Senrid

  They are all traitors!

  But you couldn’t kill an entire kingdom—oh yes you could—

  Tdanerend made a strangled noise of inarticulate rage, raised his hands and vanished, leaving Senrid alone with Leander’s silly stepsister, there on the city wall.

  FOUR

  Kitty sat on the polished black-marble steps below the awe-inspiring Marloven throne, her chin on her hands, her eyes burning with exhaustion, and thought about how weird life was.

  Nobody else was in that huge room. She was alone. Who would ever have thought she’d sit there, of all places, bored and tired and hungry?

  But she needed to rest her feet before she went spelunking through any more of this endless nightmare of a castle, searching for Senrid.

  Events had gone so quickly! She was trying to figure them out, from the time she’d turned to Senrid and said, “It’s over! He’s gone! You won!”

  “No,” he’d said back to her, absent, his spyglass already up at his eye. “No, it’s not over, he’s made a retreat. Listen! I’ve got to get downstairs before that mob smashes their way in and burns down the city looking for Uncle’s toadies to hack apart.” He’d frowned at her, then added, “Toadies who might come looking for me to hack apart. And you, if you’re here. Time for you to go back. Tell Keriam to get his people on patrol, lock down the city, and to send the civs back home.”

  Before she could protest, he’d transferred her!

  Suddenly there she was, standing in the snow in front of Keriam’s horse, where she fell down because of that nasty transfer magic. But she gave the message, and someone else thought to lead her horse to her or she’d probably still be out there wandering around.

  No, she thought, laughing to herself. It wasn’t a message, it was Senrid’s first command as king. And she’d been his…his herald?

  Uhnnn. She rubbed her eyes, her mind filled with visions from that afternoon. The crashing of weapons against shields, the cheers echoing back and forth across frozen fields. And then they were all in motion—all of them except her. People swarmed around her as she rode slowly toward the city gates: warriors dashing this way and that, knots of people riding forward and veering, or riding away, or marching grimly along the churned-up road. They all seemed to know what to do, or at least where they were going—all except her.

  She’d made her way through the gates, proceeding even more slowly as warriors galloped about, weapons drawn. The sun was setting; shadows made the streets more frightening than ever. A couple times she heard distant shouts, and the clang and crash of weapons, and her horse shied as Kitty tried to find another route. Three times she saw fresh bloodstains, twice in streets, and once right near the gate to the royal castle.

  But she’d ridden in anyway. Where else had she to go?

  Because the castle was huge, and no servants were about, she’d dismounted and let the horse go wherever it wanted to while she wandered grand hallways, all of which apparently led to this throne room.

  And here she sat, for what seemed forever.

  She sighed, feeling stiff and tired and sore. If only she could figure out where Senrid might be. She was afraid to go into the plainer halls lest she stumble onto that prison area, and they stick her in one of those millions of cells and forget about her. But she was so tired, and so hungry!

  Just as she was thinking that a young man dashed in, his tunic splattered with mud. “Who are you? Where are the runners?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I dunno,” Kitty said, ignoring his first question. She’d resigned herself to the fact that nobody in this barbaric kingdom had the slightest interest in Princess Kyale Marlonen of Vasande Leror.

  “Commanders Gherdred or Keriam?”

  Kitty spread her hands. The man frowned and dashed out—but with a shadow. He knew his way about, and if he was looking for Keriam, he might find Senrid there as well. And if he did, so would she.

  The man strode down torchlit side-halls for a surprisingly short distance, Kitty speeding behind. He paused before a carved wooden door with guards at either side.

  “Ambred of the West Wing to see either Gherdred or Keriam,” the man said to the guards, his voice echoing in the vaulted hallway.

  The door was opened, light slanted out. Kitty ghosted up behind as the man dashed inside. The guard almost shut the door in her face, and then—an obvious afterthought—let her in.

  Several older men stood in a semi-circle, all of them glittering with swords, and medals, and all the rank things. In their midst Senrid sat on the floor cross-legged, chin on his hands, elbows on knees, staring at a huge map he’d unrolled before him. Behind him, in a huge fireplace, a blaze gave off light and heat, and she realized that in addition to being hungry she was cold.

  All turned when the messenger strode in, his heels loud in the quiet room.

  He saluted, and said to one of the men, “Ambred, West Wing, ordered by Commander Waldeven to report directly to you: the Norsundrians are massing on the southern border.”

  Senrid said before anyone could speak, “Which end of the border? Darchelde? Or Methden?”

  “Darchelde.”

  Senrid scrambled to his feet. “I’ve got to go.”

  Keriam said, “Senrid, if—”

  Senrid said impatiently, “I’ll wager anything he went to Darchelde to hide out. He’s too angry to think. Yesterday he was ordering our own people to fight each other. If the Norsundrians are there, it means he’s in contact when them. If they offer him a command he’d hand off his soul for the chance to march against us and win, and then we’re all finished—including him. I’ve got to stop him from turning the entire Western cavalry and foot over to Norsunder!”

  Shock tightened faces, bodies, widened eyes. And nobody gainsaid him.

  He seemed to see Kitty for the first time. “You got that book of Fern’s?”

  She nodded.

  “We might need it as a bluff.” Two hasty steps; he paused only to grab his tunic and cloak. Then he was right next to her, and again the nasty visceral smear of a transfer.

  The transfer brought them into thorough darkness. Both of them smelled the sharp scents of decaying wood and old leaves on the frigid air.

  Aware of Kyale’s quick, frightened breathing next to him, Senrid squeezed her wrist warningly as he listened.

  Nothing.

  So he risked his first magic, and snapped up a fairly strong zaplight. Its blue glow revealed ugly, twisted trees and blasted growth of the magic-poisoned forest of Darchelde.

  “This is bad,” Senrid said in an undertone as he pulled on his tunic. Then he slung his cloak round him. “Worse than I thought. The old front gates were here—nothing left.”

  Kitty shuddered, grabbing hold of a warped, rough tree branch while she fought vertigo. “Where is this place?”

  “Family’s old lair,” Senrid said grimly. “From before we took the throne back. At least there isn’t much snow on the ground. Come on.”

  “Took the throne back,” Kitty repeated. “I suppose your family didn’t inherit it?”

  Senrid said, “Ever since the days of the first empire every change has been bloody. My family was no exception.”

  “Yeccch.” Kitty’s exclamation was soft, but no less heartfelt.

  “He’ll be holed up in the castle, if there’s anything left of it,” Senrid said. “Ah. There it is.”

  The trees had grown right up to cracked, mossy walls. Kitty looked up, saw the uneven roofline etched against the clear night sky. “No guards?”

  “What’s left of his personal guard will be inside. Most of them are dead. They never even knew he left, and I couldn’t stop—” He paused, shook his head. “Well, anyway, I’ll bet he sent some of them ahead to make the place ready as a fallback, which means they’re all inside plotting away. Come on, let’s get in there before the Norsundrians do.”

  But he didn’t lead the way toward the crumbled front gate. Kitty followed, stumbling over unseen tree roots and stones as they made their way
slowly to one side. Senrid kept pausing and looking intently about, but he didn’t make his light any brighter.

  He knew the floor plan of the old place—he’d studied it out of curiosity when he’d read the records of the last Montredaun-Ans to live there, for it had been used as a kind of glorified prison for recalcitrant princes a few generations back. He’d wondered if he might some day be incarcerated there.

  “Since you’re the new king—I mean, you will be—are you going to change your name?” Kitty asked.

  Senrid paused in his search and stared at her. “Why ever should I?”

  “Because—” She thought about all the changes she’d seen in him, and then thought of the things that hadn’t changed, and from there it was easy to think of all the things she didn’t understand. “Because you’re a fathead.”

  When in doubt, resort to insult. Those are safe enough.

  Senrid snorted. “What are you hinting at, Pluquerta?”

  That you really are a white but you don’t know it, she thought, but she’d never, ever, never-never-never say it, because she knew he’d do something horrid not to spite her, but to convince himself.

  “That I hope you’re not next on Norsunder’s list,” she muttered. “What’s a Pluquerta?”

  “Old Language. Means a short, loud, wretch. I looked it up just for you!”

  Kitty had to laugh in spite of the awful situation. Then she said, “Senrid, we’ve come this far. Why won’t you take that promise back?”

  “Because that’s not what you were hinting at.” He nudged her. “This way.”

  The doorway he’d sought was nearly overgrown with a particularly nasty prickle-bush of some sort. They squeezed past it, and into a dank-smelling hallway. The blue light showed mosses and fungi on what had once been surprisingly fine tiling.

  “Will things be all right back in Choreid Dhelerei?” she asked.

  “Yes. Keriam will keep the city locked down. The problem isn’t there, it’s here.” He sighed softly. “At least I have Keriam. I feared all this past month he’d be killed—that Tdanerend would find him out, and he’d be the first against the wall. Because he was the only one I trusted, ever since my father died.”

  Kitty opened her mouth—and something weird with glowing eyes and sharp teeth exploded from the web-hung darkness and ratcheted past them.

  Kitty began to shriek, but Senrid thumped her in the gut, and when her breath whooshed out, he clamped a dusty-smelling hand over her mouth.

  “No sound.”

  She shook her head.

  He lifted his hand away, and she whimpered, “I can’t go any farther.”

  “So you’ll go in that forest alone?”

  “N-no…”

  “It’s not far. Where’s that stubborn, obnoxious brat I relied on? I need you to bluff Tdanerend into thinking we’ve got—” Senrid faltered.

  “What? What is it?” Kitty looked around fearfully.

  His voice hardened. “Nothing.”

  He thought: Erdrael. And he saw it then, he was trapped between two sides. He wondered what Hibern had been told, when she dashed off to consult her powerful white mages. Did she know who had been watching him?

  At least Norsunder was unequivocal about the cost of their aid. The white magic powers might not say they owned you if they helped, but he was sure that they’d also demand allegiance, couched in sweet-sounding words like honor, duty, obligation. The records were full of reports of their self-serving platitudes in the treaties they’d forced on his ancestors. Talk about hypocrisy!

  Angrily he shoved past hanging webs and mossy, rotting hangings, and led the short way up a narrow curving stair to a gallery above a huge firelit room. He motioned Kitty down. They crawled forward on their hands and knees, peering through the carved stone railing.

  What they saw was a massive fireplace—big enough to ride a horse into. It opened onto the mighty room, its floor slate. At the fireplace end was a long stone table, the legs carved in stylized angles and curves resembling great raptor feet. Senrid and Kyale both felt, on seeing the reddish outline of those claws and the carved stone feathers sweeping back to support the table, as if they’d been cast back in time.

  It was only a momentary reaction, because they then saw the three men, all rendered small by the size of the room, and the table, and the long shadows stretching out from the fire to blend into the darkness beyond.

  Tdanerend stood directly before the fire, talking, a dark silhouette except for his gesturing hands, their tendons fire-outlined. Another man leaned against the table, maps rolled under his arm. The third stood before both, his aspect attentive, hand on his sword hilt. Kyale frowned, trying to hear the voices, but all she could make out were the sibilants.

  Senrid nudged her. “We’re too late,” he breathed.

  Kitty heard the slow, deliberate ring of heels on stone, and from the shadows emerged a man whose form was shrouded in a sweeping black cloak; firelight emphasized the hard bones of his face. It was Detlev.

  Tdanerend and his two liegemen fell silent.

  Detlev’s voice carried clearly. “Tdanerend Montredaun-An, your lack of resolution has nearly lost you a kingdom. You do want to reign, do you not?”

  “Reign,” Senrid repeated, barely audible. “Not rule. Does he hear that?”

  “Of course I want my kingdom.” Tdanerend’s voice was loud and harsh, much louder than the Norsundrian’s, but it didn’t carry the undertone of command. It was defensive, angry—impotent.

  “Then join us. Of your own free will. The benefits of the alliance will have you back on your throne by tomorrow.”

  “How do I know you’ll leave me here as king? That’s what I want, what I always wanted. I don’t want anything else, and I’ve heard what happens to those you take.”

  “You will stay. We need someone of ours here, especially now. But as for your kingship, there is the little matter of your nephew.”

  “He can be dealt with tomorrow.”

  “Why wait when it can be done much more successfully tonight?”

  The Norsundrian turned his head and looked up at the balcony; both kids could see in the fire’s glow the amusement narrowing the light hazel eyes.

  Kitty felt her throat constrict. Senrid lifted a fist and pounded it lightly on the stone. “Damn, damn, damn.” Then he breathed into her ear, “It’s a trap. Stay here.”

  He stood up, swung his legs over the stone railing, and jumped. Kitty, her cheek pressed against the stone floor of the balcony, heard his heels hit the stone, and then his characteristic quick walk.

  “Uncle Tdanerend, don’t be a fool. We can settle our own problems without his kind. We don’t need outsiders, who have their own objectives.” His voice sharpened with dislike, but Kitty heard how high his voice was, how boyish.

  Senrid heard it as well, wincing inwardly.

  “I heard what you were going to do,” Tdanerend snarled. “Put me on trial. Trial! I’d rather be shot. Was it revenge for not trying your little white-magic friends?”

  “It’s not revenge,” Senrid exclaimed. “I wanted to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. It’s Indevan’s Law. People want it. My father was right, I know he was right—that a king can’t be above the law, or we’ll never get past bloodbaths. Never.”

  The Norsundrian said, “Do you find this boy entertaining, Tdanerend? I do. But weak, I’m afraid, very weak. Surely this isn’t your influence?”

  Tdanerend’s frenzied gaze wrenched between Senrid and Detlev, his teeth showing in a rictus of fury, the fire’s reflection leaping in his wide eyes.

  “You can put me on trial,” Senrid offered. “Jarls as judges—and the regional Commanders. The king has to obey the law too—”

  “The only law,” Detlev said, “is power.”

  Senrid’s voice sharpened, high and trembling, “You’re full of—”

  The Norsundrian laughed.

  Senrid shut his mouth, knowing that to give in to his own temper was to lose; Detlev glanced ove
r his shoulder at the balcony and added, “Come on down, little girl! Haven’t we met before? Join us. Entertain us as well.”

  Senrid sucked in his breath. So they really could read minds, these Norsundrians? He’d been so sure it was nothing but some kind of trick to make them seem omniscient.

  Kitty yelled from the balcony, “I prefer the company up here. It’s less stinky.”

  The Norsundrian made a casual gesture, and black magic snapped, making Senrid’s hairs lift and his nose sting. Kitty stood before them, Fern’s book clutched to her, her hair briefly lifting, as though lightning had struck nearby. She staggered, then began screaming insults, until the Norsundrian reached out with casual strength and slapped her across the face.

  She wind-milled backward, smashing into the table and almost dropping her book.

  Tdanerend never gave her a second glance.

  The Norsundrian turned to Senrid. “Despite your weakness, you occasionally show a glimmer of potential. Yield now, and save yourself what will seem endless distress.”

  “Get lost.”

  “You’re a coward?”

  It took Senrid by surprise. He looked up, startled, and met the firelit gaze that seemed green now, green as spring and compelling as distant music once heard and barely remembered.

  Images flitted through his mind: his mother, a barely perceived presence, her voice rising and falling in song, the words… The words… Wasn’t there danger?

  In horror Kitty saw Senrid’s expression going blank and inward, and she knew what to do. Sucking in her breath, she shoved herself away from the table and smacked Senrid squarely from behind, with all her strength. They both tumbled onto the stone floor.

  Senrid rolled free and up in a single move, his vision swimming dizzily; Kitty wrestled with her skirts, then scrambled to her feet.

  They were too late.

  Tdanerend had already been caught.

  A trap within a trap. Despair made Senrid feel sick.