I touched them again and again, wouldn’t stop, until Leode laughed and pushed me away, and Mordan grabbed my hands.
“You’re gross,” he said. “If you fell in the river it’d go brown.”
“Djain.” Chureal’s voice was sibilant with horror. “The girl’s a witch. She summons djain––”
Tem stood up, and so did Mordan.
“Why should that worry you?” said Mordan.
“Touch my sister,” said Tem, “and you’ll see a demon, right enough.”
Leode climbed to his feet, too. “We can make the trees squeeze your ugly heads off.”
Chureal disregarded this and looked over Leode’s head. His hand touched his scabbard and he muttered something to the soldiers alongside him.
“Boy,” said a man’s voice behind us, “I hope you don’t mean to threaten us with that nonsense.”
He spoke in the trader’s tongue. We turned and watched as he strode toward us. He had a dented breastplate with a strange insignia––a bounding hare––and a sopping wool cloak. He was short for a human, middle-aged, with dark skin.
The undergrowth stirred behind him; branches whipped water about, and twenty youngish men walked out of the wood. Dew shone on their mail. Their surcoats were rain-blue, and they had golden six-pointed stars on their breasts.
“Commander Chureal?” The man stopped in front of the Ombenelvan officer, and there was a loud scraping of metal as Chureal drew his saber. The other man put up a hand. “You’re surrounded by my men. We have fire artillery, and it’s horrible, grim stuff. Aclunese.”
“By Ayevur’s light,” said Trid..
“We are seven thousand,” the man said. “More are coming.”
Trid wiped wet grass off his breeches. “They found you. They really found you.”
The man eyed Trid curiously.
“Behind you,” called one of the blue soldiers as Chureal raised his saber. The Evenalehn man turned, drew his own sword, and made a neat flick; the saber flashed in the sun and landed on the ground. There was a hiss like steam escaping from a pot as all the Evenalehn soldiers (there were more than a hundred by now) drew their short swords. A dozen stood behind their officer and the rest walked briskly down the line of Ombenelva, who fingered their sword belts, looking at Chureal.
“Sit,” said the Evenalehn man, and he pricked Chureal’s neck with his sword. “Command your men to sit.”
Looking thoroughly annoyed, Chureal barked an order. The Ombenelva sat as one. It looked like a vast fortress falling in on itself. I could just make out, beyond the dark of the Ombenelvan contingent, a crescent of blue, like the sun pulling out of eclipse.
“This whole region’s got the blight of a standing army,” the Evenalehn officer said to Trid. “We didn’t know where the army was, though, until those”––he looked Trid over again––“They must have been friends of yours. Not sure who you are. A human, obviously, raggedy as a pot boy, but you speak like a gentleman.” He shrugged. “The consul’s better at formalities, but he’s got to heave himself up here. I’m Officer Detrador of the twenty-second Benmar regiment.”
The man gave a little bow. And then he saw, really saw, the rest of us. “You look like hell. Have you all been ill?”
Trid looked at my brothers. He cleared his throat. “A bit more complicated––”
“A very long illness,” said Tem. He was an odd sight: icicle-white in the sun and smiling like it was his birthday.
“A stranger night I’ve never lived through,” said Meladrau, relief wilting his shoulders. “It’s a fact, sir, a fact.”
“We’re thrilled you’re here, Officer.” Mordan took the man’s hands and kissed his cheeks.
“And who are you, my good young Gireldine?” said Detrador.
“Mordan Lauriad, who was a very unhappy bird.”
“A––a bird?” Detrador scratched his beard.
“What’s this?” An older man came clear of the trees with the help of a young soldier. “What’s going on?” He pushed the boy’s arms away. “I’m not that old, Prini.”
His white hair was closely clipped in the patrician style of Evenalehn, and his robes were heavy with mud at the hem. He surveyed us, twisting a finger in his ear. “Detrador,” he said, “I’ve never seen a sorrier looking bunch of people.”
“Consul. This one thinks he’s a Lauriad.” Detrador pointed at Mordan. “And a bird. Must’ve been put through extreme torture.”
“You’ve no idea.” Mordan was bouncing on his toes.
“I thought this might happen,” said Tem, stepping forward. “Consul, you must believe us. We are Lauriads, the King’s own children. We were presumed dead but we’d only hidden ourselves.” He frowned. “After a fashion.”
“Poor boy.” The Consul’s old voice wavered. He took out a handkerchief and touched it to his eyes. “Poor boy. We’ll find you a bed––”
“It’s true, you bag of bones.” I looked behind me. Andrei still sat against the rowan trunk. His head drooped, as though he didn’t have the strength to keep it up.
The Consul walked under the tree and said, “You might mind your manners.” And then more gently, “You look the worst of the lot.” He stood up straighter, digging in his pocket for something--an eyeglass. “I know you. You’re––”
“The Queen’s bastard. Let’s not waste time.”
The Consul walked back to my eldest brother, studying him through the eyeglass. “And I suppose you’re Temmaic?” he said, watching my brother closely.
“Yes.”
“How many siblings have you?”
“Four.”
“All brothers, right?” He eyed Tem keenly.
“My sister is right behind you, sir, and will you grill her, too?”
“Ha!” The Consul turned round. “I believe he’s telling the truth. Is he telling the truth?” he said to me. “Are you Lauriad’s little girl that got her head smashed in by a brigand?
“I don’t know about Lauriad’s little girl.” My feet were stinging and it made me sharp. “But I’m about ready to deck you in the face.” I stopped then, and looked more closely at the face. I imagined a beard on it.
“By God!” I said. “Don’t you know me?”
Confusion passed over Calragen’s face. “I’ve known a lot of people. Tend to get them confused.”
“We went down the river together.” I thought I might cry. “You called me Aloren.”
“Aloren…” He took my face in his hand and wiped the mud away with his sleeve. “There they are. The freckles.” He laughed and shook his head. “Aloren! A princess with four brothers.”
“If you don’t mind,” said Floy, who sat next to me, stroking my hair, “there are people here who need to be looked to.” I smiled at her and went to sleep.
***
“Where’s Andrei?” I asked upon waking. My blanket slipped from the cot onto the floor. Afternoon sun poured into the tent through the tied flap, bathing my legs. I was wearing a clean nightshirt, and my feet were wrapped in a cloth wet with carron oil.
“I couldn’t have asked for a merrier greeting.” Arin was on the cot next to mine. “Not a word for me, her own kin, and here I lie on the verge of death.”
“I’ll give you the verge of death,” I said.
“It’d be too easy,” Arin said lazily. “Half my body’s already jumped over it.”
“What?” I sat up. “What’s happened?”
“Doesn’t hurt. Better than being a swan.” He sat up against his pillow. I could see it took a tremendous effort. “It’s my left half. Won’t do what I want.” He changed the subject. “Andrei?”
“The boy who looks like shit.”
“The Queen’s brat?”
“How is he?”
“Very much an enigma. His mouth’s been too busy to tell us anything. He’s done little but eat since this morning. Now he’s sleeping, see?” He pointed to the other side of the tent. There was someone bundled in the cot there. “And you, out like a candle, wouldn’t tell us much, either. Mordan, though, he told the whole damn story. And now you’re awake we’d better get--”
The door flap fluttered and Calragen stuck his head through.
“Little else can be done, boy, very little.” This was said to Trid, who came in after him. Once inside his voice dropped to a whisper: “Ten thousand? Without that amulet, there is very little I can do––”
“I’m afraid it’s gone, sir,” Trid said. “Gone. You’ll get no more out of him. He needs bed rest, not an old man badgering––”
“You’re afraid it’s gone? They won’t leave with good grace. And there’re two thousand up here alone. They might demand another victim.”
“I should think,” whispered Trid furiously, “Herist would make a fitting sacrifice. We could just set him alight. He’s more unlikely to complain than even she was.”
The two of them looked over at me. “She’s awake.” Calragen bent over my bed with a great creak. “My Lady. You’ve proven exceptional at keeping secrets. Surely you can help?”
“Look in the coat pockets,” I said.
“What?” He looked at me charily, scared I’d finally cracked, probably.
“There.” I pointed to a grey coat draped over a chair. Herist’s coat. “Check the pocket. He took it when he searched me.” Trid reached for the coat, and shook it over the floor. The broach––the dragonfly that I had taken from the smithy during the insurrection and carried all the long way north––clapped on the dirt. Calragen snatched it up and turned to me in stupefaction.
“You found it.”
“No,” I said. “Nefer made it from your sketch. Open it––he made the other piece without looking at a design. He was amazing. It’s in there. It’s almost exactly the same as the other. If you thought it was the original, they will, too.”
“But what’s this to do with––?”
“Open it!”
“How?”
“Give it here.” He did so, and I folded back the silver legs and dropped the tiny urn into my lap. “Use this to get the Ombenelva out. It’s not really a bottle. But they’ll never find out. They wouldn’t dare try to unscrew the cap. They’d––I expect they’d be too yellow. They’ll never know there in’t nothing inside.”
“But this? What is it?”
“The Aebelavadar. A fake one.”
Calragen’s jaw worked, his eyes moved from the broach to the lump in the bed across from me.
“There it is,” I said. “There’s no way around it. That’s the boy you want. It’d be funny if it weren’t such a mess of blood.”
“The Queen’s bastard?” said Calragen.
“What?” Trid moved his head from me to Calragen. “What?”
“He’s the Ravyir’s missing son,” I said.
“Really?” said Trid crossly. “I can tell there’s some big story needs telling. But leave him alone for now.” And so we did.
***
Later that day the boys carried Arin outside, and we ate a supper of last autumn’s beans and potatoes on the grass outside the tent. Calragen ate with us, and so did Trid, who was getting on splendidly with Tem. The late sun cast its honey light between the trees, and the evening birds started twittering. I could no longer understand them, not directly. What grace had been given me was gone. It made me a little sad.
We told tales, and after a small, initial struggle I slipped back into the normal way of speaking, and wondered how I had ever got by without it. And just to make sure I knocked Mordan’s bowl of hash into his lap, and said, “It was me did that.”
The sun sank low, and Mordan was smearing hash on me, and Trid looked up and said, “What are you doing up?”
Andrei stood in the entrance of the tent. “I’m hungry.” He looked better after a day of sleep, but his eyes were still strange.
Trid got up and spooned hash from from the pan into a bowl, and gave it to him.
He stared so fixedly into the bowl I though there might be a mouse in it. “I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Why are your eyes brown?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Stay here,” said Tem. “The Consul wants to tell a story.”
“About Faiorsa,” said Arin. “She wasn’t your mother.”
“Which ought to cure you quicker than food ever could,” said Leode through his mouthful of hash.
“You rogue,” said Calragen. “Sit down,” he said to Andrei, “and let me work it out.” He picked a bean off his shirt, and Andrei sat next to Trid.
“Funny thing is, I thought I had worked it out. Too weeks ago Caveira just as good as told me the Ravyir’s son was dead. But the story starts fifteen years back. As you know, a woman named Yelse murdered the Ravinya of Lorila and stole the baby prince. Caveira caught Yelse on the border. Though he knew the baby, he didn’t turn the woman in, because she was beautiful, and a witch. Caveira––oh, the rascal was very desperate two weeks ago and could hold it in no longer––but I shall get to that later.
“Caveira let her go, thinking she would repay him by performing the happy dispatch on the Ravyir’s son. His family was next in line for the throne, you see. So Ravyir Gavorian of Lorila, thinking his son was dead, turned to Caveira, who was childless, and it was tenuously decided that he would be heir presumptive to the kingdom, and his nephew Natridom after him, in lieu of, you know––”
Trid stared at the man and slowly shook his head. “I never heard.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have. It was kept quiet. And years passed and Lorila’s other peers grew…unhappy. Natridom was sent to train at Norembry’s court for his safety, and Caveira became nervous when he learned Yelse had got hold of the Aebelavadar and all its baggage. His nephew was over there and he suspected her of designs against his family––and I see why, now. It was because she had failed to kill the baby prince. Caveira was nervous already, for the other Lorilan nobles were plotting against him, and the Ravyir would listen to no counsel. You know what they say about him––surrounded by thieves and murderers and can’t bear to think ill of any of them. And so Caveira thought he would have to win Lorila by force. He was only thinking of the country’s stability, he said to me.
“So he began to collect men. He already had an accomplice in Herist, whom he had entrusted with Natridom’s safety. He promised Herist land, a whole province, if you can believe it. And when Yelse, who was calling herself Faiorsa, invited the Ombenelvan mercenaries into Norembry, Caveira thought to collect more men by frightening the Ravyir with rumors of invasion. Herist did his part on the other side of the border, threatening Lorila with war. Whether that was what Yelse had intended for the mercenaries, I don’t know. But she was very ill by that time (poisoned, folk say) and Herist was free to go forward with his warmongering, and of course the Ravyir gave Caveira more troops.
“Caveira only ever wanted Lorila. But Herist, it seems, was more ambitious. He had control over the Ombenelvan mercenaries, as well as Caveira’s nephew. Caveira should have expected it. If Herist had guile enough to pry power away from Yelse, then certainly Herist had the wits to carve his own agenda from this tangle of scheming.
“But Caveira never guessed, and he had no choice but to turn to the city of Even-Alehn when Herist betrayed him. And the city sent me, whom Caveira thought dead by his own hands! When he saw that it was I, Calragen Eligarda, he knew he had better tell me the whole of it. Herist had his balls in a twist, as he said. So he told me, thinking I might have a way out for him, and he must have been keen on a particular way out, for he failed to mention that Yelse had never fulfilled her promise to him, had never done away with the Ravyir’s son. Andrei, that’s you.”
Andrei put his bowl down in front of him.
“Demyan Eliav,” said Calragen. “That’s your name, if he is in fact you. But there is story here I do not know.”
“So that’s Lorila sorted out,” said Arin. He took a big bite of hash. “Remind me, though, how many countries are we dealing with, and whose is which?” Forgetting he was disabled, I smacked him over the head.
“Lorila sorted out?” said Calragen. “An amusing theory, my good young Gireldine, but haven’t you heard? The Ravyir’s under siege. Been cornered at Akurya.”
“By whom?” said Trid.
“Keldanst of Olefeln. And I’ve just been told an army of Goyinki is marching on Dirlan, and there’s no one to defend it because Caveira’s troops have mutinied, and Caveira was caught in the brunt and killed. The land’s a mess.” He wiped his mouth with a sleeve.
“It’s about time someone mutinied,” said Trid. “Leadership’s gone to shit in these parts. I want nothing to do with it.”
“Born into it, weren’t you?” said Arin.
“Over in Benmarum people aren’t born into anything except the world,” said Trid.
We didn’t move for a long time; and the sun slid off the grass, and the evening chill moved in.