Storms of Destiny (74 page)

She whirled around, and the basin dropped from her hands. “Jezzil! You’re alive!”

He laughed, now that he was here, not knowing what to say or do. “I am,” he admitted. “Only a bit the worse for wear.”

She ran to him, but just as he thought she was going to fling herself into his arms, she stopped, her eyes going to his bandaged leg. “You’re wounded!”

“It’s not bad,” he said. “Khith took care of it. It told me where to find you. I … I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I had to see you.” He reached out and touched her shoulder, feeling awkward and confused. “It’s so good to see you,” he added idiotically.

She was staring at him, and there was something in her eyes that made him feel more light-headed than his wound had. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, too,” she said. “All day I’ve thought, ‘What if the next one they carry in is Jezzil? What if he’s dying?’ ” She reached over, picked up his hand from her shoulder and held it to her cheek. He felt a warm droplet amidst the raindrops. “I thought I’d rather be dead myself than see that.”

He didn’t know who made the first move. Perhaps they both did. Somehow she was in his arms and he was holding her. The pain from his leg was gone, and the sounds of the camp faded away. They held each other so tightly it hurt, and the hurt felt more wonderful than anything he’d ever felt before.

She was mumbling his name as he awkwardly kissed her cheek, her forehead, her nose. By the time he found her mouth, she was half laughing, half crying.

Their first kiss was clumsy, tentative, but the second was much better. They were learning fast. Jezzil had not known that kissing felt like this, that such an intimate act could feel so natural. He kissed her until his head swam, and by the time they finally pulled away from each other, they were both learning by leaps and bounds.

He stared down at her. “Is this what love feels like?”

“It must be,” she gasped, and pulled his head back down.

“Thia! Thia, where are you? I need you!
Thia!”

It took a long time for the sound to penetrate Jezzil’s fogged brain, but finally he could no longer ignore it. He lifted his head and looked around, to see the Pelanese doctor standing there, staring at them.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said in a more moderate tone. “It’s obvious this is important … but I do need you, Thia.”

She nodded at the surgeon, then looked back up at Jezzil.

“I have to go. Besides, you must rest.” She stepped back, away from him, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, though.”

Jezzil half raised a hand and smiled back at her. “Soon,”

he echoed.

And then she had ducked back into the infirmary tent, and he was alone, wet from the rain, his wounded leg throbbing— and he’d never felt such joy in his life.

Jezzil turned his face up to the rain and, not sure exactly who he was addressing, whispered, “Thank you … thank you.”

Thia, Jezzil, Talis, and Khith stood on the old battlements, looking out at the harbor of Minoma, waiting for sunset. It had been four days since the Pelanese victory over the Redai’s forces, and the work of healing the wounded and burying the dead was still continuing.

Three of them were still working in the tents housing the wounded: Khith and Jezzil using Hthras medical techniques to heal internal injuries, Thia helping to care for the injured. Talis had ridden out on the expeditions to patrol the countryside, lest any fleeing Chonao soldiers turn renegade. But it seemed that the vast majority of Kerezau’s surviving army was even now marching back to Gen under guard. Salesin had promised the rank and file soldiers amnesty if they would set sail back to Ktavao, which is what almost all of them elected to do.

Eregard was in mourning for his parents, and they saw little of him. Salesin had put his brothers in charge of the army and the prisoners of war, so the new king could devote his time to planning his coronation.

King Agivir and Queen Elnorin had lain in state side by side for two days, in closed coffins, while the people of Pela passed by in droves to pay their final respects. Then, yesterday, there had been two memorial services, one a huge state funeral that took hours, and the other a quieter, private service for the family and members of the court.

Eregard had spoken with Prince Adranan in private before the family service, his expression bitter. “You realize that Father was almost certainly assassinated.”

Adranan’s eyes widened. “How can you say that? It was a
battle,
Eregard!”

“Did you
look
at him?” Eregard asked, his voice harsh with grief.

“No,” Adranan admitted, “I couldn’t bear to.”

“I was with him when it happened. Adranan, you’ve been in enough battles to know how a bullet acts on flesh and bone. Father’s
face
was destroyed, not the back of his head.

That shot came from our own ranks.”

Adranan gazed at his brother, his expression sad but not particularly surprised. “It could have been a stray bullet. An accident,” he said, but Eregard could tell even he didn’t believe it.

“The Chonao weren’t in range or position to make that shot. The bullet came from
behind
us—the Chonao attack was off to the side. The shots that killed the Standard Bearer and the guard were just to make it look good. Father was the target—and so was I. If I hadn’t bent over to get Father water at just that moment, I’d have been killed, too.” Eregard raised his bandaged arm. The wound, thanks to Khith’s ministrations, was healing well.

His brother gazed at Eregard for a long moment, then sighed. “Bullets do go astray during battle,” he said simply.

“There is no way to prove anything.”

“You’re right,” Eregard admitted. “But I know what I know, Adranan. First Salesin set it up so Father would have to personally go to battle, then he made sure he would never live through it.”

Adranan gazed at his brother sadly. “Eregard, we both have to walk a tightrope from now on. Until Salesin gets himself an heir, we’re both in danger. I don’t want to lose you again, brother. Please say nothing of what you suspect.

Please. For my sake.”

Eregard had sighed and nodded. “Very well, Adranan. As you say, there is no way to prove anything.”

But the Prince did find some outlet for his feelings by composing a song that he sang at the private memorial service. Eregard did not dare to look at Salesin as he played and sang, so he had no idea how much his brother understood of what he was trying, subtly, to say.

“Strength and beauty, dwelt apart, met and wed at last
Strong through test of war and creeping villain Famine’s fast
Beautiful together through the lush and festive years
Shielding sons and kingdom from grim danger, crippling fears
Setting founding stones beyond our might of mortal ken
Sudden now a world without them we must comprehend.

Elnorin, Mother, queen and noble lady fair
Taken at her height of questing mind and gentle beauty rare
Queen and Mother, both in fullest measure, she
Who surpassed all gentler measures bringing us to be
Elnorin the Queen, see the ringing heavens blaze her name
Yet it is for loving Mother we must mourn and yet remain.

Now Agivir, our king and father, killed in blaring battle’s song
He whose seed gave strength and life to us, his struggling sons
Violent more than troubled birth was our great father’s death
His life and fame and regal power robbed of hearty breath
The golden fruit falls early, rudely shaken from the tree
As all Life and Power know but bitter brevity.

Truthful Strength and gentle Beauty long were met and wedded strong
Wedded fast, alas, but not for us forever long
Now for us a world less strong, less beautiful displays
For us to keep their honor by our poorer deeds and ways
Stark see we now how lesser Power fleeting passes on
Let Strength and Beauty grow to be their greater standing stone.”

This morning they had buried the King and Queen in the family vault, side by side.

Now, standing on the battlements, waiting for sunset, the four companions looked out on the bustling harbor town, each busy with his, her, or its private thoughts.

Knowing that Thia had spent yet another exhausting morning in the infirmary tent, Khith reached out a narrow-fingered hand to touch the former priestess’s face. “I sense great weariness,” it said softly. “You must not make yourself ill, Thia.”

She gave the Hthras physician a wan smile. “I’ll be all right. It’s just that sometimes they die. And it’s terrible when that happens.”

“It is,” Khith murmured. “I know.”

Jezzil was still gazing out over the harbor. “I wonder if any of Kerezau’s forces will be able to regroup. He had some strong subcommanders.”

“I don’t think so,” Talis said. “Major q’Rindo told me that we captured most of the top leaders. And do you know what they found in the command tent?”

Jezzil shook his head. “I’ve been so busy in the infirmary, I’ve scarcely had a chance to talk to anyone who was unwounded. What did they find?”

“Kerezau’s body, bound and gagged. He’d been dead most of the day, the major said.”

Jezzil nodded. “Barus said he’d gone mad, and that after he ordered that suicidal cavalry charge, his commanders hustled him away and restrained him, to make sure he couldn’t issue any more such orders.”

Talis gazed up at Jezzil. “They also said he had an inflamed spot on his neck. Right about here.” She touched the side of her own throat. “That poison in your bag … what effect would it have on someone if it touched the flesh but did not actually pierce the skin?”

Jezzil thought for a moment. “It could be absorbed through the skin, I suppose, unless immediately washed off, and that substance does cause victims to go mad before they die.”

Talis nodded. “I think,” she said quietly, “that I may have succeeded after all. Pity it didn’t kill him before he could order that charge.”

Jezzil shrugged. “That charge was the kind of thing that can have a huge effect on an army’s spirit to fight. Without it, who knows how things might have gone that day?”

Seeing Thia leaning over to look down off the battlement, Jezzil went over to her and took her hand. “Be careful,” he warned. “You don’t want to get vertigo.”

Thia smiled. “I’ve always had a head for heights,” she said. “I don’t know why. When I was a novice, I was always expected to climb up the tallest ladders in the sacristy to dust the top shelves where the most ancient icons were kept.”

The two smiled at each other, but then, conscious that they were not alone, Jezzil changed the subject. “Have you seen the Princess?”

“You mean the Queen,” she reminded him. “I saw her this morning, after the burial. She told me that the Captain of the Watch reported to her that Master Varn—also known as His Reverence Varlon—seems to have vanished without a trace.

He’s nowhere to be found in Minoma.”

“He’s had more than four days to run,” Khith, who had been listening, pointed out. “This island is not that large. If he stole a horse and rode hard, he could be many leagues away by now.”

He awoke late in the day, having slept the sleep of exhaustion after his long ride. For three days he’d ridden, all day and most of the night, not at a fast pace, for that might have attracted attention, but steadily.

He’d sold his stolen horse for enough coins to keep him here at this cheap inn for days. While in Napice, he planned to sell the small objects he’d stolen from the palace for

enough money to take ship for K’Qal, and from here he would take the caravan back to Amaran. He was relieved that it was over. His service to the god was done.

Varn groaned aloud as he sat up on his lumpy cot. Getting a private room in this run-down inn had not bought him a decent straw tick on the bed, or a pillow with more than a few feathers left in it. And after four days in the saddle, his entire body was as sore as if he’d been roundly thrashed.

Fumbling under the cot, he pulled out the chamber pot and used it, then covered it and slid it back under.

He regarded his travel-stained breeches, shirt, and overjerkin distastefully, but had nothing else to put on. He’d buried his incriminating red robe the second day he’d traveled south. Varn had no idea whether the citizens of Napice, the southernmost port city on Pela, knew anything about the priests of Boq’urak, but why take chances?

He’d always been fastidious about his personal habits and dress, though, and it was almost physical pain to wear dirty clothes. At the moment he could do nothing about them, but at least he could do something about his own body.

Rising, Varn wrapped himself in his cloak and went to the door. A few shouts brought the innkeeper, and a few coins brought a promise of a tub and hot water.

Afterward, it felt good to be clean again.

His chin and cheeks itched, and he wished he could shave, but a beard was one of the quickest ways a man could change his appearance. Varn felt the stubble that was growing on his head. He would stay here in Napice until he had enough hair and beard so no one would think “holy man”