A Daughter of Kings, Part I

  Chapter XV

  “The High King”

  The carriage rolled on.

  “Kelorn is out there,” Alirah whispered again, feeling sick.

  “I’m sure he’s okay,” murmured Caeryl.

  “No you’re not!” cried Alirah. “We have to stop. Tell them to stop!”

  “We can’t stop!” insisted Caeryl. “Not until we’ve reached the citadel. Not with another riot starting up! Anyway you don’t know that there’s any reason to stop. Hopefully everyone’s just riding along with us.”

  Alirah doubted it, but she said nothing. She felt terribly guilty. Now that the chance to do so was gone, she cursed herself for not getting out of the carriage. What she hoped to have done once outside, she had no idea; but she burned with shame anyhow.

  For a few minutes they rolled along quietly. The grind of the wheels and the clop-clop of horses’ hooves could still be heard, but these noises now seemed tiny compared to the vanished roar of the crowd. At length Pala broke the silence with a whimper of pain.

  “Oh! Are you okay?” Caeryl rushed to her handmaiden’s side. Irelle already held the girl gently. To Alirah the three of them looked like one big shadow.

  “I… I’m bleeding,” stammered Pala.

  “I don’t think it’s bad,” said Irelle, quickly. “But it’s hard to tell in the dark.”

  “I’ll open the window,” said Alirah.

  “But Darion said...” began Caeryl.

  “I don’t care!” cried Alirah. Her body and her voice both shook with rage. Clambering over the half-seen legs and skirts of the others she reached one of the windows and flung the shutters open.

  Moonlight and lamplight poured into the carriage. Alirah saw Caeryl and Irelle huddled beside Pala on the seat across from her. Blood trickled down one side of the young handmaiden’s face, and also down the hand she held gingerly against the injury. The little gash which the rock had left did not look severe, but like any head wound it had bled a lot. A deep indentation in the wall of the carriage said she was lucky not to have been struck directly.

  In the moonlight the blood looked like an inky stain on the girl’s pale skin. Alirah smelled it as soon as she saw it. As she looked at Pala’s scared, hurting face, the fire of anger within her intensified.

  “Those… monsters!” she stammered. “Why… They could have killed her! Or any of us! They really could have killed anyone outside! How dare they?”

  Alirah did not really expect an answer, and nobody gave her one. The two handmaidens hung their heads in silence. They looked scared and vaguely ashamed, as if the attack were at least partially their fault. Only Caeryl seemed to share her wrath, and hers was a deeper, colder anger rather than a hot fury. After a few moments the Princess of Arandia spoke softly, as if to herself, but in an angry hiss.

  “You should not have been welcomed to Arandinar like this!”

  At that moment the heralds at the front of the convoy sounded their trumpets once more. This time they played no musical fanfare, but blew three quick blasts one after the other. The carriage slowed somewhat, but did not stop. From ahead and above, Alirah heard strong, masculine voices calling and responding. At the same time a booming, metallic clang rang out. The citadel’s great gates had opened to receive them.

  The carriage passed through the gates, then rolled on for a moment while other vehicles came through behind it, then finally slowed to a halt. Alirah heard a deep boom as the gates closed again. As if this were a long awaited signal, she, Caeryl, and the handmaidens all leapt up and scrambled for the door.

  Outside Alirah found herself at the center of a swarm of activity. The wagons had been drawn up in a wide courtyard between the citadel’s outer wall and its interior buildings. These structures loomed up huge and grand ahead, but she had no attention to spare for them yet. All around her legionnaires were dismounting. A few of them clutched wounds, and many more had blood on their armor or their swords. The drivers were tending to their horses with white faces and shaking hands. Somewhere a big, brazen bell tolled in alarm. Alirah heard sergeants barking out orders that echoed off the stone walls. Several companies of fresh soldiers from the citadel were marshalling nearby.

  In all that throng she did not immediately see Kelorn. Without a thought she leapt away from Caeryl and ran through the crowd, seeking him.

  “Kelorn!” she screamed. “Kelorn!”

  Her voice sang out over the din: one high, feminine cry above a tumult of men’s voices. Nobody answered her, though many people jumped in alarm or whirled toward her in surprise.

  Looking everywhere but right in front of her, Alirah almost ran headlong into Darion. He had dismounted and now held Eilach by the reins. He stared at the new companies of soldiers assembling as if debating whether or not to join them. He grinned when he saw her, but he still held his black sword out and ready. Blood fell drop by drop from its blade. Alirah shuddered and ran on.

  “Kelorn!”

  “I’m here!”

  She stopped short. Relief and joy struck her so hard that she felt dizzy. There he stood, alongside both Melyr and Tryll. He looked as pale and shaken as everyone else, but he did not seem to be injured. Weaving through the crowd she ran to his side.

  “I’m okay,” he began. “I…”

  She did not listen. She crashed into him and threw her arms around him and squeezed tight. All of a sudden she was sobbing. He was so startled that he froze for a few seconds. Then finally, too gently, he hugged her in return.

  “I thought you were dead,” she murmured into his shirt.

  “I wasn’t.”

  Through her tears she snorted. “Thanks. I can see that.”

  For a few moments she held him tight, letting herself float happily in warm relief. But she could not stop feeling his arms too lightly around her. She was sobbing and desperate, and he held her as carefully as he’d have held a five-year-old. She wanted to feel his strength, not his shyness. Horrible frustration and anger surged within her.

  “You’re not going to break me!” she hissed, suddenly. She felt him stiffen in surprise.

  “What?”

  “Hold me if you want to! You’re allowed! But don’t just… I mean… You’re not going to hurt me…”

  She faltered and trailed off. The words had burst forth unbidden. Too late she heard her feelings ringing clearly within them. Horrified, she pushed away from him. He stood very still, staring down at her with his arms still half upraised to encircle her shoulders. He looked alarmed, but not confused. He knew what she meant.

  For several seconds she stood there, poised and vulnerable, waiting for him to speak. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Then she could wait no longer.

  “I mean… I’m sorry… I don’t know what I mean,” she stammered. Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears. “I’m just glad you’re okay. What happened? We couldn’t see anything in the carriage.”

  “I… I guess… Everyone just went nuts,” he said, stammering in his turn. His gray eyes were still very wide.

  She forced a laugh. “Well I knew that.”

  He swallowed, then began to speak in a more normal voice. He looked just as relieved as she to have something else to talk about: to go on as if she hadn’t said anything unusual.

  “After whoever it was started throwing the rocks, a whole mob just ran at the convoy. Some went at the carriages and some went after the wagons further back. I think they realized the Verusan tribute was in there. But some people just looked like they’d gone crazy. You’d have thought they were rabid dogs who wanted to tear us all apart. They started grabbing at the legionnaires, and at me, trying to pull us down. Someone tried to pull Tryll away. I had to draw my sword and… cut him.”

  His voice caught with guilt and distress, but he grit his teeth and plowed on. “Then lots of the legionnaires started laying about with their swords, and that broke things up p
retty quickly. People fled every which way. But you could tell a lot of them were still angry. There’ll be rioting in the streets tonight.”

  At that moment Alirah heard someone sound a blast upon a brazen horn. The citadel’s gates swung open. The newly marshaled soldiers marched out with grim faces and drawn swords. Some of the soldiers who had escorted Caeryl from Verusa rushed ad hoc to join them. Altogether a force of nearly a thousand men went out into the city.

  Meanwhile liveried servants had rushed forth from the citadel to see to the wagons and their passengers. Caeryl stood at the center of a fussing whirlpool of attendants. Alirah saw Modrin and Darion speaking urgently with some of the legion commanders. Two elderly nurses had appeared from somewhere and were now guiding Pala away to tend to her injury.

  “Is she okay?” asked Kelorn, seeing the handmaiden. “What happened?”

  “One of the rocks flew in and hit her, but it bounced off the wall first. Luckily.” Alirah shook her head and stamped her foot in pent up fury. “It could have killed her!”

  For a while longer they stood there, momentarily forgotten amidst the flurry of activity. When her anger had subsided again, Alirah checked to make sure that Tryll and Melyr were okay. Then for the first time she let her gaze wander about the citadel, and she marveled at what she saw.

  The great outer wall enclosed a roughly circular space that was nearly a mile across. A wide area just inside gates was paved with smooth, gray stones. The convoy’s vehicles had been drawn up into a row there. Paved lanes ran from the gates to several outbuildings which stood nearby. In comparison to the central fortress, these buildings looked small and utilitarian, though in any other setting they’d have been grand. Alirah guessed they were stables, storehouses, and soldiers’ barracks, but all were built of stone and all of their roofs were sheathed in gold leaf. Green lawns bordered with ornamental trees separated these outbuildings from each other and from the citadel proper, which rose among them like a lion among housecats.

  The citadel flung out broad wings and rose in several levels like the terraced city below it. Each level was separated from the others by a crenellated wall of gray stone. The levels generally shrank as they rose, and they culminated in the grand hall which Alirah had glimpsed from afar. However, the levels were not all proportional to each other, and not quite concentric. In some places it looked like structures which had once been separate had been joined together by new stonework as the centuries had passed. Altogether Alirah thought the fortress had an organic look, as if it had grown a layer at a time rather than been built. She guessed that any number of courts, gardens, and secret places must be hidden among its many walls.

  By then most of the crowd which had assembled at the convoy’s arrival had disbursed. Darion and Modrin had both disappeared. Caeryl still stood nearby, along with Irelle, a few other young women in the livery of handmaidens, and other servants. She caught Alirah’s wandering gaze and gestured for her to approach.

  “There you are!” cried the Princess. “See, I told you he’d be okay.”

  Alirah managed a weak smile.

  “Now, I can’t wait to introduce you to my father and show you around,” Caeryl went on, “but that will have to wait until tomorrow. Your horses and your belongings will be seen to, of course, and you’ll be given the finest rooms in the guest wing. Irelle will show you the way there, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Yes, your Highness,” murmured the handmaiden, curtsying slightly.

  At the same time, before Alirah could say a word, several other servants leapt into action. Two men stepped forward to lead the horses away to the citadel’s massive stables. Others followed them to take charge of their gear. Alirah watched the servants in astonishment for a moment. Then the import of Caeryl’s other words came back to her and she looked around again abruptly.

  “Your father didn’t come to meet you?” she asked, turning back towards the Princess. “Or your mother either?”

  A look of pain flashed briefly across Caeryl’s face. Several of the servants drew in their breaths sharply, as if affronted. Alirah was bewildered, and afraid she’d committed some grave offence; but after a few seconds Caeryl only sighed.

  “Did I not tell you? My mother is dead.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry,” stammered Alirah.

  “It’s okay. It’s my fault. I’m used to people knowing ahead of time. My mother died just after I was born. I never really knew her. My father never remarried. He’s had several… companions… since then, but nobody that I’ve thought of as a mother, even while I was still little. Anyway my father would come down to meet me, I’m sure, but that’s just not how it’s done. The High King doesn’t come down to see new arrivals; they go up to see him. I’ll go up and present myself to him tonight, of course, and I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see me. I’m sure he’s waiting for me right now.”

  Alirah nodded, but at the same time she felt amazed. She could not imagine her own father sitting around, waiting for her to present herself to him when she finally returned home. She doubted she’d get within half a mile of the pana’s encampment before he and Nuara came running out through the grass.

  “It’s too late for you to go and see him tonight, of course,” continued Caeryl. “Or at least it will be after you’ve had a chance to eat and get cleaned up. Tomorrow I’ll present you to him. Both of you. But for now I should take my leave. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask the servants for it. You are both still my honored guests, and you shall want for nothing while you stay here!”

  With that Caeryl gave Kelorn a nod, and dropped a formal curtsey to Alirah as one princess to another. Kelorn bowed and Alirah did her best to imitate the curtsey. Then Caeryl strode off toward the high, arched doors of the citadel. The cluster of servants and attendants followed in her wake.

  Irelle remained behind. For a few moments she stood still and watched the Princess go, as if waiting for her to cover an appropriate amount of distance. Then she turned back to Alirah and Kelorn and dropped a mechanical curtsy of her own.

  “Your Highness, Milord, if you would please follow me…”

  She led them up the steps and through the gates. The citadel’s outer doors were made of five-inch-thick oak and bound with iron. Royal Guards flanked them, but they did not speak or move a muscle as Alirah and Kelorn passed through. Inside, Alirah found herself in a grand, brightly lit entrance hall into which three big corridors and two smaller passageways opened. Irelle lead them through one of the smaller doors.

  Quickly they climbed up a long, spiral stairway, strode down a corridor, and then climbed more stairs. Away from the entry hall the citadel was only dimly lit by lamps that flickered in wrought-iron sconces. Here and there narrow windows were flung open to let in cool air and a little moonlight, but they were too far apart for Alirah’s liking. She quickly began to feel as if she were being led not up but down, into some dark labyrinth far beneath the earth. She was relieved when Irelle finally stopped before an open doorway. An elderly steward in dark livery already stood waiting there. Irelle spoke to him in a low whisper for a moment, then turned back to Alirah.

  “These will be your rooms, your Highness.”

  Alirah stepped inside and looked around in wonder. Immediately inside the door there was a living area with a large redwood table and four matching chairs. An empty wardrobe stood against one wall with its doors opened as if waiting to be filled. Tryll’s saddlebags already lay atop a big ironbound chest beside the wardrobe. On the other side of the living area two openings led to other rooms. One of these was a small washroom with a gleaming copper tub and a stone washbasin. The other doorway led to a bedroom, with a huge four-poster bed and a full length mirror standing upright in an elegant frame. Flickering beeswax candles filled the room with a soft, cheery light, and fresh air streamed in through two narrow windows.

  “Food will be brought up shortly,” said Irelle. “
And there’s water in the tub for a bath. Tomorrow we will see about getting you some new clothes. Will there be anything else you need, your Highness? If not, I will show milord Druid to his rooms.”

  Alirah whirled. For the first time she realized what should have been obvious at once: only her own things had been placed in that suite, and there was only one bed. The rooms were obviously meant either for one person or for a couple that lived together.

  “You’re putting us in different rooms?” she asked, startled.

  Irelle looked confused. “Well, yes…”

  The elderly steward cleared his throat. “Lord Modrin had instructed that you would be staying in separate rooms, your Highness. Is that not correct?”

  He had a kind, grandfatherly voice. He obviously saw nothing sinister or unusual about the First Minister’s instructions. Alirah felt threatened, however. She already felt lost and vaguely trapped in that vast maze of stone.

  “Why can’t we stay in the same rooms?” she demanded.

  “I’m sure you can if you wish to, your Highness,” said the old man. “Those simply weren’t the instructions I received. Perhaps the First Minister did not realize you two were… together?”

  He looked quickly at Irelle, but the handmaiden was obviously at a loss herself. Alirah glared at them both for a moment, uncomprehending. Then her own eyes widened and she felt her cheeks start to burn. She and Kelorn had camped together in the wilderness, but they’d slept in separate rooms in Rusukhor and they’d slept separately with the Khor’dua. They’d only shared a room at Tarnvir because there weren’t enough to go around.

  “We’re not… I mean we’re…” Alirah stammered. At the same time her thoughts raced in protest. Modrin isn’t putting us in separate rooms for the sake of modesty! He’s making sure we’ll be alone at night! She looked desperately at Kelorn, but he would not meet her eyes. He only stared down at the floor half way in between them, somehow managing to look both red-faced and pale.

  Suddenly Alirah’s outburst in the courtyard rang again in her ears, and the distress she now saw upon his face added to her humiliation. Moments passed and she could not speak. At last Kelorn answered the steward in a soft, shaky voice.

  “It’s alright. Separate rooms are fine. Why don’t you show me where mine is. It isn’t far away, is it?”

  “Oh no, Milord,” said the steward, sounding relieved. “It’s right down the hall, of course.”

  Irelle waited for a moment, looking at Alirah for confirmation. When Alirah did not speak, she dropped a final curtsey and then she, Kelorn, and the steward continued on to Kelorn’s rooms. Red faced and miserable, Alirah followed them far enough to see that the young Druid’s suite was only a short distance away, although it did not adjoin her own. Then she retreated to her own rooms and shut and locked the door.

  Loneliness and exhaustion fell upon her like two leaden weights. Every day of the long journey now made itself felt all at once. At the same time, every exchange between her and Kelorn also replayed itself in her mind, all now cast in a harsh light. He doesn’t like me, he never has, a part of her wailed. Another part answered angrily, You don’t know that. And so what if he doesn’t? It’s his loss!

  In a daze she paced slowly around her room for a few minutes, then wandered at last over to one of the windows. Through the opening she looked out at the world as if upon a dreamscape.

  Her view leapt out and down across the great city, now glimmering with thousands of lights. In three different places she saw great swaths of angry red firelight. Thick plumes of smoke rose into the air, visible as black stains against an otherwise starry sky. A stiff breeze blowing down from the mountains drove most of the smoke away westward, but she could still detect a faint stench from the burning.

  The sight and smell of the fires distracted Alirah from her inward turmoil and reminded her of Bravny. She thought of the ruin there and the dead lying under their white shrouds. She then recalled the hundreds of soldiers who had marched out of the citadel, and she wondered what they meant to do. For the first time she felt pangs of worry and guilt as she imagined what price Arandinar’s people might pay for their riot. But then she recalled the blood on Pala’s face and the fear in her eyes, and guilt left her. At last, sighing heavily, she turned her back upon the window and began to unpack her things.

  That evening Alirah took a long, hot bath. She then ate a hearty dinner of roasted chicken, fresh bread, cheeses, and fruits, which an elderly servant brought to her upon a silver platter. Between the bath and the rich food she barely managed to undress and crawl into bed before she’d fallen fast asleep.

  The next morning she felt better, but the day which followed passed all too slowly. She could not stop worrying about her audience with the High King. Over and over again she told herself that she and Kelorn would be safe. Archandir did not know who she was; she was only being presented to him so that he could praise and honor her. All the same, she kept imagining the King laughing at them or bellowing in a rage. At his command guards would rush in to slay them, or else haul them away to rot forever in a dungeon somewhere. She wished, if she must go to see him, that she could get it over with at once; but that was not to be.

  Soon after she awoke a rap on the door announced the arrival of breakfast. The same old woman who had brought dinner now delivered a generous helping of porridge with cream, honey, and summer fruit. With an appetite whetted by nerves Alirah devoured every scrap of it. Shortly after breakfast Irelle returned. At first Alirah was both relieved and terrified. She thought she’d be summoned to face the King then and there, but the handmaiden explained that she’d have to wait a good while yet.

  “The King holds his audiences in the afternoon,” said Irelle, “and Princess Caeryl will present you to him last, in the place of honor. It’ll probably be this evening before you go to see him. That’s lucky, because it gives us time to find you both some decent clothes to wear. Imagine if you’d had to go see the High King dressed like that.”

  Alirah looked ruefully down at her homespun skirt and top. She hadn’t worn the garments much on her journey, so they were in reasonably good shape compared to her riding clothes. Aside from not being new, they were as nice as anything she’d ever owned. She wondered how Irelle thought the Princess of the Kwi’Kiri dressed in her tent out on the grasslands.

  Before she could ask a seamstress arrived. Alirah stood awkwardly, a little excited and a little offended, as she was measured for the first time in her life. When Irelle and the seamstress left they took Alirah’s own clothes with them to be washed and mended. For well over an hour Alirah sat around in a soft white robe, hoping that Kelorn would not choose that moment to come in and check on her.

  When Irelle and the seamstress finally returned Alirah was amazed. She had expected to be given an outfit to wear. Instead the women brought a whole wardrobe’s worth of clothes. The seamstress presented her with three elegant dresses. They were long and full-skirted like those which Caeryl always seemed to wear, and almost as luxurious. Each of the dresses had a pair of delicate, slipper-like shoes to match it. The seamstress also gave her a few more ordinary dresses, shirts, and skirts, some pants, and a pair of shiny new boots. Then at last she and Irelle took their leave, telling Alirah to make herself ready to see the High King.

  Alirah guessed that she was supposed to put on one of the dresses. She tried them on one by one, and a part of her loved them. They fit her well, and she’d never worn anything half so soft and shimmery. She twirled playfully before her mirror in each of them, feeling beautiful. However, if she was to stand before Archandir, the Tyrant King who ruled where her father should have, who took tribute from the starving, and who made people disappear, she wasn’t going to it in a big, pretty dress.

  At last she decided upon a plain shirt and a skirt which fell a little below her knees. The garments were fine and soft, but their fabric was sturdy. In them she felt as if she
were wearing real clothes, rather than a pretty costume which had been chosen for her. She did put on the little garnet necklace that Seilann had given her, however; and she made sure Kaya’s ribbon was clean and artfully tied in her hair.

  She had just finished putting on her new boots, when yet another knock sounded upon her door. Irelle had returned, and this time Kelorn was with her.

  The young Druid looked completely different. He’d cleaned himself up, combed his hair, and shaved more carefully than he’d done during their long journey. His shabby, baggy clothes had been replaced by new pants and a long tunic of fine, soft fabric which fit him well. Over them he wore his green Druid’s cloak again, pinned at his shoulder with its silver clasp. His sword hung proudly at his side. Alirah thought he looked older, in a good way. She could not help but gaze at him shyly even as Irelle dropped a deep curtsey and spoke in a clear, formal voice.

  “Caeryl, daughter of Caerwyn, Lady of Arandyr and Princess of the Five Kingdoms of Arandia, requests that Alirah daughter of Lihaya, Princess of the Kwi’Kiri, join her before the Throne Room, so that she may present her to His Majesty the High King.”

  Alirah blinked. She had no idea what a proper reply would be. She dropped an awkward curtsy of her own.

  “Um… Okay.”

  A snort of laughter burst out of Kelorn. Irelle herself tried and failed to hide a smile.

  “What?” demanded Alirah, glaring at the young Druid.

  “Very eloquent.”

  “Oh, and I’m sure you did better! Did you say something like that to him?” she asked Irelle.

  “She did,” Kelorn answered for her.

  “And?”

  The young Druid grimaced but said nothing. After a moment Irelle lost the struggle against her smile and spoke with amusement. “He asked if I was sure that Princess Caeryl wanted him there. If I was sure he had to go.”

  Kelorn blushed. Alirah’s laughter died on her lips. The young Druid looked scared, and distinctly self-conscious in his fine clothes. Despite all of her distress the previous night, all of the hurt and confusion of her thoughts, she felt a surge of tender protectiveness as she gazed at him now. How must he feel? She wondered. He doesn’t even like having to talk to ordinary people.

  “Don’t be nervous, you look good,” she assured him. She forced out a bright smile. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  He did not look convinced, but he smiled wanly.

  “Are you ready? Is that what you’re wearing?” asked Irelle, arching an eyebrow at Alirah’s simple clothing.

  “Just about,” she said, ignoring the look. She nodded toward Kelorn’s sword. “Are you going to wear that, then? Do people wear swords around the palace? Even going to see the King?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “You wouldn’t wear a sword to a party or something like that, but to be formally presented to the High King a knight or a lord would wear their sword to mark their station. So would a Druid. Archandir himself wears a blade more often than not when he holds court.”

  “Oh. Well, then I’m wearing mine too.”

  Alirah darted back into her bedroom, snatched up the old blade, and belted it on over her skirt. She rejoined Kelorn and Irelle in the living area, smiling at the young Druid’s frown.

  “The Princess of the Kwi’Kiri wears her sword to mark her station,” she declared. “And anyway I don’t like the thought of just leaving it sitting here.”

  After that Irelle led them from the room. They walked along several corridors, and down several flights of stairs, both spiraling and straight. Soon Alirah found herself just as bewildered as she’d been the night before: lost in a stone world with no landmarks and too little daylight. She could tell that they went more down than up, however. She guessed correctly that they were not headed toward the high, crowning hall she had glimpsed from outside, but to some older and lower place, deep in the heart of the citadel.

  Descending a final, straight stair, they emerged onto a broad landing. Two other large passageways converged upon the landing from the right and left, but the only way forward was through a pair of iron doors set in a thick stone wall. The outer face of each door had been intricately carved in the likeness of a legionnaire in full armor, with his sword in one hand and his big shield upraised in the other. Two Royal Guards stood beside the doors, looking just as if those carvings had copied themselves and sprung to life.

  Princess Caeryl stood waiting upon the landing, along with Pala and one other handmaiden whom Alirah did not recognize. A small, red gash marked the spot where the stone had hit the side of Pala’s head, but otherwise she looked refreshed and happy. Both handmaidens wore their usual pale gray, while the Princess herself wore a beautiful gown even more magnificent than those she’d travelled in. A white-gold tiara glittered amidst her dark tresses, which had been carefully arranged in elegant braids.

  A middle-aged man stood beside the three young women. He kept himself a few paces away from them and had the demeanor of an attendant, although he wore fine, dark clothes rather than a servant’s light gray. He wore a gold medallion over his tunic as if it were a badge of office. Alirah guessed that he was the citadel’s chief steward.

  For a split second Caeryl frowned at the sight of Alirah’s humble outfit, but then her face lit up with delight.

  “Oh that’s perfect!” she cried. “That’s just how father should see you. It’s so much easier to see how brave and capable you are when you don’t look like a princess.”

  “Um… thanks?” said Alirah uncertainly.

  “Shall we go in then?” asked Caeryl. “Are you ready?”

  Alirah glanced at Kelorn, who glanced back at her looking terrified. She felt a thrill of fear herself, but she managed to smile and speak in an almost normal voice.

  “Sure.”

  Caeryl nodded to the steward. He snapped to attention like a recruit before a drill sergeant. He gestured first to the two soldiers, who thrust open the doors. He then strode into the room beyond, bowed deeply, and announced Caeryl, Alirah, and Kelorn in a proud, echoing voice. He introduced Caeryl as her Royal Highness, along with several other titles, and Alirah as daughter of Lihaya, Princess of the Kwi’Kiri. He dubbed Kelorn a Warrior of Illana’s Light.

  Caeryl waited a few heartbeats, then nodded to Alirah. With a graceful sweep of her skirts she followed the steward through the doorway. Alirah hastened after her, feeling at once grand and terrified.

  She stepped into a vast hall, at least ten times the size of any other room she’d ever set foot in. Two rows of granite columns ran down the sides of the hall, rising up and joining together to support a high, vaulted ceiling. Afternoon sunlight streamed in visible shafts through narrow, arched windows set high upon the walls. Below the windows, the walls had been carved in intricate relief murals. Alirah thought all of the murals depicted one long story, or vast sweep of history. She saw a great multitude of people wandering in the wilderness, then rising up in war against forces of darkness. Scenes of violence and fear gave way to scenes of triumph, and lastly to the image of a king enthroned.

  At the far end of the hall, the floor rose in a two-tiered dais. A number of men and women stood clustered at the feet of its lower tier. All of them shone with wealth, and Alirah guessed they must all belong to Arandia’s nobility. All of the men wore long, fine tunics and pants of rich cloth. All the women wore beautiful dresses that fell to the floor. Rings glittered upon many fingers. Tiny jewels dangled from the women’s earlobes and sparkled about their smooth throats.

  Yet even that crowd had swiftly parted at the steward’s announcement, leaving a clear path between the door and the dais. As Caeryl strode among them, all the men bowed and all of the women curtseyed deeply. Alirah glanced at them with wide eyes as she followed in the Princess’ wake. She caught a number of them staring back at her with expressions of wary curiosity.

  Lord Modrin stood upon the broad, lower tier of the da
is. He bore his dark staff in his hand. Several others stood there with him, or else sat upon cushioned chairs. All of these were men except for one middle-aged woman, who stood out for her gender and for the plainness of her attire. She wore no jewelry, and was clad only in simple robe of dark gray cloth. Her hair hung about her shoulders in golden wavelets. The woman’s eyes were bright blue, and keen. They locked onto Alirah as she approached the dais. Alirah met her gaze for a moment, but then looked away, disconcerted.

  On the higher tier of the dais the High King sat upon a throne of gleaming marble. From her father’s stories, Alirah knew Archandir must be about fifty-five years old, but she thought he looked older than that. His face was red, flabby and lined by the years. His hair and beard, both shorn close like a soldier’s, were all silver-gray. He was taller than his cousin Ethyrin, and heavier with both a warrior’s muscle and a glutton’s fat. He wore black garments trimmed with gold. A magnificent golden sword hung at his side, and a golden crown set with sapphires and diamonds lay upon his brow.

  An empty chair, grand and luxurious in its own right but dwarfed by the throne, sat upon Archandir’s right hand. Alirah guessed it was intended for Caeryl. Darion stood upon the King’s left hand. He was the only person to stand upon the higher tier of the dais besides the King, though he hung back several paces in deference. Caeryl hesitated visibly when she saw him standing there, as if startled, but then quickly continued on her way. She came to a halt a few feet before the dais and waited while Alirah came up behind her.

  “I will go and join my father,” she whispered. “You and your friend stay here for a moment. He will address you.”

  With that she turned back to the dais and dropped a deep curtsey toward her father. Then with a slow, practiced grace she gathered up her skirts, climbed upon the dais, and sat down in the empty chair that was waiting for her.

  For a long, dreadful moment Alirah stood alone before the dais. She tried to hold her head high, but there were too many people staring at her. Only a few, like Modrin, glared with outright hostility, but most of the rest of the crowd gave her cold, appraising looks. She was relieved when the King finally spoke, gesturing toward her with a beefy hand.

  “Come closer! Come closer, my Dear! Let us have a look at you!”

  Archandir’s baritone voice boomed out to fill the great hall. While his attention was focused upon Alirah, it was obvious that he considered the whole crowd to be his audience. Timidly Alirah stepped forward, so that she stood just before the lower tier of the dais.

  “So you’re the young lady my Daughter has been telling me so much about,” said the King. “She spoke to me of your bravery, but she said nothing about your beauty.”

  Alirah blushed like a rose. His words might have been mere courtesy. They might have been the kind of casual, poetic compliment that any old man might give to a young girl in passing. But Alirah thought she heard the faintest of snickers behind her, and Caeryl turned red. It took her a moment to manage a soft, wavering “thank you,” in reply.

  “My Daughter has told me what you did,” the King went on. “I won’t distress her, or lower the dignity of this hall, by repeating her full story here. But she told me how you came to her rescue. How you stood, all alone, against four Verusan savages who had her in their dirty hands!”

  “I did,” said Alirah, struggling make her voice firm. “Though I must say, I don’t think they were all Verusans, and I don’t know that I would have succeeded…”

  “Bah!” cried Archandir. “What of that? To stand up and fight is what counts! Is the warrior who falls, fighting for his homeland, less worthy of honor than one who triumphs? And my Daughter told me everything. You triumphed when it counted, my Dear. You deserve to be honored, and you deserve to be rewarded. And you shall be. But first… But first…”

  Suddenly the High King trailed off. Red fury seemed to surge up and choke off his voice. For a few seconds he sat there, scarcely moving but visibly agitated. Then with convulsive suddenness he shot up from his throne.

  Tension shot through the room. The few whispered conversations that had arisen behind Alirah’s back ceased immediately. Even Caeryl looked nervous, and Alirah herself stiffened in terror. Despite his friendly words the minute before, she felt certain that the King’s sudden fury was meant for her.

  He knows! she thought, panicked. Somehow he knows!

  Stiffly and ponderously, Archandir climbed down from the dais. He looked like a great bear roused too early from his long sleep. At first he gazed at Alirah, and she withered under his stare. But he then strode past her and his eyes darted out among the many faces in the crowd. All of the assembled courtiers, and Kelorn, drew back before him as if repulsed by a magnet. Alirah wanted to edge away with them, or even sprint for the door; but she was too scared to move. Soon she found herself alone with the High King amidst a rough circle of onlookers. When he spoke again he addressed the crowd more than he did her, but his voice rang with growling menace.

  “Before I may speak of rewards, of honor, of the joy of my Daughter’s safe return, I must speak of less pleasant things. I must speak of her reception into our realm, into our Golden City, that on some other day I would have called great. It is not great today.”

  “My Daughter returns home after more than a month in the wretched southlands,” he continued, glaring at the courtiers in turn. “She brings with her a royal guest worthy of Arandia’s honor and esteem. And how is she welcomed? How is my own Daughter welcomed? With violence and traitorous assault! To say nothing of the rudest and vilest insults!”

  “You were there in the carriage,” he said, whirling back to face Alirah. “What do you think of your reception here? What do you think of our fine citizenry?”

  Alirah hesitated. She could breathe again, her crushing terror had receded when she’d realized what he was angry about; but a new unease had replaced it. All at once she knew she’d become a puppet in some dark drama unfolding between the High King and his court. She did not understand what was happening, or what was expected of her.

  “I…What do I think of them?” she stammered at last. “You mean, the ones throwing the rocks?”

  Archandir smirked. “Yes, the ones throwing the rocks. My Daughter tells me how you felt in the carriage, at least. She says you were furious, not afraid. At least not for yourself. My Daughter tells me how you cared only for your companion. How you would have rushed out to his rescue like some warrior-princess in the savage youth of the world!”

  Alirah blushed. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Kelorn, white as a sheet, but now looking at her with such exasperation that she had to stop herself from grinning.

  “Well, of course I was scared,” she exclaimed. “But I was angry too. Of course I was angry. They hurt Pala! And they could have killed any of us in that carriage, to say nothing of the people outside! They… Was anyone killed? Among the soldiers, I mean?”

  The question struck her suddenly. With it the nightmarish noise of the crowd, the darkness, and the smell of the blood came back to her. She knew the answer to her question before the King spoke.

  “Three sons of Arandia are dead,” he said gravely. “Several others are missing and presumed dead. And a number of citizens were hurt or killed in the rioting, of course. Some of them were no doubt traitors, at least at heart, and got what they deserved. But others were true Arandians foully murdered.”

  “Oh…” said Alirah. “I’m sorry.”

  Archandir smiled sadly. “So am I, my Dear. So am I.”

  Suddenly he turned back to address his court and began to pace again in agitation. His voice grew louder and angrier.

  “Is this what Arandia has become? Is this what her sons on the frontier fight and die for? A slip of a girl from the western lands will stand up to defend us, will grieve for our dead, while so many who dare call themselves Arandians will not do so. It is not Alirah of the K
wi’Kiri who should be sorry, it’s the scum who attacked us, attacked my loyal soldiers and my own Daughter… My own Daughter!… It’s they who should be sorry! It’s they who will be sorry! And even more so, it’s those who stand behind them in the shadows, poisoning their minds against their country and their king! Traitors and filth! They…”

  Suddenly, just as Archandir’s voice rose to a thunderous peak of rage, it broke into horrible, wet coughs. The coughs echoed loudly through the great hall and wracked the King’s beefy frame until he’d almost doubled over. For many long seconds he stood there hacking into a silken handkerchief which he’d snatched from a pocket. Meanwhile his courtiers and councilors remained utterly still. Most averted their eyes, but none of them looked surprised by the coughing fit. Alirah remembered Modrin’s words at Tarnvir, scarcely heeded at the time. Archandir was very sick.

  Finally the coughs subsided. Though still purple with fury and want of air, Archandir managed to straighten up and compose himself. When he pulled the handkerchief away from his mouth and stuffed it back into his pocket, Alirah saw that it was stained crimson.

  “Should they not be punished?” the King asked at last, his voice now hoarse. He turned back to look directly at Alirah.

  “I… Yes, of course they should,” said Alirah. After his tirade she would not have dared to say no; but at that moment, remembering Pala’s injury and her own terror in the carriage, she agreed with him.

  The King grinned horribly. “I do too.”

  Suddenly he strode back up to the dais. He climbed up more quickly than he’d come down, as if despite the coughing fit he was now freshly invigorated. As he ascended to his throne he raised up one hand in a quick gesture. Alirah sensed movement in the back of the throne room, behind the dais. A door opened, and a strange, harsh clattering arose outside the room.

  Suddenly Gerrick and Drennar burst into view, leading a number of Royal Guards, who were grim faced and resplendent in their full armor. Modrin’s bodyguards looked like slovenly thugs in comparison, but they grinned haughtily. As the group marched around the dais the crowd of courtiers drew even further back with gasps and stifled cries. Alirah finally darted away herself, flying instinctively to Kelorn’s side.

  Seven other men marched among the warriors. They wore a hodgepodge of ordinary clothes, but all of their garments were torn and stained with blood and grime. The men themselves were covered in livid cuts and big, splotchy bruises. Heavy shackles bound them and a long chain ran from one to the next, so that they had to move together in a horrid line. Five of the men stared fixedly at the floor, as if determined not to express any emotion. But the sixth, a old man with thin white hair, looked around without appearing to see anything. He mumbled continuously and incoherently to himself.

  Most terrible of all to Alirah was the seventh man. He was hardly more than a boy, really, no older than she was. He wore the remains of a baker’s outfit, with a floury apron still loosely tied on. His huge eyes sought desperately to meet those of anyone in the crowd, but they sought in vain. Archandir ignored him and everyone else looked away with horror or disgust.

  “Here are those who would have hurt you, oh Princess Alirah,” cried the High King. “Here are those who would have harmed my Daughter and robbed our nation of its tribute, the rightful due of Verusa for the blood and sacrifice of our brave soldiers!”

  “I didn’t do anything,” cried the baker’s boy suddenly. “It wasn’t me who threw the rock, it was…”

  “Shut up, you!”

  Gerrick lunged forward and punched the boy in the face. The boy reeled and would have fallen if two of the other prisoners had not caught hold of him. Archandir did not react to the outburst at all. His gaze flitted searchingly among his courtiers.

  “These are seven who attacked us. But they are not all, of course. They are not even all of the ring-leaders who started the riot. But all of them will be found. All of them will pay! Any man who raises a hand against my Daughter will die! Anyone who praises or supports them will die!”

  The King’s voice broke again into another fit of coughs, though this time not as severe. Amidst wet, tearing hacks he addressed his First Minister. “See to it personally… Modrin! Wring every bit of… information… out of this trash! Find their comrades. Find who put them up to it! They will all die! All of them… Hang them in the Fountain Court for all to see!”

  “It will be done, your Majesty,” said Modrin, bowing smoothly. He nodded to Gerrick and Drennar. The two men immediately began to turn the prisoners around and march them back out of the room. As he was shoved along, sobbing, the baker’s boy let out one final cry.

  “No! Please! I didn’t do anything…”

  Archandir gave a negligent flick of his wrist. Quick as lightning Gerrick pulled a dagger from his belt. Before Alirah could scream, he raised the weapon on high and slammed it down, pommel first, onto the boy’s head. A sickening crack resounded through the grand hall. The boy’s voice broke. He crumpled to the floor and lay there, utterly still.

  Alirah gaped at him in horror. She felt as if she’d been struck herself. Her head spun and her stomach suddenly churned. In her thoughts she screamed.

  He’s not unconscious, he’s dead! They killed him!