The Children of Kings

  As if in answer to his thought, a figure emerged from behind one of the buildings, dragging another. Gareth called out. The figure straightened up and turned toward him.

  It was Rahelle.

  For a moment, Gareth didn’t recognize her beneath the cloth covering her nose and mouth. He ran up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her, dislodging the cloth. He found himself shouting at her, barely coherent accusations, demands for explanation, words jumbled with relief and fury.

  She made no attempt at a reply, but hung there in his grasp, trembling. Her lack of resistance at first fueled his outrage, then extinguished it. He saw the wetness shining on her cheeks, and all anger fled. What had happened here was not her fault.

  Rahelle pulled away. He had not the strength to hold her.

  She could have been one of those bodies in the center of the village. If anything had happened to her. . . .

  “Is there anyone else a-alive?” he stammered.

  She shot him a quick, hard look. “They’re just outside the village perimeter. The smoke’s not so bad there.” Her voice had a husky quality, most likely from the smoke.

  “Who—” he broke off at a spasm of tickling in his throat and pointed toward the pile of bodies.

  “Some of them are human, yes, but not all. One of our horses is there, your mare, I’m afraid. She panicked and ran into the path of an off-worlder weapon. Her body was too heavy to shift, so I left her. The others ran off with the oudrakhi.”

  You’ve done all this by yourself? His throat closed up around the words. He glanced down at the body she’d been dragging, a woman.

  Rahelle stooped to lay one hand on the woman’s chest. “She’s still breathing. I think she’s the wife of one of the headman’s sons.”

  Gareth picked the woman up, slipping her slender form across his shoulders. Rahelle led the way past a few smoldering huts.

  Dawn and lingering smoke turned the air into a luminous haze. It would have been beautiful except for the circumstances.

  The survivors huddled together, Cuinn at their center. The headman looked dazed. A hugely swollen lump, blackened and oozing blood, marked one side of his forehead. No one made a sound as Gareth and Rahelle approached. Mothers clutched their children to their breasts. Soot streaked their faces and clothing. Their eyes had a glazed expression of incomprehension. An older man took the unconscious woman from Gareth’s arms and sank to the sandy ground, cradling her and stroking her hair. Then several of the babies burst out crying.

  Gareth stood for a moment, torn between gratitude that this many villagers had survived and impatience at their near-stupor. Someone had to see that the wounded were properly tended. Something broke open in him, a dam giving way, and he fired off a string of orders. He sent the younger men back into the village to search for anyone else still alive, to begin salvaging what they could—food, implements, clothing—and others to fetch water and anything that could be used as bandages.

  Staying alive through the next few days would be the easy part. He didn’t think Poulos would come back, unless it was to search for him. Even so, the villagers couldn’t stay here. They’d lost too much and were too few to rebuild a community, even supposing they could recover their livestock. But without horses or oudrakhi, the trek to the next village would be perilous. He wished he knew more about survival in the desert. If it hadn’t been for Adahab, he’d never have reached Nuriya.

  Adahab had promised to return in five days, now four. . . . There was hope, after all.

  Meanwhile, Rahelle went to each of the remaining villagers and gently questioned them about where and how badly they were hurt. The grandmother who’d served as village healer had perished, and the woman Gareth had carried died before regaining consciousness. Two of the smaller children looked so stunned, so hollow in their eyes, that Gareth feared they might never recover their wits.

  By midmorning, the fires had been extinguished and a few goats rounded up, so there was a little milk for the children. The stone-walled huts had survived, some in better condition than others, but at least there would be shelter enough for everyone. Best of all, the well was intact.

  The men set about cutting up the dead horse. They worked without speaking, doggedly finishing what must be done. Since he had no skill in butchering, Gareth helped with the burials, dragging the dead outside the limits of the village. When he returned with each new body, it seemed that the ones he had laid out had sunk into the sands, as if the sand itself were a living thing, cradling the twisted forms. By the next morning, it would cover them. Perhaps there were rituals to be followed and prayers to be spoken, but Gareth did not know them. The Comyn followed the old tradition of burial in unmarked graves, with family and friends sharing remembrances of the departed, each one ending with, “Let this memory lighten grief.”

  After a short time, Gareth no longer smelled the charred flesh. He had become inured to the reek. Each one of these bodies had been a living person, a man or woman or child that he might have spoken with, laughed with . . . He was grateful for the silence, for the weight of the physical burdens, for he had no memories to offer up to lighten grief.

  All but one of the women had rallied, organizing the children, laying out the wounded on pallets improvised from scraps of salvaged blankets. Where they had found cooking implements and food, Gareth didn’t know. When a younger woman shyly offered him and Rahelle cups of gruel, he noticed that her string bonds dangled, broken, from her wrists.

  Gareth and Rahelle sat together in the dwindling shade beside Cuinn’s hut. His cup, thick-walled unglazed pottery, was blackened and chipped. The gruel itself tasted burned, but it was hot. Rahelle sipped, pursed her lips, and set her cup down on her lap. Gareth felt much the same way about the taste.

  “You should eat,” he said, as much to himself as to her. His muscles throbbed with weariness. When had he rested last? The few hours’ sleep he’d gotten last night had long since vanished. He forced himself to take another swallow.

  She arched one eyebrow as she glanced in his direction, then returned her focus to the cup. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I’ve already discovered the uselessness of that. You never listen to anyone. You were supposed to be on your way back to Shainsa and your father! Do you have any idea how dangerous it is here? You could have been killed—”

  “And I suppose you were so much safer at the Terranan camp? What if they’d discovered who you are? You have just as much to hide as I do!”

  “Who I am?” he snapped, hearing the irrational temper in his own voice. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only that someone has to keep you out of trouble!”

  “Who appointed you my Keeper? I was doing just fine without you!”

  At her look of incredulity, a bubble of something like laugher burst open inside him.

  Her gaze faltered. “I did leave. I rode to Duruhl-ya. Adahab agreed to guide us back, but he needed another day to finalize his betrothal contract. The return took me longer than I expected. I should have passed the night at Duruhl-ya, I suppose. As it was, it was past sunset by the time I returned. I saw the fires . . .”

  For a long moment, they sat in silence. Gareth found his voice. “I couldn’t stop them.”

  Another pause, then: “Why did they do it?”

  “Cuinn poisoned the well. Two men died.”

  Rahelle drew in a sharp breath. Gareth closed his eyes, resting his head against the rough stone of the wall. He felt her fingers, strong and slim, twine through his. The contact brought a rush of inexpressible comfort.

  I thought you were gone, safely away from here. His arms ached to hold her, although he was painfully aware of the risk carried by even this touch of hand on hand. Her best hope for safety lay in her disguise. Unlike the Comyn, Dry Towners did not tolerate lovers of men.

  Gently, he loosened his fingers from hers. As she
stirred, he felt the leap in tension in her body. She scrambled up, listening intently. Her ears were sharper than his, but now he caught it, too—the muffled bawl of an oudrakhi.

  By the time Gareth had clambered to his feet, a handful of villagers were already gathering toward the desert side of the village. Following them, Gareth said to Rahelle, “Adahab has returned earlier than promised.”

  “I don’t think—”

  Dust and sand rose in low, desultory billows that did not conceal the approaching horsemen. The party was clearly in desperate condition. Their horses plodded, heads sagging, feet stirring up yet more dust. Just in front of them paced an oudrakhi, straining at its lead line and now and then letting out a vociferous complaint. Gareth thought it belonged to the village and had run off in the attack. The riders must have found it and realized that it would surely lead them to water.

  Dust caked the hides of the horses and the clothing of the men. They had covered their lower faces with scarves, desert-style. Even so, Gareth could not mistake the quality of their gear or the swords that hung scabbarded from their saddles or across their backs.

  Within moments, riders and villagers met. Gareth nudged Rahelle into the center of the villagers, so that the two of them would not stand out. There was none of the usual excitement at the arrival of so many strangers, no murmurs of curiosity, no children darting out for a better look, none of the welcome Gareth had received. These people were still in shock and not yet come into the fullness of their grief. They feared more of the same.

  The foremost rider pulled his mount to a halt and dropped the oudrakhi’s lead line. One hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he used the other to loosen his scarf.

  “I am Hayat, son of Dayan, High Lord of Shainsa! Who speaks for this place?”

  Son of Dayan? Gareth didn’t remember having seen this man among the courtiers in the presence chamber. With luck, Hayat wouldn’t know him, either. The man at Hayat’s right side, however, looked familiar. His gaze lit on Gareth, and the muscles around his eyes tightened in recognition.

  Gareth knew that unflinching regard, those gray eyes. When he’d last seen this man, fire and shame had flushed the Dry Towner’s sun-dark cheeks.

  “Ancient wisdom tells us that only a fool returns to a battle he cannot win,” the other man had said. “The wise man lives to fight another day.”

  And so Merach had.

  Merach, sword arm of Dayan of Shainsa. Merach, whose life Gareth had spared in the ambush on the road to Carthon.

  24

  The villagers drew together, murmuring under their breaths.

  “Well?” Hayat demanded. “Has the fire stolen your tongues as well as your wits? What happened here?”

  No one stepped forward to answer him. He clenched his hands so tightly around the reins that his horse, weary though it was, threw up its head and jigged sideways in protest. His lips drew back from his startlingly white teeth and his brow furrowed. Gareth had seen that expression many times at the Thendara court, usually on the faces of men with little control over their tempers, men who expected instant obedience but lacked the ability to accommodate themselves to reality. Then, such a display of ill temper had either amused or annoyed him. He had been sufficiently above their position that he had nothing to fear. He knew they vented their frustration on those without rank or powerful protectors, but he had not cared enough about the servants and underlings, not to mention dependent family members, of whose lives such men made a misery.

  Should he step forward now, drawing attention away from the villagers, who had not yet regained their full senses after the attack? Should he attempt to masquerade as one of them, or would Merach identify him as the trained swordsman of Carthon?

  While Gareth hesitated, Merach nudged his horse closer. “Look around you, Lord Hayat. Surely these people would give you answers if they were able. There is no rebellion in their faces. They are but ignorant country folk, sturdy enough for simple work but without sophistication.”

  Hayat grunted in response. The strain in his features eased. He let the reins slip a little through his fingers, and the white horse drooped its head. “I suppose you in your superior wisdom can tell me what happened?”

  “I would not presume to inform the great lord of what he surely has deduced from the evidence of his own eyes. He has already recognized that the burn marks could not have been made by any ordinary fire.”

  Gareth let his breath out, unaware until that moment that he had been holding it. One of the babies whimpered fitfully.

  “The demon-fire weapons,” Hayat muttered. Then he gestured to his men. “Dismount! The horses need water. You and you,” pointing to two of his men, “and you two,” then to Rahelle and one of the older village boys, “tend to them. And the gear as well, sand-rats. If so much as a bridle ring is missing, or there’s a single hair of my horse’s mane out of place, I’ll take it out in strips of your hide.”

  There was a brief scurry as the Shainsa riders dismounted and removed their weapons from their saddles. Rahelle and the boy led the horses off toward the well.

  “You there!” Hayat indicated Gareth with a flick of one finger. “Step forward. The rest of you, prepare a meal. My men are hungry.”

  The women, startled into action, started hurrying back toward the center of the village. Gareth hunched his shoulders and hung his head, trying to look as bewildered as the others, as cowed by the presence of so many armed men. Merach would not be fooled . . . but Merach had already had a chance to betray Gareth and had not.

  “Your Magnificence,” Gareth mumbled and made as if to prostrate himself as he’d seen men do in Shainsa.

  “Oh, get up!” Hayat snarled. “If I wanted to see the back of your head, I’d have ordered it severed from your body. I want to see your eyes when you speak to me, so that I know you’re telling the truth!”

  Gareth made a show of reluctantly, fearfully raising his face.

  “You seem to have some small measure of wit,” Hayat said. “Do you have a tongue as well? A name?”

  “G-Garrin, great lord.”

  “Garrin, is it? Tell me what happened here. Who attacked this village? Where did they come from?”

  “I’m sorry, great lord. I don’t know.” Gareth kept his features blank. So Lord Hayat thought he could read truth in another man’s eyes? It was more likely that Dayan had given his son command of this mission and then sent Merach along to keep him out of trouble. Doubtless it had been Hayat’s idea to ride straight across the Sands of the Sun, regardless of the risk to the horses.

  “You don’t know?” Hayat demanded with scornful incredulity. “How can you not know who did this to your own village? Are you, after all, an idiot? Or do you suffer from periodic blindness as well as deafness?”

  “I-I was not here.” Gareth held his hands out from his body to show his undamaged clothing. “I had gone looking for an oudrakhi that had strayed.” Pointedly, he turned his head in the direction of the beast that Hayat’s men had followed.

  “Is there anyone in this dust hole of subhuman halfwits who knows? Where is the headman?”

  “Great lord, he is wounded—”

  “I did not ask after his health!” Hayat struck Gareth backhanded across the face. “I asked where he is! Or is your hearing as defective as your wits?”

  The blow staggered Gareth. When he raised his hand to his mouth, he felt the slickness of blood. One of Hayat’s heavy rings had split his lip open.

  He stared at his fingers in incomprehension. He’d been injured before, sometimes by accident on the fencing field or from his own inattention or mischance. But never before in his memory had a man deliberately struck him.

  When Hayat drew back his hand to strike again, Gareth flinched. He did so without thought, although even as he sank to his knees, it occurred to him that appearing to be more overwhelmed than he actually was would not be a bad
strategy. If Hayat thought he was too cowed to even speak, it might be worth the beating that he was about to receive.

  “Lord.” Gareth heard Merach’s voice. “There is no need to sully your hands on vermin such as this. Your perspicacity will surely reveal the dwelling of the chief.”

  Gareth remained as he was, crouched in the dust, until the fading footsteps told him that Hayat and his retinue had moved off. He got to his feet, but not quickly in case one of them was watching. Affecting a limp, he headed for the center of the village.

  By the gathering of riders around Cuinn’s hut, the headman had not moved from where Gareth and Rahelle had left him. A woman’s wailing cry rose above the voices of the men. Gareth heard Hayat’s imperious tones, then a hoarse rumble in reply. He pressed through the little throng of villagers.

  “. . . curses upon the outlanders . . .” That sounded like Cuinn. “. . . owe them nothing.”

  “The gracious and compassionate Lord Hayat means to avenge your people.” Merach’s voice rose above the others. They fell silent, even the wailing woman. “Will you permit this outrage to go unanswered? Now that you have gained such a powerful protector? Think of your children, if not yourself!”

  “I will not greet another dawn . . .” Cuinn’s voice receded to an indistinguishable mumble. Gareth could no longer understand the headman’s speech, but the sense was all too clear. Even without laran, Gareth had not the slightest doubt that Cuinn was telling the entire story of the blasters and where he had gotten them. Cuinn would rather see such weapons in the hands of men whose rank and honor he respected, than remain with those who would destroy an entire village. It was revenge of sorts, delivered in the belief that Hayat and his riders were mighty enough to overcome the off-worlders’ defenses.

  Clearly, Hayat thought so, too. He strutted from the hut, giving orders to his men to establish a perimeter guard and prepare for battle the next day, but his bearing was not the empty bluster of a coward. He truly believed in his victory. No one would have dared to stand against him in Shainsa. So far, Merach had ensured his success on this expedition.