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Rise of the Alliance III: The Hunters and the Hunted
Rise of the Alliance III: The Hunters and the Hunted
Rise of the Alliance III: The Hunters and the Hunted
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Rise of the Alliance III: The Hunters and the Hunted

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Meet Detlev’s boys.

In volume one, A Sword Named Truth, a shaky alliance made among young rulers brought too early to their thrones survived an enchantment, commanded by Siamis, the handsome young Norsundrian. Siamis was defeated, and the world celebrated, believing peace had come!

At the start of volume two, The Blood Mage Texts, the alliance seems to be a thing of the past as two quests reveal long-hidden secrets. Meanwhile Siamis has gone renegade, hunted by both sides.

As the Rise of the Alliance saga continues, Siamis is not the only one being hunted. The sinister and elusive Norsundrian commander Detlev has been seen more often in the past five years than he has in the past five hundred. The young allies to reform the alliance—meeting unexpected difficulties when no one can agree on what form it should take.

That is before a series of murders leads to the shocking news that the alliance has been infiltrated by a mirror alliance of Norsundrian boys.

Trained by Detlev.

Which leads inexorably to the deadliest of stalking games . . .

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 25, 2022
ISBN9781611389821
Rise of the Alliance III: The Hunters and the Hunted
Author

Sherwood Smith

Sherwood Smith began her publishing career in 1986, writing mostly for young adults and children. To date she’s published over thirty books. The latest was Treason’s Shore, last of the four-book Inda series, with Coronets and Steel scheduled for September 2010. She also writes for young adults, her most popular book being Crown Duel, from Firebirds—the e-book edition of its prequel, Stranger to Command, will be her first offering through Book View Cafe. She’s also written short fiction, and collaborated with several authors, including the Grand Master Andre Norton. One of her books was an Anne Lindbergh Honor Book; she’s twice been a finalist for the Mythopoeic Fantasy Award and once a Nebula finalist. Some of her stories have been reprinted in “best of” anthologies, and her work has been translated into numerous languages.Sherwood Smith was a teacher for twenty years, working with children from second grade to high school. She specialized in literature, history, and drama. She still does writing workshops at schools, and freelances for Publishers Weekly.

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    Rise of the Alliance III - Sherwood Smith

    SARTORIAS-DELES MAPS

    SdMap-700X900Marlovenhessmap700wSarendanmap700wColendmap700w

    Click here for a list of Dramatis Personae.

    SARTORIAS-DELES BOOKS

    All these are available at Book View Café:

    HISTORICAL ARC

    Lily and Crown

    Inda

    The Fox

    King’s Shield

    Treason’s Shore

    Time of Daughters (two volumes)

    Banner of the Damned

    MODERN ERA

    The CJ Journals

    Senrid

    Spy Princess

    Sartor

    Fleeing Peace

    A Stranger to Command

    Crown Duel

    The Trouble with Kings

    Sasharia En Garde

    And

    THE RISE OF THE ALLIANCE ARC

    *A Sword Named Truth

    *available elsewhere

    The Blood Mage Texts

    The Hunters and the Hunted

    Nightside of the Sun (February 22, 2022)

    Part One:

    Hunters

    Firejive

    (gyve: to fetter, to shackle, to bind)

    This chronicle begins with Detlev, who emerged from Norsunder Beyond into the center of a violent struggle for power at Norsunder Base. He stepped over the dead and entered the command center, currently deserted as the mage Dejain and the military commander Bostian stalked one another elsewhere in the fortress.

    Because there is no time measure in the Beyond, he found the date—and calculated how long he’d been gone—via the accumulation of messages in the dispatch tray. There was no sign of Siamis, nor any report.

    He reached the last, considered the lacunae, then sat down to write a coded note.

    Why was I not alerted about the blood mage text? Did any of you try to secure it?

    A short time later came the answer:

    Jilo of the Chwahir was either given it, or was given the location by Kessler Sonscarna. Senrid Montredaun-An took it away. I wrote a report immediately. I found out through gossip that Kessler took the texts back, and I reported that, too. Since we received no new orders, and information was long after the fact, we stayed tight with standing orders.

    Detlev wrote:

    Our relay is compromised. Reports to be made in person, through you. Commencing with your conveying these orders, face to face.

    At the other end of the world, in a place of mutable time, occasionally—cruelly—some trick of light in a changing sky evoked in Siamis’s memory the cloud ships of Yssel, the last of which he witnessed sinking slowly to a fiery death nearly five thousand years ago: dragon-ribbed keelson, spars of glowing crystal, and vast sails iridescent as wasp wings.

    The glimpses into past times were never quick to last. The world had changed so vastly, and he was no longer a terror-stricken, bewildered boy. But echoes of those long ago emotions sometimes lingered: astonishment, harrowing realization, the numbness of betrayal, and finally a long-smoldering anger.

    I will someday destroy the entire world, he had shrieked when summoned to the Garden of the Twelve early after he was taken, and all the Host had laughed but one.

    Ilerian tipped his head, regarding Siamis with mild interest. How will you go about it?

    Later, Detlev had said, Existence will be far less painful if you say nothing to catch Ilerian’s interest. But if that cannot be avoided, have an answer. And always have a plan.

    Siamis had scorned his uncle’s too-late advice as he’d scorned everything his uncle said and did, until it was proven—excruciatingly, and lasciviously prolonged—to be true.

    So his real training began. In Norsunder-Beyond, where time was nearly meaningless, marked by occasional and brief emergences into the real world for either training or a lesson, he had no age markers to measure by except by guesswork.

    He might have been the equivalent of fourteen when he figured out how to combine the two—flout and stealth. Flouting Detlev when he could be perceived by the Host or their minions had amused them, and each time he’d been caught he’d suffered the consequences philosophically. While Norsunder’s lords, who rarely stirred from their timeless citadel, began to regard his errors as a typical for callow youth, he had learned from each.

    The lesson he kept closest: the mind gained in strength along with the body only in the physical realm, where time resumed its natural progression, where there was sunlight and the fresh air that renews itself as it sweeps over pure water. But those excursions had to be brief, and always in obedience to someone else’s plan.

    When at last he dared venture on his own to explore the immeasurable realm between Norsunder’s ageless, arid center and the world, he knew how to leave no physical trace or magical shadow. Detlev called that the hand through the water.

    Finally, the most dangerous of all, he essayed single visits back in time, using the great window in the Garden of the Twelve at Norsunder’s center. It was vital to be unperceived; an error meant far worse than the idle cruelties of those who found entertainment in such pursuits, it meant being forever lost in a fold of time.

    And so, it transpired, learning to maneuver in Norsunder had prepared him for dealing with the anomaly the mages of Old Sartor had named the Moonfire.

    He moved with practiced stealth, the stages of his plan ranked mentally in meticulous order, but found that this anomaly was far more slippery than Norsunder’s magic-straitened boundaries. He had the where, but not the when . . .

    1

    Late summer, 4743 AF

    Delfina Valley to the Border of Chwahirsland

    Mondros’s beard bristled as his eyes widened with horror.

    When I think, he said to Tsauderei, as thunder rumbled low in the distance, how very close we came to knowing nothing whatsoever about this blood mage text, I’m afraid I am going to have nightmares for months. Years.

    Tsauderei shook his head slowly. He, too, felt that unsettling roil in the gut that came with a sense that they had lost control of something important. This is, in a way, worse than the time the youngsters took themselves off to Geth-deles without consulting any of us. What do you suggest we do?

    What can we do? Mondros asked, broad hands extended to either side on the word can.

    Tsauderei said, Jilo, Senrid, the Mearsiean girls—it’s their alliance again.

    Which was a benighted idea.

    But don’t you see, I feel confident in stating that, except for Kessler Sonscarna, whose motivations are impossible to guess beyond an apparent animus against Norsunder, at every stage they thought they were doing their best. Jilo turns to Senrid of Marloven Hess, who turns to young Leander in Vasande Leror, who turns to his friends in Mearsies Heili, all using those young Colendi scribe students as a communications clearing house. The way they’ve been trained to serve.

    I see ignorant youths acting without due consideration, especially for their guardians. Mondros’s deep voice rumbled low in his massive chest.

    Oh, and they’re the first generation to do that, Tsauderei said sardonically.

    Granted. Mondros uttered an unwilling laugh. My ire is entirely bound up in my sense of personal failure. I thought I’d established a good enough understanding with young Jilo to enable him to come to me. He faces a monumental task, one might as well say an impossible task. He cannot possibly succeed alone, and he seems to know it, yet there he is, laboring alone in that vile fortress where no one can get in to aid him in dismantling Wan-Edhe’s architecture of evil.

    Mondros. Don’t you see the problem? Tsauderei said. I do. At far too late an age.

    What problem?

    The very reason we have mage schools, to provide a hierarchy as fallback. A trusted hierarchy. None of these young folk seem to have the luxury of trusted hierarchy, representing cumulative wisdom. Several survived by learning early they could not trust those in authority over them.

    So they trust each other instead. Yes, I see it. Mondros glared into space.

    Tsauderei opened his hands. When youth turns to youth for wisdom, it makes good sense to hare off the world to Geth-deles without telling anyone, and to translate and hide a blood mage text that Norsunder is seeking.

    But you had them living in your valley all last summer. You mean they don’t trust you?

    Atan does, Tsauderei said slowly. Hibern as well, though I suspect she communicates with me on direct orders from Erai-Yanya. As yet, only a few of them know her well enough to trust her opinion. In any case, I think the problem runs back farther than last summer. It runs back before they were born, to when I turned down the offer to head the northern school because I was impatient of negotiation and compromise. My old friend Evend was more patient, but he’s gone. I’m seen for what I am, standing outside the hierarchy, acting on my own, which suffices to justify Senrid and Jilo and the rest in acting on their own.

    So what do we do? Warn them? Mondros asked.

    As if they don’t know their dangers? I think they do, at least in part. The part that they don’t understand is the perspective that comes with age, which leads me to suspect that they would take our cautions as more finger wagging. I think we need to convince them that they need us.

    Tsauderei sighed heavily. And the need is only going to get worse. We must establish good communication with all these youngsters as soon as possible, so that trust will come.

    Mondros eyed him, hands on knees, elbows out. Speaking of trouble, what do you make of these magical trespasses in Bereth Ferian? Local trouble brewing in the north?

    Been pondering that. Tsauderei grunted. Without further evidence, my instinct is to refrain from thinking politically. Chwahirsland, Bereth Ferian—my Delfina Valley. Look at the connections. Why would any mage venture past Oalthoreh’s wards in Bereth Ferian, after all these centuries of relative quiet? Since nothing has gone missing, Oalthoreh’s fear that the mage is after the Moonfire seems an unsettlingly good guess. At the very same time, why would Kessler Sonscarna dig out a blood mage text obviously secreted in Chwahir archives for at least as long?

    Mondros’s heavy brows shot upward. You think there might be some connection with the Venn? His voice was a low rumble in his chest, unsettlingly echoed by the distant thunder; he heard it, and uttered an unwilling laugh. Sinister, aren’t I?

    The Venn have always had that effect. Tsauderei stroked his mustache, which Mondros noted was beautifully groomed. I would have said it’s far more likely that the connection has to do with the Chwahir, and Wan-Edhe, except Bereth Ferian is way up north, one would think too far for anything of use to the Chwahir.

    But not far enough away for the Venn, Mondros said.

    Tsauderei pursed his lips, head back, and Mondros observed him as the elder mage stared upward in reverie. Rumor had it the old boy had been handsome and dashing in his day—popular with lovers, though he’d never settled with one. He still wore the long, closed robes of his young manhood, sporting that diamond in his ear, and the long hair of those old fashions. Laughter flared in Mondros at the realization that we are never truly old inside our heads.

    So why now? Tsauderei finally said, and Mondros’s humor extinguished. Let’s assume the connection is the Venn. Norsunder has certainly wanted the Venn and their magic for centuries. Maybe it’s become a primary goal now that they’ve been defeated again in trying to establish rifts big enough to bring their armies over from Norsunder-Beyond. But I don’t believe the Venn have rift magic.

    We don’t know that. We don’t know what they’ve been up to inside their borders for the past six or seven centuries, Mondros said grimly, chill gripping the back of his neck. You think it’s a Venn renegade mage? Risking the treaty?

    They both knew that the ancient treaty stated that any Venn mage caught practicing magic outside their border could be executed on sight. That is, if that the Arrow wards didn’t destroy them first.

    It’s possible, after all these centuries. I think we need to find out.

    But no mage is permitted inside their border any more than their mages are allowed out in the world. Only traders can enter their harbors, and those apparently don’t get into the Venn cities. Mondros swooped his hand, suggesting a dive into tunnels.

    "We couldn’t, Tsauderei said slowly, but someone young might. Someone used to travel. Learns languages fast and gets along well. Skilled in the ways the Venn once admired, and probably still do . . ."

    Mondros stared back uncomprehending, and then thrust his fingers through his beard. You mean Rel? You want me to ask him, scarcely a month after he found out who I am? I feel guilty enough leaving him asleep to sneak away for this conversation!

    Tsauderei waved a hand to and fro, hiding how astonishing he’d found his old friend’s confession that Rel was his son. As old as he was, he could still be caught by surprise. But now he comprehended Mondros’s reluctance to talk about his past. I understand. He’s your boy. But Mondros, I did listen to the youngsters last summer, even if they didn’t turn to me for advice. I believe he’d like to be asked.

    Humph.

    Tsauderei said provocatively, If I’d known who he was, I might have made an attempt to become better acquainted.

    Mondros, stung, said, I never told anyone but Raneseh. It seemed safer. You know how deadly Wan-Edhe is. He shook his head.

    This was not an accusation, merely a reminder of the effects of keeping secrets for what seem to be the best of reasons, Tsauderei said gently, and seeing that tough, wary, reclusive Mondros was genuinely upset, he went on. So you didn’t know where Rel was. Or that he was in the midst of the fighting, until after the fact. That was a necessary ill. You were vitally employed in making certain that Norsunder’s war did not become a mage war. And rescuing Roderic Dei. Which no one else could have done.

    Mondros’s angry flush died away, leaving the downward gaze of remorse. I could not find the queen. I still do not know if she lives.

    This is the price we mages pay, Tsauderei reminded him.

    They both reflected on the fact that however much governments argued with one another, they were pretty much all agreed: mages must stay out of politics. It was an ancient prejudice, far too ingrained to overcome. Mondros’s efforts on behalf of Everon would never be known by more than a few, and certainly never acknowledged.

    You really think I ought to ask Rel to go to the Land of the Venn?

    I think he would be complimented by the trust implied, and I believe he would enjoy the challenge. He’s an excellent observer, and travelers are often the best placed people to hear general talk of events inside a country. If there are great changes talked of by ordinary people inside the Venn kingdom, then that might warrant further exploration, including diplomatic pressure.

    True enough.

    Further, if he tells his allies that you are entrusting him with a crucially important task, perhaps they, in turn, might begin to extend their trust past him to you.

    All right, then, Mondros said. I’m willing to try that, since I have so obviously failed with Jilo, struggling alone in that damned city. And Rel doesn’t know any magic, so there’s no residue around him. Mondros slapped his knees. I’ll put it to him when he wakes.

    horse

    You would think that father and son reuniting would be an occasion for joy.

    In a sense it was, but Rel was aware that he should be happy, that one day he might feel happy. It would be a mistake to say that finding his father was a disappointment, because that was not at all true. It was more that father in Rel’s mind took an amorphous, ideal form. Until he found him his father could have been anyone.

    But now father had a face, a form, and his own goals. His own life. As the days went by, they worked together, and studied Ancient Sartoran together, both preferring quiet. On the surface they got along well, but then Rel got along well with most people, and Mondros strained every nerve to anticipate what Rel might want, from choice of food to subject of study.

    There were times as the days turned into a week, then a month, that Rel would catch himself as he sat across from this strange man at his rough table, or watched him poring over his books, or listened to his deep breathing in the other bunk in the loft bedroom—his overwhelming emotion was a sense of unreality. And at times, awkwardness.

    Mondros felt the awkwardness when he saw it in Rel, and each hesitation, each down-and-away glance, hurt him. But he strove to hide the hurt, grateful because he sensed no anger or resentment. Perhaps Rel, who might have lain awake thinking he could be anyone from anywhere, was having a rough time adjusting to the fact that he was not only half-Chwahir and a descendent from one of the most infamous families in that kingdom, but his other parent was a disinherited exile from a kingdom with a sinister reputation.

    After the conversation with Tsauderei, Mondros intended to get right to the Venn problem, but he spent a couple of days trying to find a way to bring up the subject without it seeming as if he wanted to rediscover his son in time to use him.

    Over breakfast one morning, after a disturbed night, he finally forced himself in what he considered an uncomfortably snaky way to mention Tsauderei wanting to find an experienced traveler for a scouting mission.

    Rel’s chin cut upward no more than the width of a grass blade, but the reaction caught Mondros by surprise. Tsauderei was right, he thought grimly. I don’t know my own son at all. I do not want you feeling any obligation, he said anyway, because that much he’d planned. But if you want to hear it, I’ll give you a report.

    Please, Rel said.

    And Mondros did. Rel’s obvious interest caused him to think that Rel was like him after all, liking a defined goal, and the prospect of action.

    He was partly right. Rel gazed down at the breadcrumbs on his plate, almost giddy with relief. As soon as he recognized that inward release, he tightened up again with remorse. He shouldn’t be so grateful for a natural exit, but he was. The past night or so he’d been wondering how long he was supposed to stay. Winter would be arriving soon in these high mountains, making travel impossible. He didn’t know if he was expected to call this cottage home, even though he didn’t feel anymore at home here than he did at Raneseh’s holding.

    Less.

    Raneseh had trained him in etiquette, but there was no rule for this situation.

    . . . there are Destinations in the lands at either side of the Venn border, but I’m told the patrols are formidable, as are the penalties for being caught crossing. I know the Venn trade with other lands, but that is limited, and every scrap searched.

    It sounds interesting, Rel said. I’ve never been up that far. Captain Heraford said once that there’s plenty of ship trade. Captains who can deal with the constant storms, and pass Venn inspections, stand to make a lot bringing out those porcelain stoves they make, with the enameled knotwork decoration. And they take in grains and foods they can’t grow underground. I can always get work on a ship, as I can hand, reef, and steer.

    Shall I send you by magic?

    Rel smiled into Mondros’s dark eyes so much like his own, and guilt harrowed him again at the anxiousness he saw there, almost a plea.

    No need. If they are as wary as you say, I’ll want to learn my way, and I’ll do that better traveling as I usually do. Since there doesn’t seem to be urgency.

    Mondros agreed, understanding what was not said: Rel would be gone before he could be mired in the cottage over winter. But I’ll still give you a transfer token. For in case.

    Rel thanked him.

    Over the following night, Rel was subliminally aware of the whispering drone of Mondros’s voice, rather than the deep breathing of sleep. When he woke, Mondros was still at it, his voice a low, hoarse rumble. As Rel washed up and packed his things, he reflected that if all that magic work was the spells for a transfer, no wonder those things were so costly.

    Mondros set out fresh bread, shirred eggs, three kinds of fruit, and a stoneware jug of pear cider. As Rel loaded his plate, Mondros laid a Sartoran coin between them. You can always trade that for the gold in it. Before you do, be aware that you have a not only a transfer spell on it, it’s warded in every way I could think of. That’s the hard part, the protective wards. To complete the transfer, simply hold it and repeat Tsauderei’s name twice. You don’t even have to keep a Destination in mind—it will safely bring you back here.

    Rel perceived in that tired gaze that any guilt he felt was a candle flame to the guilt of a father who had left his child, safety notwithstanding. Impulse prompted him to stretch his hands over the table and clasp Mondros’s heavy shoulders. The muscles under his fingers were rock hard with tension.

    They both stood, and Rel came around to pull Mondros in for a rib cracking hug. He heard in the slight catch of breath from Mondros that this was right, it was better than any words.

    Before the sun had lifted a finger off the eastern horizon, he was on the road south.

    Mondros watched him until his tiny figure vanished for the last time around a fold in the lower valleys, then trod heavily inside his cottage. He sat down, scowling at a piece of paper, considering. Finally he wrote:

    Jilo, what have I done to cause you not to trust me? Why did you not bring the blood mage book to me?

    He sent that off, walked back out, and stood on the edge of the cliff, staring down at the empty road.

    horse

    When Jilo found the note in his golden case, he scowled at it owlishly. He’d utterly forgotten about the blood mage texts, which he was sure Prince Kessler still had. That was probably how he’d broken that spell over CJ’s arm.

    Then he remembered that Leander Tlennen-Hess had been planning to translate the books. That meant he might have made a copy.

    He brooded for a time, then wrote to Karhin in Colend for the sigil to Leander’s golden notecase. Because he was a Chwahir, who knew little of the rest of the world’s politesse, he wrote in careful Sartoran: Leander, did you translate that text I brought? Jilo.

    At the other end, Leander took the note out. It was late at night, and he had been wavering between sleep and a little more study.

    He considered how much to tell Jilo—and more importantly why.

    He walked to his window and stared sightlessly out into the dark courtyard, as night birds swooped and drifted against the peaceful stars. With those few words he was thrown back to the horror he’d felt as he got further into the translation, and the conviction that had caused him to rise and chuck the entire thing into the fire.

    He liked Senrid. He trusted Senrid—no, he wanted to trust Senrid, but he knew what a burden Marloven Hess’s crown was. Even without the threats Detlev had made against Senrid.

    Leander could too easily see Senrid, driven to desperation, wanting to use that blood magic for the best of reasons . . . and using it again. And again.

    And so he’d stood over the fire until the last vestige of his painstakingly made copy had turned to ash, so that if the day came bringing Senrid to ask about the book, he could tell the truth: it was gone.

    What should he say to Jilo? He glanced at Jilo’s blunt note, deciding the simplest truth would do. He sat down and scrawled, It was evil so I burned my half-finished translation. And send the note off.

    But there was no satisfaction in so doing, even if he’d kept the thing out of Senrid’s hands. (And Senrid, so far, had never asked about it.)

    Because the original book still existed out there somewhere.

    horse

    Mondros stared in bemusement at the hunch-shouldered, awkward figure in rusty black who sat on the bench where Rel had eaten his last breakfast that morning, lank black hair hanging like claws in his eyes.

    . . . and so he said he burned it. Wherever it is, I don’t have it, Jilo was saying. It wasn’t a matter of trust, but habit.

    Habit, Mondros said gently, develops out of trust. I’m not leveling any accusations at you, Jilo. I admire you for what you’re doing, but at the same time I fear for you."

    Jilo’s head dropped, so all Mondros could see was the tops of his ears, and his thin, knobby hands as he worked them on his knees. He mumbled something that seemed to be some sort of apology.

    Mondros did not let him tangle himself up further. There is also the matter of Wan-Edhe’s infamous enemies book, which I’ve learned third-hand actually exists. And in your possession.

    Jilo’s head came up. Yes. He stiffened warily.

    Mondros sighed. I’m not going to attempt to take it. Can you tell me how it functions?

    It tracks the magic transfers of enemies. It has limits, Jilo said. One limit is, it only traces Destinations that Wan-Edhe was able to ward. I think there might be other ways around its spells. Because there are gaps. Like, it will say that Detlev is at Norsunder Base, and then again at Norsunder Base, and then a third time. Without any sign of where he went between those times.

    "Maybe he goes to Norsunder-Beyond. I should think even Wan-Edhe was unsuccessful in laying wards there. Mondros thumped his fists on his knees once, twice. May I put a request to you?"

    Jilo’s shoulders hunched a notch higher.

    If you see any patterns of movement in the world by Detlev or Siamis, will you let me or Tsauderei know?

    Jilo’s expression cleared. Yes, he said. That’s easy enough. Though Siamis hasn’t shown up at all for a long time.

    I expect it’s too much to hope he’s dead, Mondros said on a sigh.

    2

    Spring, 4744

    Everon

    Spring arced gently toward summer.

    Dawn’s bright sun promised a glorious day.

    When Prince Glenn woke to clear light, he tore out of bed, chuckling with anticipation. Good weather finally. They could take the horses up north of the city and hold their thrice-postponed war game!

    He dashed through his cleaning frame, pulled on his clothes, and ran downstairs to grab a hunk of bread-and-butter.

    Are you going off? Tahra asked, resigned.

    Only overnight. In a burst of generosity, he added, And when I come back, you have everything ready that you wanted us to work on. I’ll get right to it. I promise.

    Her expression eased, but only a fraction. She took promises seriously, and she wasn’t sure he did. Why do you have to go now? she asked.

    He sighed. You know. Demonstration. When I invite Senrid, I think he’ll listen to me—to us—if he has some respect for us. And he’ll have some respect if we can make a decent showing in the ways he knows best. And then, back to his favorite statement, "We won’t be able to lead an alliance of allied armies if our Everoneth are not worthy of being the leaders. We have to be better—we have to be the best."

    Tahra looked down at her plate. Her brother kept talking about Senrid, what he’d like and what he wouldn’t, but Glenn never got around to sending a message directly. Or even through Karhin, if he was worried about his language skills. Senrid had become an excuse for war practice, it was a simple as that. Even though Senrid had talked about the importance of communications. And he never bragged about military stuff. He barely even talked about it.

    But Tahra knew her brother. He would only get angry if she said anything, and right now, unless their mother escaped Norsunder (because Tahra refused to believe she was dead) all they had was each other. So she said, as off-hand as she could, Have fun.

    Glenn ran all the way to the stables, slowing when he saw no one there but lackeys. At the other end, near the door to the salle, stood a small knot of his noble-born followers, but no dark curly head among them. Laban was not there waiting. Frustrated and irritated, Glen wondered why Laban didn’t take orders like the rest of the future honor guard. Sometimes Glenn wasn’t even certain the newcomer understood the prestige of being invited to an elite guard.

    Glenn contained his impatience as three or four more of his group showed up, breathless and apologetic. The sun was now strong, sitting atop the far roof. Glenn, looking up, felt his impatience turn to apprehension.

    On the pretext of inspecting the gear on each horse he postponed the order to ride out, but that couldn’t last forever. He was reluctantly considering giving the order when he heard the noise of arrivals at the other end of the stable yard.

    Glenn grinned in relief. There was Laban—with another boy. The group fell silent, inspecting this newcomer.

    Laban leaped off his horse with the unconscious ease that reinforced Glenn’s conviction that Laban’d had some kind of training, somewhere. Glenn! Am I glad you haven’t gone yet. We’ve been riding since before sunup. He waved at the two sweaty horses, which stable hands immediately took in hand.

    The newcomer Laban had brought with him was tall, and lean. Not thin. Lean: he looked about sixteen and the curve of thigh at the saddle and the bulge of bicep outlined by the spring breeze toying with the loose black sleeve of his long tunic shirt were those of a warrior in training. His face was all sharp planes, his skin brown enough to render his yellow-flecked eyes a startling contrast. Sardonic humor bracketed his thin mouth. His straight black hair was, like Laban’s, long on top, and cut in a military square-off above his collar in back.

    I went to see a contest over the border into Imar, Laban explained. MV here was the winner. Brought him along, since he said he’d been to Khanerenth in disguise, for their last games. He won.

    MV grinned. This was going to be fun.

    Very well. Glenn nodded, struggling to hide the leap of pleasure in his chest. He was a prince. He should be expecting his people to seek new recruits. It showed loyalty, and (he had to admit, though only to himself) he wasn’t all that sure of Laban’s loyalty. We can see how we measure up, then. He turned his head. Denold! Two fresh horses. Shift their gear.

    The servants accomplished this order while the rest mounted up, and then Glenn raised his hand. They galloped through the still-ruined (but guarded) palace gates, across the park paling and up the main street. One day they wouldn’t just be boys playing, he vowed as he citizens backed away, horses sidled, and carts hastily veered to either side of the road.

    One day they’d be in battle tunics, all wearing his colors, with banners streaming, and the people wouldn’t scramble aside looking annoyed, but they would back off and bow with respect the way they had for the Knights back in the good old days.

    His pleasure lasted exactly half a day.

    Midmorning they reached the traditional practice site, a broad expanse of fairly flat grassland bordered by hedgerows. This land had belonged to the Knights of Dei for uncounted years; Glenn had had to ask permission from Commander Dei to use it. He longed for the day when it would be his, dedicated to his personal honor guard, who would be the elite of the elite.

    Glenn glanced around the peaceful meadow, still struggling mentally with his inner dilemma: in his vision, he led the battle, as did the mighty kings in the songs, stories, and tapestries. And yet if you were fighting at the front, how could you watch the battle at the same time in order to lead them to victory? Maybe the honor guard let only one enemy through at a time. They protected you so that you can see the battle, and command. But you still had to be a great swordsman in order to inspire your followers.

    He laughed as a couple of the boys ran whooping toward a copse of trees, sending birds shooting upward, squawking raucously. They unloaded their gear in a rough circle next to a stream. Servants would be along presently to set up a cook tent and a fire.

    Glenn waited until everyone had his gear unpacked, then he said, Let’s get started.

    As his group pulled on chain mail and gloves and neck gear, he flashed a quick glance at Laban’s friend MV, who stood watching, hands on propped on his skinny hips. He didn’t wear a sash over that long tunic-shirt, only a blackweave belt riding low—a knife belt, though no sheath or weapon was attached. His blackweave riding boots were cut like Senrid’s with cavalry high heels, for locking down in the stirrup. Maybe MV had been training with lances.

    Want the loan of gear? Glenn asked. We have extra mail and padding along.

    MV’s gaze shifted his way. A trick of the light struck highlights in the yellow-flecked amber, making his eyes seem on fire. It was just the contrast to his dark lashes and brows, of course, but the effect was kind of sinister.

    Nah, MV said, with a careless wave of his hand. He grinned briefly. Just the ash stick. You ristos always run soft.

    Not us, Glenn wanted to say, but he’d learned from watching Senrid, during their adventures on Geth-deles, that action was much more convincing than words. If you had to defend your rep with words, you’d already lost it.

    He forced himself to shrug, and to finish gearing up. Maybe, he thought grimly as he picked up his wooden blade (ash stick, MV’d said, not even practice sword) MV would regret his pose of expert. These ash swords weren’t lethal, unless you cracked someone’s skull or broke their neck, but they raised horrible welts.

    When everyone was ready, Glenn divided up the boys. He kept Laban on his team, for he still suspected that Laban was a lot better than he let on. MV he put on the other side, under the command of one of his favorites.

    They formed a line, trotted to opposite ends of the field, and when Glenn raised his hand, charged.

    Oh, Laban was good, all right. He rode like he’d been born to it, and his sword work betrayed a supple wrist and a lot of practice. He knocked the weapon out of the hand of his opponent and wheeled his horse effortlessly to look for another.

    Glenn tried to watch them all. But he couldn’t get a clear sight past the dust, and everyone was milling in different directions. He heard a couple of curt shouts from that MV, the result of which a few more of Glenn’s team gave cries of disappointment and had to withdraw.

    Meanwhile, Glenn was still trying to evade being attacked. He was hot, and his arms hurt. Finally he gestured to his opponent (who was also breathing like a bellows, and secretly reluctant to whack the prince) for time out. He definitely required an honor guard, at least until he got stronger.

    Glenn turned his head as MV rode down the wind, white teeth bared in a slashing grin as he closed on one of Glenn’s bigger recruits. And with two fast, powerful blows with the flat of his ash blade he knocked the boy right out of the saddle. Not his weapon. The boy himself. Who landed yelling in pain and protest, which sent his horse skittering, ears flat.

    But MV was already off for the last two—last two! One of those last two was Laban. Glenn hadn’t even noticed his team getting slaughtered.

    Forgetting about his dry throat and aching ribs, Glenn jammed his knees into his horse’s sides and rode to defend the nearest, but MV was faster. Three blows—a look of dismay—and Fraelec toppled over his horse’s rump. Fraelec knew how to fall, or he might have been badly hurt, so fast they’d been riding.

    Glenn turned aside, a stitch agonizing in his ribs at every breath. MV bore down on Laban, and their horses circled tightly, as the two exchanged blows. It was a fast exchange—faster than any of the other scraps by a wide margin—the feints and blocks quick and practiced, and then Laban’s sword went flying. Laban laughed and threw his hands over his head as if to protect it.

    MV veered and thundered back toward Glenn, who was now encircled by enemies.

    Glenn made the signal for halt, knowing that he couldn’t let himself be knocked out of the saddle. He’d lose his prestige for certain. Because of his rank it would be an insult to them all.

    You won, he said, as off-hand as he could. And as MV reined up, grinning, Glenn lifted his voice, striving to sound commanding. Water break!

    The boys chased down their horses and brought them back to the campsite, some exchanging comments under their breath, and sending long glances MV’s way.

    MV seemed sublimely unaware.

    When they had their breath back, Glenn called out for the sword work. There, at least, they ought to make a good showing. He had two or three who even Commander Dei said showed promise.

    MV whipped every one of them. He did it so fast, and so hard, and without once losing his breath, that the boys fell silent, making it easier to hear MV’s hoarse, voiceless snicker—he was having fun. Everyone tried against him, except Laban, who insisted he’d wrenched his wrist losing his ash sword. Glenn watched, deciding that his place as commander did not require him to face that stinging ash blade.

    By then the servants had come and the smells of a savory soup drifted on the balmy afternoon air. Glenn declared a meal break, after which they’d pair off for the wrestling, but by then they knew who was going to win.

    The boys trudged back to camp to get their soup and bread-and-cheese.

    Glenn decided he’d better get it over with, and before the others heard. He stepped up next to MV, who walked with long strides that he abated for no one.

    You were at Khanerenth? For the Games? he asked.

    MV lifted a shoulder. Why not? It was fun.

    How do we compare?

    MV’s mouth twisted. You really want to hear it?

    Glenn shook his head, his internal vision of impressing Senrid vanishing like smoke. Will you teach us? Can you? he asked, all pretense at pride gone. So much for leading from the front! MV’s style was utterly unlike drill, everyone moving in unison to well-remembered calls.

    MV raised a long, capable hand to wipe back the black hair that fanged his brow as he squinted at the line of boys waiting for soup, some of them hunched to protect wrenched muscles and joints. They were sore now, and would be a lot sorer when they woke.

    I can, he said finally. And I will, but only till I get bored. I’ll get bored fast if they whine about clean beds, or how duchas’ boys aren’t treated with respect, or any similar horseshit.

    Glenn pressed his lips together. Right. I’ll speak to them.

    He did. And saw that they were impressed enough not to grumble.

    He gave orders to the servants to return to Ferdrian and bring tents, in case of rain, and food for a week.

    Already his promise to his sister was forgotten, in the face of what he saw as far greater need.

    3

    Colend

    The royal prince’s enormous staff had recently completed the yearly journey to the isolated palace at Skya Lake.

    I hate leaving Alsais, the cook’s new girl mourned.

    Cook and Jasvar the under-steward gave her tolerant glances.

    Of course you do, Cook said, drying her hands on her apron as she sank with a sigh into her chair next to the fire. But you’ll find that it’s comfy here. This is our own parlor. No one else can use it. The rest of the palace staff has never been here, so we can say what we like, and no one overhears.

    Are They settled, then? Cook asked, with a glance ceiling-ward.

    Jasvar nodded, sitting backward in a chair and leaning his forearms across the chair back. There he was, bulky, sixty if a day, gray-haired, and he still had the habits of boyhood—at least, when off duty. Astounding, how invisible so large a man could be when on duty.

    They weren’t happy to be back, Jasvar ventured.

    This news earned shrugs and ironic looks from the downstairs staff. Everyone in Prince Shontande’s staff had to work together, but those servants upstairs, specially trained by the heralds, were a close set, kept themselves to themselves, and in the considered opinions of those who kept the household running, gave themselves worse airs than any noble.

    But their job was also the hardest, for downstairs only had the palace to run. The upstairs staff—generally referred to as They or Them—had it to guard. It, and Him, the crown prince, beautiful as the picture of the Old King, but seldom glimpsed by the downstairs people.

    Downstairs knew they weren’t permitted to speak to Him, and they suspected He wasn’t supposed to speak to them either, though sometimes, on those rare occasions when there was an encounter, He did. He was so polite, so well-behaved, so interested. His few words were repeated often, and discussed among them as much as if they had been royal proclamations.

    The stable master came in, carrying the big tray, the cook’s assistant behind with everything that didn’t fit. At the welcome entrance of the Sartoran steep everyone looked happy.

    Ten years it’s been, Cook spoke with satisfaction. Ten years, and wasn’t it that second year that summer-steep came back?

    Jasvar said, Sartor was freed in ‘34, near as I remember.

    Cook thought back to her childhood, and the tiny dried leaves from Sartor that her grandmother had saved for either very special occasions, or for comfort after disasters. Was vivid memory of Grandmother’s earnest look, her careful hands, the best crockery, the anticipation, part of the wonder of its sunlit aroma, its blissful taste? There’s nothing like it in the world, she said after savoring a mouthful.

    Nothing, the stable master agreed, carefully pouring out his cup. They used the same gold-edged porcelain as Upstairs, another benefit of isolation. The beautiful—exquisite—porcelain had been left from some earlier royal sequestration generations ago.

    That was usually the opening for a good, comfortable gossip about things they didn’t discuss in the capital, where they were merely adjuncts to the King’s Household, and might be overheard. Here, they were safe from intrusive ears, and one of the great pleasures of returning was the sharing of treasured-up report, following which they might spend weeks in cheerful conjecture.

    After dishing the entire royal court, out came the memories, the eldest chuckling. I remember the turn of the year 700. Oh, the festivals! Nothing like since. But life zigs and zags, whatever they call the year.

    And so thoroughly did the Skya Palace downstairs staff embrace their old routine that at the week’s end, when Thad Keperi and the newcomer Curtas reached the coast of the great lake, winter had settled into the past, alive only in gossip; otherwise it seemed as if they’d never been away.

    Late on a spring morning of spectacular beauty Curtas and Thad stood on the northern shore of the lake, trading off staring to the southeast through the spyglass Curtas carried in his gear.

    This appeared to be a very good one; Thad had only looked through one once before. That one had flattened everything into distortion. He swept the glass along the opposite coastline, picking out fine houses amid century-old tended gardens, lawns, and ordered forest. Then, when he trained it eastward again, and focused on the pearlescent towers gleaming there atop the island in the middle of the eastern arm of the lake, it struck him that this was a very good spyglass, as good as you probably got in the military.

    He didn’t like to ask, but he suspected Curtas must have stolen it.

    The castle—made of the palest granite—was sharp as a painting against the deep blue of the sky. Thad studied the castle with half his attention, wondering what Curtas’s life had been like , raised by thieves. The eastern side of Skya Lake was completely empty, except for royal herald posts hidden from casual view. It was all crown land.

    Thad handed back the glass. If you were a thief you would know how to get in and out of places forbidden to everyone else.

    He turned to Curtas. What do we do now?

    Curtas had been waiting for questions that he wasn’t sure how to answer. The trip so far had been fun. Curtas hadn’t had to think ahead at all. Thad came from a family accustomed to the inner byways used by scribe messengers, and all it had taken was the right word spoken at guild houses along the way, and they had food, horses, and good beds. When the weather turned nasty there were even plain clothes of various sorts, all things left behind by travelers for others to use and in turn pass on.

    Now it was Curtas’s turn to know the way.

    Cross over.

    I hope not a boat, Thad said. I don’t know much about this area, but I do know it’s forbidden to cross the lake. They’d have to see us, and we’ll be arrested, most assuredly.

    It’s a tunnel that goes beneath.

    Thad drew in a breath. I’ve heard stories about tunnels under the castle! My oldest cousin says he read about one in an old history, when he was studying to become an archivist-scribe, up in Ymadan. I’ve got to do more reading! So it’s real, not a story, and you found it, is that what you’re saying?

    Someone showed me, Curtas ventured. To be exact.

    Brief, vivid memory: the unremarkable hazel gaze, the quiet voice, Here is the access way. Here is how you open it. And close it. The knowledge is now yours. It can either help you or destroy you, depending on how you use it.

    The memory faded, and there was Thad’s expectant face. When Curtas said nothing more, Thad wondered if thieves had their own form of melende.

    Shall we go while the weather is holding, then? Curtas suggested, and Thad put his hands together in assent.

    It was a relief to follow orders. The next three days, so tense, so scary for Thad, were extended proof just how far outside his experience he’d strayed. The entire world seemed different as they lay side by side on a slanted roof, Thad shoved up against the edge of the pale stone of which the castle was made.

    He kept silence, because it had been made clear that Curtas did not share his apprehension. Not after that first day when they camped in the tunnel so far down it was neither cold nor warm, and Curtas gave him a quick grin. It’ll be easy. You’ll see. They’re all so used to their routine. As long as we take care never to leave any sign, or make any noise, we’ll waft right through. A picnic.

    A picnic? Thad’s idea of a picnic was a shared basket of food in a summer glade. But he would never think of going back.

    As the crown prince methodically practiced his archery directly below them, Thad cautiously lifted his head to take in the jumble of roofs above four courtyards at different heights. The one they lay above was the highest, built above the royal rooms. Beyond the wall in the other direction lay the lake, reflecting with wind-stirred ripples the gray-streaked sky.

    Slam! Below, the crown prince lowered his bow. A servant ran to pull arrows from the target at the other end of the court, and brought them back, laying them on a little table next to Prince Shontande, who murmured a word of thanks, then picked up an arrow and fitted it to the bow. He drew his arm back in a single smooth motion, straight from elbow to fingertip. When he shot his arm snapped back, swept down to the arrows, and brought up another in a smooth circle. He never once looked down.

    He’s good, Thad breathed.

    Curtas turned his head sideways, his mouth long. Promising form, though slow. But he’ll never actually have to use that skill—it’s entirely art here, because of the Covenant of Civility.

    The cold wind took their words up over the roof and beyond. The sentries on the walls below were far out of hearing.

    The first day, they spent just observing. We’ll bring food for four days, if we can, Curtas had said. I know their schedule in the capital, but it might vary here. By the end of the second day, Curtas had declared that the variation was insignificant. Prince Shontande was more in evidence, in a way he never was in the capital. Here there was no one to see him but his household.

    Pang! Another arrow. Pang! Steady, methodical, and each if not a perfect shot, certainly close enough within the four rings of the target not to be shameful—or so Thad thought, but this time he did not voice his opinion.

    A tiny noise made them both freeze, Curtas’s hand vanishing among his clothes and coming out with a wicked two-edged dagger. Where had he kept that?

    A plump cat walked delicately along the roof edge, tail high. They pressed down flat. The animal minced up to them, sniffed each, flicked its tail, then dropped down to the court.

    Thad watched the prince become aware of the animal. Until then Shontande Lirendi had appeared intimidatingly remote, flawless in dress and feature, so very much a ryal that Thad could not believe the prince would do anything but call the guards on them if they dared to make themselves known.

    But at the sight of the cat his smile transformed his face, making him seem less a prince from some distant tale out of history and more like a boy of scarcely ten. As Curtas and Thad watched, Shontande chirruped to the cat.

    Who sat down and began a slow, complacent grooming session.

    And so it was the prince, and not the cat, who had to cross the distance in order to make contact.

    Curtas drew in a breath that Thad heard. This is it.

    Thad’s mouth dried.

    Curtas moved again, and the knife vanished. Curtas rolled something between thumb and forefinger as below them the golden head bowed over the purring animal, who butted up against the prince’s silk covered leg.

    One last check of the skyline, and then Curtas raised himself on one elbow, squinted, and with a sharp sling of his wrist tossed down the little stone.

    It struck Shontande’s arm. The prince stilled, and the cat, sensing something wrong, swarmed fluidly around his ankle and shot off across the court. Shontande looked up, the boys looked down, and once again Thad sustained a shock as the wind fingered through the prince’s long what-colored hair, sunlight limning the contours of his perfect face. Thad had always heard that he was the most beautiful of all the Lirendis, as beautiful as the infamous Mathias the Emperor, and maybe even as beautiful as the first Lirendi king, Martande. But it wasn’t Shontande’s beauty that made Thad feel almost dizzy, it was the intensity of the prince’s change in expression from wariness to a smile of surprise, of joy.

    Shontande swung to his feet, as fluid and unconsciously graceful as the cat. His liveried servant stood at the wall side of the target, gazing out over the lake, as he had been ever since the prince had knelt to pet the cat.

    Shontande chirruped again, this time louder. The servants glanced up, then away again. Two, three, no, four cats appeared from the various places they’d been roaming, trotting toward Shontande, tails high.

    I think they’re hungry, Shontande called to his servant. Perhaps the kitchen staff forgot to put their bowls out. Please fetch some fresh fish.

    The liveried servant bowed and withdrew. Shontande moved a step nearer, then knelt and stroked another cat that the boys hadn’t noticed.

    You must not be seen, he said, lightly, so his voice would not carry.

    Thad and Curtas elbow-crawled forward the better to hear the soft-spoken words.

    The Council will have the guards killed along with anyone caught here, Shontande said. They will insist you are a threat, and the guards negligent. This is their lives.

    I know, Curtas responded, also lightly. Thad didn’t dare speak. There’s an old tunnel. We spotted the routine first.

    Very well. And thank you.

    I shall talk fast, this time. Curtas leaned forward, low-voiced. Next time, more stories about life out there. Right now, Terry—Prince Tereneth of Erdrael Danara—wants you to know that there is a secret youth alliance against Norsunder. Thad here is a part, as well. They want you to join.

    I can do nothing. I cannot even order when we come here, or how long we stay.

    No one mistook the bitterness in that quiet voice.

    Yet, Thad ventured, agonized on the prince’s behalf. How unfair this imprisonment was! And it had gone on all his life. Why? Part of the unspoken, of course: The King’s Madness. Until then, everyone wants you among us.

    Shontande lifted his head, and Thad’s eyes met that dark blue gaze, earnest, intense, so intense it seemed as if the prince could hear his thoughts and read his anguish on the prince’s behalf, his love for his country, even for the king, mad as he was: sustaining that gaze felt dizzying, almost painful—as if one stared at the sun. Who is everybody? Shontande asked, which broke the strange spell.

    Thad rattled off names as the prince listened, his head high as if he concentrated. No hint of recognition lifted his brows—of course he didn’t know anyone of them, kept prisoner as he was—but at the end he touched his fingertips together courteously. Please tender them all my greetings and gratitude. And to Curtas, You’ll return?

    Yes, Curtas said, and to underscore the promise, he restated the obvious: When they’ve settled into a routine, they won’t be as vigilant.

    Shontande touched his fingertips together again, then turned his dense blue gaze Thad’s way. Your name?

    Thad Keperi.

    I’m honored. But you must never be seen.

    Thad dipped his head in acknowledgement, as close to a bow as he could manage while lying flat.

    I’ll bring you more news when I can, Curtas promised.

    Then I—

    They all heard the footsteps coming up the last of the stairs on the opposite side of the court, and Curtas and Thad had barely enough time to scrunch back before the liveried servant reappeared, carrying a silver tray with two-hundred year old gold-edged porcelain dishes piled with fresh-caught fish.

    Prince and servant set out the dishes for the eight or ten cats who had silently gathered. Then Shontande stood up, dusted his fingers and said, I’m done for now, I believe. He left without a backward look, the servant following.

    Thad did not speak until much later, after a sometimes terrifying descent to the tunnel. There, in the dark, he let out his breath in an exclamation, He’s not mad.

    He could not see Curtas, but heard his amusement. Never said he was.

    But we all have worried. Because why else would he be kept in a cage?

    You didn’t think his father’s madness inherited, did you?

    Thad hugged his arms against himself. Though he’d met several princes by now, and followed with sickening tension the distant reports of the Everoneth battle, it wasn’t until now—in this tunnel below the handsome prison sheltering Colend’s crown prince—that he felt a sense of being lost in vast events he only partly understood. But what else is there?

    Dark magic. Curtas’s voice was flat. From Norsunder.

    4

    Karhin Keperi woke suddenly, filled with joy. It was odd, how sometimes she knew when certain people neared Wilderfeld. She did not believe it was Dena Yeresbeth, at least not as she understood it from talk about Liere Fer Eider, who could hear your thoughts, and who could walk in your dreams from half the world away.

    Karhin occasionally heard thoughts, or at least she thought she did. It might only be her imagination, which she knew was vivid. She was more certain about this knack for knowing who was coming, because they always showed up.

    Today, it was going to be Rel.

    She rose, and instead of stepping through the cleaning frame, she took a bath, filled with her favorite herbs. She dressed carefully, then sat down to her accumulated correspondence, finding a letter on top from Terry.

    The awkward scrawl was invisible to her by now. Terry was funny, and wry, and friendly—everyone who visited him came back talking about how much they liked him. She hoped they would meet again soon, and in the meantime, as she chose a fresh sheet of Dawn’s Gleam paper in order to answer, she felt that this would be a good day.

    As for Rel, he tramped the last distance, as always appreciating Colend’s pretty roads that looped gracefully alongside canals and hills.

    There was no reason to go to Wilderfeld, except that it had become habit after he had been traveling for a while. It wasn’t in any sense a home any more than that little cottage up in the mountains. The concept of home still brought the image of people, not places—except for Sartor’s capital city.

    Raneseh and his daughter were childhood home—safety—and Atan’s palace in Eidervaen was the anti-home, because those guarding Atan had made it clear that his stays must be infrequent, and never last longer than three days. And yet his friendship with Mendaen, Hannla, Hinder, and Atan felt more like what he understood home was to feel like, a sense of belonging. Wilderfeld was where he could catch up on alliance news over winter while he’d been in Erdrael Danara. But as familiar landmarks appeared on the river road, he recognized the tightness in his neck as apprehension.

    He knew the cause. And he was conscious of regret. No blame to CJ if she’d told everyone in the alliance about his successful search last summer. He hadn’t thought to ask her not to, and he knew those Mearsiean girls

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