not that Torisen realized (on a conscious level, at least) that it had been so serious. In fact, he remembered very little of it and, for once, virtually nothing about his dreams. Mostly, he tried to forget the whole thing. It was enough for him that his leg no longer hurt and that he felt blessedly sane again, if physically a bit fragile.
Because he wanted to forget, it irritated him that Burr, Ardeth, and the Wolver had all been watching him so closely these past few days. Even Kindrie had been hovering just on the edge of his notice, looking so washed-out that on a sudden impulse Torisen had ridden over to demand if he felt all right. That, to a Shanir. It was all very strange.
Here was Burr again, mulishly offering a posset.
"You know I hate that stuff," Torisen snapped.
"Just the same, my lord."
Torisen looked at the cup of wine-curdled milk, at his servant's scarcely sweeter expression, and suddenly laughed. "All right, Burr, all right. I've been rude enough for one day."
Just then, a guard appeared at the inner door to announce the approach of Prince Odalian. Torisen went to the outermost chamber of his tent to greet the Karkinoran ruler, reaching it just as Odalian entered. The Prince paused briefly in the shadow of the tent flap. Torisen also hesitated, suddenly tense without quite knowing why, but then forced himself to relax as the other stepped forward. Whatever impression he had received in that brief moment when shadow lay across Odalian's face, it didn't fit this slim young man with his diffident manner. They greeted each other formally and made polite conversation while messengers went to summon the rest of the High Council. The Prince congratulated Torisen again on his third year as Highlord. Torisen, rather cautiously, felicitated the Prince on gaining Caineron's daughter as a consort.
"If it's done anything to bring the Kencyrath and Karkinor closer together," said Odalian, "I'm glad. It has occurred to me, though, that a stronger connection might be even more beneficial to us both."
Torisen agreed in principle, thinking that the Prince was probably just finding out how slight a claim he actually had on Caineron. "What do you have in mind, Highness?"
"Well, my lord," said the young man diffidently, "I was rather thinking of subject ally status for my country."
"But that would make you practically our vassal," said Torisen, surprised.
"Would the Council approve Karkinor as a full ally?"
"No. We've had rather bad luck with both subject and full allies. Some people blame my father's defeat in the White Hills on their treachery." As he spoke, Torisen realized he wasn't too eager for any such connection himself, but that might just be Ganth's savage bitterness speaking. He made an effort to be open-minded.
Odalian had been thoughtfully sipping his wine. Now he looked up again as if just struck by an idea. "What if the potential ally was to accept blood-binding?"
This time Torisen was really startled. "Highness, that's a rite hardly ever practiced these days even within the Kencyrath. Anyway, you need a Shanir blood-binder to do it properly. Otherwise, it's just a symbolic act. But if you were willing to undergo it," he added, trying to be fair, "it might impress the more traditional members of the High Council. Trinity knows what your own people would think of it, though. We'll wait and see. There's one great-granddad of a battle to win first."
At that point, the rest of the Council began to arrive. Only Caineron had met the Prince before. He greeted him now with all the jovial condescension of a father-in-law, but as he stepped back, he looked momentarily puzzled. Something about Odalian's face, the color of his eyes . . . no. Of course they had always been gray. Caineron prided himself on his good memory.
Burr was serving wine and cakes when Lord Danior burst into the tent. The messenger hadn't found him in his camp because he had ridden ahead some three miles to the edge of the escarpment.
"The Horde is in sight!" he exclaimed. "It's like . . . like a black carpet covering the plain, and the sky is black above it!"
Caineron started, spilling his wine. "We must arm the camp!"
Danior gave him a scornful look. "Oh, it probably won't get here until sometime tomorrow. Plenty of time—but oh, Tori, you should see it!"
Torisen put down his posset, still untasted. "I think we all should," he said grimly.
It was a fair-sized group that rode south some ten minutes later. Each lord had his full war-guard with him now, ranging from Danior's ten to Caineron's fifty. Odalian's retinue had also joined the cavalcade, as well as twenty of Torisen's randons, all trying to look inconspicuous. Harn had apparently impressed on them that they were not to get in the Highlord's way for fear that even at this late date he would dismiss them out of hand.
The road ran along the river to the head of the Mendelin Steps, but they all rode down through the meadows. Torisen had come this way fairly often, traveling between the Southern Host and the Riverland, but he had never regarded this terrain before as a possible battlefield. Now he felt as if he were seeing it for the first time. Between the upper and middle meadows was another set of stone steps called, predictably, the Lower Hurdles. The lowest step was quite steep in some places, constituting nearly a six-foot drop. The middle field narrowed to a bottleneck at its southern end, hemmed in by the river and by woods.
The woods struck Torisen as rather odd. For one thing, even as they approached, the individual trees were hard to distinguish, as if mist obscured them. Also, rabbits startled by the horses jumped toward their cover only to stop at the last moment, as if they had run into a wall.
Beyond the bottleneck was a small lower meadow that ran almost to the stony edge of the escarpment. The Mendelin Steps began here, level with Eldest Island, which split the river into two channels. The much narrower western channel descended in two falls, the first about one hundred feet high. The second, at the edge of the escarpment, plummeted twice that far into a cauldron of seething water at the Cataracts' foot. The stairs followed in two steep flights, separated by a level stretch at the foot of the first cataract. The entire gorge was about one hundred and fifty feet wide, and the steps forty. Tears-of-Silver trees overhung it on both sides.
Beyond the trees, beyond even the second, higher falls, the escarpment jutted out in a stony promontory over the plain. The Wolver crouched at its edge, the wind ruffling his fur. Torisen dismounted and went out on the bare cliff head to stand beside him. The others followed.
The great southern plain spread out nearly three hundred feet beneath them. Close to the curving cliff wall to the left, where the Silver bent southeastward in its course, grass and trees were green. Farther out to the south, the yellow marks of drought began. Farther still, and yet frighteningly close, the ground turned black. The blackness was moving. It crept forward ever so slowly, like a stain, sometimes breaking into individual dots but mostly coming in a solid mass that was miles wide and stretched back out of sight. Storm clouds followed it. All the sky to the far southwest was as black as night but shot with sudden forked tongues of lightning. Back under the shadow of the storm, the darkness on the ground sparkled with a million torches. The faintest growl of thunder, like a muttered threat, reached them there on the cliff despite the Cataracts' roar.
"Now that," said Brandan, "is moderately impressive. So what do we do about it?"
"Go home?" the Wolver suggested, without looking up.
"Tempting, but not practical. I think you were right, Torisen: that lot out there is a knife leveled at our throats. Best to meet it here."
"Yes, but what can we do?" Caineron sounded almost peevish. "A fine thing to drag us all this far and then shove that in our faces."
"As I see it," said Torisen slowly, "we have three chances to hold them . . ."
"On the stair," said Danior.
"In the lower meadow," said Korey of the Coman.
"At the first set of hurdles," said Essien and Essiar together.
Torisen smiled at this eager chorus. "Yes. If they get into the upper meadow, we'll probably be overrun. That, on the whole, would be unfortunate. Stepped, rubble-work barriers at the foot of each flight of stairs should help."
"I'll see to it," said Harn, and went off to do so.
Kirien had been staring out over the plain, frowning slightly. "Yes, but how long can we hold them in any event? There are so many. Of course, none of this falls within the scope of my studies, but it seems to me that if they simply keep coming, in the end we're all the dog's dinner."
"It would perhaps be better," murmured Randir, without looking at her, "if those without experience held their peace."
Oho, thought Torisen, glancing at them sideways. She's already gotten under her grand-uncle's elegant skin, and he hasn't even realized yet that she isn't his grand-nephew.
Ardeth had also been gazing out over the plain, wrapped in his own bleak thoughts. Now he turned to Randir. "My dear Kenan, surely you would make some allowance for an intelligent comment even from a novice—or was it the intelligence of this one that upset you? The lad is quite right: we can only hold them so long. Our sole hope, it seems to me, is somehow to turn them back or even aside. This escarpment runs a good five hundred miles in either direction. If they turn west, that puts them on Krothen's doorstep or, even better, on the Karnides'; if southeast, there's Nekrien. Even if I were three million strong, I wouldn't care to tackle the Witch-King in his own mountains— or anywhere else, for that matter. But the big question remains: how do we turn them?"
"Kill so many that they give up," said Danior.
"I doubt if the death of even a million would discourage them much," said Torisen. "Remember, the Horde is really a vast collection of tribes that have never done much before but chase and eat each other. If we knew what united them now, we could strike at that. I only hope we learn while fighting them, and learn in time."
Odalian had half-started at these words, and Torisen caught the sudden movement. When he turned, however, the Prince only gave him a bland smile. "These abstractions are rather beyond me. Perhaps, though, you would like to continue this discussion in the hospitality of my camp?"
"Go on ahead," Torisen said to the others. "I'll follow."
They went, leaving the Highlord and the Wolver in silence on the windy cliff, looking out over the plain, while Torisen's war-guard waited at a tactful distance.
"You've never commanded a really big battle before, have you?" the Wolver said at last.
"One this big? Nobody has. But, of course, you're right. I was only a one-hundred commander at Urakarn. After that, things were lively enough in the Southern Host, but we didn't tend toward pitched battles." He sighed. "It feels like a lifetime since we last sat in Krothen's guardroom, discussing the ethics of love and war."
"This is different," said the Wolver, still staring out. "This is real."
Torisen snorted. "You're telling me."
He half turned to leave, then paused, looking across at the island that split the Silver. The larger, higher cataract was beyond, filling the air with mist and thunder. The projecting cliff where he stood gave a glimpse of it, but even a better one of the island's head. Untold millennia ago, unknown hands had carved a giant face there. Its smooth forehead rose almost to the island's shaggy crown of trees. Its chin disappeared into the boiling cauldron of spray below. In all, it was more than three hundred feet high. Some claimed that the founders of Hurlen had been responsible for this too, that, in fact, it was the reason for Hurlen. Perhaps they had meant it to honor a king, perhaps a god. Ages of wind and water had left it characterless, ageless.
"Grimly, long ago, when we were talking about the Cataracts, you said that if we ever came this way together, you would show me something very old, very special."
The Wolver growled. "I must have been drunk."
"You were. Very. I wouldn't remind you now except—well, you can see what we're up against. If there's anything about this terrain that will give us the slightest edge, I want to know about it."
"I don't see how it can help." He rose and shook himself. "But all right."
They went back the way they had come, with the Wolver trotting beside Storm and the war-guard trailing along behind. Torisen wasn't really surprised when he saw that they were headed for the woods. Storm went about a hundred feet under the overlocking boughs before halting, stiff-legged. The Wolver seized his bridle. He drew his thumb slowly down the length of the stallion's face, turning the sharp nail inward at the last minute to draw a drop of blood, which he flicked to the ground. Storm tossed his head, snorting with indignation.
"Do you have to do that to me, too?" Torisen asked.
"And send you into battle tomorrow with a bandaged nose? Burr would never forgive me."
"You had better wait here," Torisen said to his guard.
They looked perturbed.
"My lord," said the oldest of them, "if we let you out of our sight, Harn Grip-Hard will nail our ears to the nearest tree."
"I think, on the whole, you had better wait."
"Yes, my lord," said the guard unhappily.
Torisen and the Wolver went farther in. It was an eerie place, full of leaf-filtered light and mist drifting between gray-trunked trees. Close as the Cataracts were, no sound of them penetrated here. Ferns dripped. Storm's hooves thudded on deep leaf mold. The bluff loomed ahead of them. Occasional breaks in the leaf cover gave glimpses of its wooded heights. Ahead stood a bare Host tree. As they approached, a swarm of pale green leaves fluttered down through the mist, golden veins flashing, and settled on its naked boughs. Beyond, the bluff scooped inward, whether by art or nature it was hard to tell. The resulting hollow was about one hundred feet across at its lower end and somewhat deeper than that. It had rather the shape of an egg with the opening at its smaller upper end. Ferns covered its floor. Mist roofed it.
The Wolver stopped, almost cowering, at the hollow's threshold. "This is the heart of the woods," he said. "This is sacred ground."
His voice woke the ghost of an echo in the hollow, as if other voices had caught his words and were whispering them from wall to wall.
"Strange, definitely strange," said Torisen. "But sacred to whom?"
"To the people of rock and stone, who built Hurlen and carved Eldest Island, who were masters here millennia before your ancestors came, before mine learned to walk like men. There's a legend that they used to bring their enemies here and . . . and shout them to death."
"How?"
"I have no idea. It's just an old story. There are a lot of stories about this place, some pretty grisly. There were terrible forces awake in Rathillien once—gods, demons, I don't know. None of our words seem to fit them. They still sleep in places like this." He crept backward, shivering. "Let's go, Tori. We don't belong here. No one does, now."
Torisen sighed. "I suppose not. Too bad. I'd hoped we could make some use of this place." He began to turn away, then suddenly spun back. "BOO!" he shouted at the top of his voice, into the hollow.
"Yawp!" squawked the Wolver, and shot five feet straight up into the air, coming down again in his complete furs.
The echoes of both their cries boomed from cliff wall to cliff wall, multiplying into a wild cacophony of shouts, fading again into silence one by one.
The Wolver cowered wild-eyed under the ferns, all his fur on end. "Gods, Tori, don't do that!"
"Sorry. Just testing."
"For what?"
"I don't know. Anything. But you were right: There's nothing for us here. Come on, let's go partake of Prince Odalian's hospitality. Maybe he can cheer us up some."
They went, but the last faint echo of their voices remained, murmuring from cliff to cliff, and some dirt dislodged from half-obscured carvings on their heights came rattling down.
"DO YOU REALIZE," said Jame, shifting to a more comfortable position on her sack of potatoes, "that it's only been about twenty-six days since we left Tai-tastigon? That was the third of Winter. We were in Peshtar on the seventh and eighth, in the Anarchies by the eleventh, and in Karkinaroth by the twelfth or thirteenth. That means we spent about fourteen days in the palace. Amazing. You still haven't told me how you passed the time."
Marc glanced up at her from the bales of fodder on which he was stretched full length, with Jorin curled up asleep beside him. For a moment, Jame was afraid he would point out that she hadn't told him much either.
At first, there hadn't been an opportunity. People last out of a palace that has just collapsed for no discernable reason are apt to be asked questions. Since neither Jame nor Marc had cared to answer and Lyra was in no shape to do so, they had hidden in the ornamental garden on the slope while citizens swarmed up to gape at the destruction. When the crowd was large enough, the four fugitives had quietly descended to the city under its cover and found a pleasant inn that would put them up for the rest of the night.
In the morning, Lyra talked incessantly; but the other two found that an odd reticence had seized them both, at least about their new relationship as Highborn and Kendar. They could discuss their current situation, however, and did. It seemed to both of them that they had better get to the Cataracts as quickly as possible. The best solution was a supply barge bound down the Tardy to Hurlen. Since the island city was stocking up for a possible siege if the Horde broke through, barges were leaving Karkinaroth's wharf every other hour. The three Kencyr had bought passage on one of these and were nearing the end of their journey now.
It had been a pleasant two days in some respects. The barge surged along, first through green fields, then between canyon walls, towed by its draft horses. Three were harnessed to it by cables on either side, massive, placid beasts trotting heavily along worn paths on either bank. The faster the river ran, the more vital they became as brakes. At regular intervals, they were changed—one at a time, still going at a trot—by relief riders from post stations. Roughly every two hours, the travelers met an empty barge being towed back upriver. When one came in sight, they could see the other bargemen scrambling to reach the nearest stanchion so that they could moor their tow cables high enough not to foul the descending horses.
Lyra had enjoyed every minute of the journey. She had recovered so quickly from Odalian's death that Jame at first wondered if the girl was half-witted. On consideration, though, she decided that Lyra had simply never been taught to think seriously about anything except, perhaps, marriage contracts. For the past two days, the girl had been running all over the barge like a flame in her tattered red shirt, getting into more trouble than seemed possible in such a confined space. The crew plainly couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw her overboard. At the moment, she was up in the bow, shying apples at the horses.
Jame wished she had Lyra's lightheartedness although not her terrible aim. The voyage was almost over. Soon she and Marc would probably be back in the thick of things with little opportunity to talk—and there were things they did need to discuss.
Now or never, she thought, and, as casually as she could, asked Marc about his stay in the palace.
"Fourteen days?" he repeated. "Odd. I was going to say that it felt like less than that, but thinking back, it felt like more too. Well, my lady, it was like this: I woke up in a peculiar room. Its floor didn't reach to the wall, and there was something down there in the pit that made an ungodly noise, like an idiot trying to curse."
The cage without bars, Jame thought, but didn't interrupt. Maybe, as he went on with his story, he would forget that he spoke to a Highborn.
"I don't know how long I was there," he said thoughtfully. "Time doesn't seem to behave properly without a sun or moon. All I know is that I got very hungry and thirsty. Jorin had tracked me there. The poor kitten sat in the doorway and cried until he could only squeak. I thought I would sleep a bit to scrape together some strength and then try to jump across to him, but when I woke up, he was curled up beside me. Someone had shoved a plank across the pit."
Bender, thought Jame, or perhaps even Tirandys. But still she said nothing.
"So we crossed. I shoved the plank into the pit out of sight just to give whoever put me there something to wonder about. Then we wandered around a good bit, don't ask me where. It was all so gray, so . . . dead. Eventually we got back into the palace and went looking for the temple. When we found it, I broke in." He hesitated, remembering. "All the priests and acolytes were there."
"You said, 'Dead, they're all dead,' " Jame burst out.
He stared at her. "Yes, I did, but how . . ."
"I heard you, or rather I heard what Jorin heard. Interesting." She bent over to stroke the ounce, who stretched luxuriously without opening his eyes. "I didn't realize the link could work that way. And were they?"
"Dead? Yes. Very. I'd say at a guess that they were shut in without food or water and, as they weakened, the power of the temple started to work on them. There wasn't much left by the time I got there. When I gave them the fire rites, they went up like dry straw. After that, the kitten and I wandered around some more, trying to pick up your scent. I think we crossed it a few times, but that damned house kept shifting. It was all very confusing. We did find the kitchens, though, and Lady Lyra. Eventually, that boy you call Graykin found us."
He fell silent. Jame looked down at her black gloved hands, gripped tightly together on her knees.
"It's never going to be the same again between us, is it?"
"No, lass. How could it?" Suddenly he rolled over and put his hand over hers. "Now, now, cheer up. It's just that we've got to strike a new balance—and we will, eventually. Just give it time."
Jame looked up with a tentative, almost shy smile.
Just then, Lyra darted back toward them, pointing to the north shore and crying out excitedly. The bank they had been running along beside dipped like a curtain falling away. Beyond was a meadow covered with bright tents, bustling with soldiers. The biggest tent of all, set in the midst of the others like a young palace all of gaudy silk, flew Prince Odalian's colors.
Now the tow horses were bracing themselves against the barge's pull. Water peeled in sheets off the sharp curve of the stern. Hurlen appeared ahead, its easternmost island set almost squarely at the mouth of the Tardy. Men waited on its wharf. The horses on either bank had reached the end of their paths, which ran down to the edge of the Silver. All six of them were practically sitting on their haunches, braced, while their riders paid out the ropes. Heavy as it was, the barge lurched in the current. If a rope snapped or a horse lost its footing, the craft might smash into the island or be carried past it down the Silver toward the Cataracts. They were fairly close to the island now. Bargees threw ropes attached to heavier mooring cables across to the wharf. The wharfsmen reeled them in against the current. A thud, a shout, and the voyage was over.
They arrived about midafternoon. Marc and Lyra had assumed that they would go straight on to the Host's camp, but Jame hesitated. From what she heard on the wharf, she knew that Tirandys was still impersonating the Prince, with no one apparently the wiser. In fact, he was entertaining the Kencyr lords in his camp at this minute. Had Graykin betrayed her? She had been uneasy about him from the start, but had assumed that because he had told Marc and Lyra about Odalian, he would also tell her brother. It occurred to her now, though, that Graykin had had to give Marc some explanation or the Kendar would never have let him leave the palace with Kin-Slayer. What explanation would have been better than the truth? But while Graykin had told Marc that she had asked him to warn the Highlord, he hadn't said that he would do it, just as he hadn't promised her.
On the other hand, though, even if Graykin had passed on both the news and the sword to her brother, Torisen probably wouldn't move against the changer until after the battle when he no longer needed the Karkinoran army. In that case, her sudden appearance might disrupt his plans, perhaps fatally. That was too big a risk to take. She suggested that they find lodgings in Hurlen for the night.
This proved rather difficult. Hurlen was generally considered impregnable once its bridges were up, and everyone within twenty miles had flocked there for sanctuary. The travelers did eventually find a room in the southernmost island's single tower. It was about large enough to swing Jorin in, if anyone had wanted to do such a thing, and was well above the masonry level. When the wind caught it right, the tower creaked in all its wooden joints and swayed a bit. One night's lodgings cost them all the money they had left as well as half the pearls off Lyra's bodice.
Several more gems bought them supper: bowls of almond fish stew, luce wafers, and salmon tart, washed down with a flask of river water guaranteed to have come from well upstream. Marc ate in the room itself while Jame and Lyra risked sitting crosslegged on the rickety balcony thirty feet above the Silver. Downriver about a quarter of a mile the rapids began. Just before them, the water rose in a gleaming ridge over the top of the boat-guard, a massive cable stretched across the Silver to stop the occasional runaway barge.
It was dusk by now. Watchfires sparkled on the west bank where the Host camped. Stars began to come out.
"It's still the dark of the moon," said Jame, looking up. "When Tori and I were children, we used to stay awake whole nights sometimes watching for the crescent to reappear. Our old tutor Anar told us that if ever it didn't, that would mean Perimal Darkling had swallowed the moon and all the stars would follow one by one."
"Soldiers say the same, with reason," said Marc. "It's happened before on other worlds, just before we lost them." He snorted. "A cheerful thought for the eve of battle."
"I'm tired," said Lyra. "Who gets the bed?"
There was only one, a straw pallet in the corner.
Jame laughed. "I'm going out to look around, so you two can fight for it. Just save a corner for Jorin."
Normally, the city raised its two drawbridges at dusk, but tonight both were still down as Hurlen offered to serve either camp in any way it could, for one last grab at the soldiers' gold. Very few came from the west shore, but the narrow, lower walks and bridges swarmed with Karkinorans.
Torches flared over rushing water. Bursts of raucous laughter erupted from small, crowded rooms and occasional sharp cries from dark corners. The smells of roast mutton and ale filled the air, but under these was another tang, sharp as sweat, heady as wine. So this was what it felt like, Jame thought, to go among men who knew that by tomorrow night they might be dead.
She and Jorin kept to the upper catwalks. Even up there, a few soldiers did accost them in Southron, which Jame barely understood, with intentions all too clear; but it was still early, and no one pressed the issue. For the most part, they were left alone, suspended above firelight and laughter like spectators at a play.
The stone walkways that connected the two mainland bridges were the closest thing that Hurlen had to a street. Jame and Jorin crossed it. The farther north they went, the richer and quieter Hurlen became. At its northernmost point was the island of Grand Hurlen where the city's upper class lived in a hive of rooms, towers, and twisting passageways so narrow that one practically had to turn sideways to get through. All the doors were shut now and the windows barred, although light shone through the cracks. Jame and Jorin threaded past them toward Grand Hurlen's center, where the island opened out into an earth-filled hollow about two hundred feet across. Grass grew there, and flowering shrubs and dwarf fruit trees, not that much could be seen of them now for the park was currently full of sheep, waiting to play their part in case of a siege.
Jame leaned against the stone rail. Above, stars shone brightly, but the absent moon seemed to say You may already have lost more than you know.
Could she lose what she had never really had: her people, her place, her brother? What if Tirandys won? He would still have to follow Master Gerridon's orders, but in his own devious way as he strove for his lord's ultimate downfall. She knew the quality of his mind and the strength of his will. Despite his handicaps, he would put up a good fight, better, perhaps, even than Torisen could, considering the enemy. Maybe it would be a good thing if he won, if she let him win . . . but no, of course not. That was only the darkness calling to her again, whispering that Tirandys already thought better of her than perhaps Torisen ever would. She wanted to belong, but certainly not at the cost of her brother's life. Anyway, if Tirandys did win and she fell into his hands again, he would probably either send her back to the Master or kill her; the latter, preferably.
Below, the flock had caught Jorin's scent and was milling about restlessly. Sheep, sheep . . . goat.
She didn't see how she could find out if Graykin had betrayed her short of asking Tori himself, but that wouldn't do. He would be surrounded by people now, including the false prince, and probably in no position to explain the sudden acquisition of a sister, much less one possessing such dangerous information. Assuming Graykin had reached him, though, there was no need for her to try until much later. But if he hadn't, what then? The principal thing was that the Highlord learn about Tirandys before the blood rites, assuming he and the changer got that far. If Graykin had betrayed her, it was to someone who now presumably knew this, too. Would any Kencyr stand by and watch Torisen doom himself in such a way? That should be unthinkable, and yet . . . and yet . . .
Lyra had been talking incessantly for two days. What she said usually had no more substance than puff-pastry, but a rather muddled version of Riverland politics had emerged. It was clear that, as far as Lyra was concerned, Daddy's enemy at the Cataracts wasn't the Horde but Torisen. Forgetting to whom she spoke (if, in fact, she had ever known), she gave Jame a highly partisan account of all Caineron's clashes with the upstart Highlord. My lord Caineron, Jame decided, sounded like a thoroughly nasty piece of work. Yes, but surely even he . . .
Around and around her thoughts went.
"Damn," she said suddenly, cutting them short. It wasn't just all the unknown factors that were muddling her. Running under everything like a scarlet thread was fear. One way or the other, soon she would see her brother again, after all these years, and the thought filled her with near panic.
Jorin had been standing on his hind legs, forepaws and chin on the rail beside her hands, his nose twitching at the smell of the livestock below. Now he raised his blind moon-opal eyes and gave a questioning chirp.
"All right, child, all right." She scratched him behind the ear. "I'm just being silly. Let's go get some sleep."
By now, the number of Karkinorans in Hurlen had grown, and so had the uproar. Men began to shout in the distance. As Jame and Jorin neared the crooked main street, the noise settled into a chant, one Southron word repeated over and over. Jame recognized it from its Easternese cognate.
"Highness!" the soldiers were shouting. "Highness!"
Down the street came the false Prince Odalian. Torisen was walking beside him.
Jame recoiled into the shadow of a tower. She had only seen her brother for a moment, but she remembered every detail. His dark hair, the set of his shoulders, the way he moved . . . it was all utterly strange, utterly familiar, like catching an unexpected glimpse of oneself in a mirror. Even that wry smile he shot at Odalian . . .
Torisen would never have given that look if Graykin had told him who and what his companion was. He didn't know. He didn't know.
Others followed the Prince and the Highlord, some Karkinoran nobles, some Kencyr Highborn. One of the latter caught Jame's eye because he was so much more richly dressed than the other lords and wore his finery so poorly. A thin figure darted out to him from the crowd, spoke a hasty word in his ear, and faded back among his retinue. It was Graykin. His restless eyes swept the street, the bridges, the catwalks, and met Jame's. For a moment, they stared at each other. Then he ducked away and disappeared down the street with the others.
Jame stood very still long enough to draw four or five deep breaths. She didn't know which Highborn Graykin had approached, but his intentions had been obvious. And now he knew she was in Hurlen.
"Just once, why can't we have a simple crisis?" she murmured to Jorin. "Stay close." They set off at a run for their lodgings.
GRAYKIN HAD BEEN in Hurlen for several days, waiting for the Host and wrestling with his conscience. His life had always had a single goal: to gain a real place in the Kencyrath. His Kencyr blood was responsible for that craving. His Southron mother, however, made it very unlikely that he would ever succeed. He knew that perfectly well, but hope refused to die. He had always scrambled for every crumb of encouragement his lord had let fall and probably always would, hating himself more and more.
That was a bitter thought, especially now. For the first time, someone had actually trusted him. Perhaps she had had very little choice, but she had still done it, and refused to call him that hated name. No one had ever offered him those scraps of self-respect before. He found himself savoring them again and again, before he remembered what must follow.
But it wasn't betrayal, he reminded himself fiercely. He hadn't given his word, so he owed her nothing. Graykin knew the forms of honor. In a sense, he owed his lord nothing either because "his lord" had never given Graykin the right to call him any such thing. Even a yondri would have had a better chance of eventual acceptance.
But perhaps things would change now. Torisen's sister had given him information that could give his patron great power, perhaps even make him Highlord. Surely that was worth something. Perhaps, finally, Graykin would be acknowledged.
So he waited his chance, spoke his word in Caineron's ear, and then saw Jame up on the catwalk.
Caineron's tent was close to the bridge that connected Hurlen with the west bank of the Silver. It was a huge affair with many internal compartments, rather like a canvas maze. Caineron led the way to his own quarters, poured himself some wine (without offering Graykin any), and sat down.
"This had better be good," he said, leaning back in his chair.
Graykin took a deep breath. Too late to back out now, he thought miserably, and told Caineron what had happened at Karkinaroth. When he finished, Caineron grunted.
"That's quite a story."
Graykin felt his pale face redden. "My lord, I'm not lying."
"To me? Not even you would be that big a fool." He considered, heavy eyelids lowered. "So, the little prince is an impostor, a changer, no less, and out for our fine Highlord's blood. All right. Let him have it. Then we'll see who pulls the strings, Gerridon or me. But a sister, now, that's very interesting. She could be extremely useful . . . in the right hands."
He considered this for a moment in silence, the corners of his thick lips slowly lifting. Graykin followed his thoughts without difficulty. What Caineron needed more than anything else was some blood claim on the Highlord's seat. This unknown Knorth girl mated to one of his sons could give him the grandchild he needed . . . or perhaps even a son.
Graykin had reasoned all this out long ago, much faster than Caineron, but he tried not to think about it. This was no time for qualms, not at these stakes. Graykin swallowed.
"Lord," he said, "if you want this girl, I can give her to you. She's here, in the city. I saw her not twenty minutes ago."
"Well, now." Caineron's eyes opened. "Well, now." He rose. "Then I had better go make her acquaintance. The sooner the better, eh? Meanwhile, you fetch that sword. Oh, and here," He threw a handful of coins on the table—barely enough, Graykin saw, to get him back to Karkinaroth. "You're worth every bit of it, Gricki."
"Please . . . don't call me that."
Caineron gave him a blank stare. "Why not? It's your name, isn't it?" He disappeared into the recesses of the tent without waiting for an answer.
Graykin stood there, swaying slightly, until a servant came in.
"You were thinking of spending the night? Out, you, and take your pay with you."
Blindly, Graykin scooped up the coins and left the tent. He couldn't seem to catch his breath. Caineron would never acknowledge him. He had let himself be used for years for no more reward than this, and he would never be offered a greater one.
He stood by the river in the dark, his quick mind sorting out new possibilities, killing old hopes. Then, because his wits and will were both stronger than his stomach, he hastily found a fair-sized bush and was violently ill behind it.
Four Kendar and a shorter man muffled in a cloak went past. Graykin easily recognized Caineron despite his disguise. As the five started across the bridge to Hurlen, Graykin slipped out of the shadows and followed them.
IT TOOK JAME AND JORIN nearly twenty minutes to get back to the room. Even the catwalks were crowded now. It began to remind Jame of Tai-tastigon during the Feast of Fools when all gods are mocked and nothing is counted a sin. Citizens were starting to shut and bar their doors. Many were probably beginning to regret that the bridges had been left down so late tonight.
Jame found Marc calmly polishing his war-axe by the light of a candle while Lyra slept on the pallet across from him.
"It's getting lively out there," he said tranquilly. "Not much discipline, these foreigners."
"Things may get worse fast. Listen, Marc: I want you to take Lyra to the Host's camp, to my brother. Now. Tell him about Odalian. Then you can return Lyra to her father, but not before."
"Oh, I doubt if any of the soldiers will bother us up here."
"It isn't the Karkinorans who worry me."
She told him about Graykin. He listened soberly, then sheathed his axe and rose.
"We'll go immediately. And you?"
"I'll be all right. Anyway, we have a better chance of warning Tori if we separate. And Marc, you'd better take Jorin."
He gave her a hard look this time, then shrugged and bent to wake Lyra. Long before Karkinaroth, he had realized that there were things in his friend's life that he couldn't understand and from which he couldn't protect her. Lyra woke and was herded, sleepily protesting, out the door. Marc paused on the threshold holding Jorin, who also didn't want to leave and was saying so, loudly.
"Lass, be careful."
"Aren't I always?"
He laughed and went out.
The room seemed suddenly very quiet, very empty, leaving Jame to wonder at the strong impulse that had made her send them all away. She could feel her blood stir as if before a fight; but if one came, it was hers, not Marc's or Jorin's. The fewer encumbrances now, the better. That included the Book. She had nearly lost it in Karkinaroth and didn't care to risk it again now. Best to hide it. She used the Ivory Knife to pry up some floorboards in the dark corner by the pallet. They came easily, their edges crumbling at the blade's cold touch. She put the knapsack into the hollow and fitted the boards back over it. There. The damned thing would take care of itself for a while. She slipped the Ivory Knife into her boot, hating its touch, but unwilling to give up so lethal a weapon. Hopefully, this crisis would be over before it ate through either the leather sheath or her leg.
Someone was climbing the stair. Several people. The only other way out was the door opening onto the decrepit balcony. Jame backed toward it, out of the candle's feeble sphere of light. Perhaps the soldiers had run out of sport on the lower stories. Perhaps . . .
A man stood in the doorway. He was muffled in a cloak, but something about his swaggering stance reminded Jame forcibly of the Highborn whom Graykin had approached in the street. She knew instinctively that this was an enemy.
"My lady of Knorth."
"My lord Caineron." It was a guess, but apparently the right one. "I wasn't expecting you quite so soon, much less in person."
"Now, would it have been courteous to send a servant for such a distinguished guest? As for finding you so quickly, I had a stroke of luck there. You see, I met my daughter Lyra and her escort on the bridge. You sent them right out into my arms, my dear. Lyra told me where to find you."
Jame hid her dismay. Damned if she would give this smug toad any more satisfaction than she had to. "A family reunion. How nice. And the escort?"
"Safe enough, although perhaps not very comfortable at the moment. One of my guards had to give him a clip on the head to make him more . . . cooperative."
Poor Marc. That was the fourth time he'd managed to get himself hit since they had left Tai-tastigon, "And the ounce?"
"Oh, I would never harm a royal gold, even a blind one. He will make an excellent addition to my cattery as breeding stock." Caineron stepped forward. Candlelight caught the gloat in his narrowed eyes.
Jame had involuntarily gone back a step, onto the balcony. Caineron stopped short in the middle of the room.
"Don't move, girl."
Now, what did the fool think she . .
The balcony sagged. Nails screeched in wood. For a moment, Jame balanced precariously, feeling her heart pound. Someone in the nearest tower cried out. It sounded like Graykin. Then one end of the structure tore loose, and she fell, thirty feet down into the river. The impact knocked the breath out of her. When she surfaced, gasping, Hurlen was already fifty feet away and rapidly receding. The swift current had her. From ahead came the sullen roar of the rapids, and beyond that, the Cataracts' boom.