“But small parties travel more swiftly than large ones,” Kivik offered eagerly. “And our horses here are well rested. If Skerry and I took a handful of men and went on ahead—”
The King interrupted him with a look like a thunderstorm. “Neither of you look capable of sitting a horse.
And even if you were able to ride, what do you believe such a small number could accomplish against three of Ouriána’s priests? By all accounts, their powers are terrible.”
“We will go, too.” The words were out of Sindérian’s mouth almost before she thought them. “My father, Prince Ruan, Aell, and I—we will go with Prince Kivik. If we can’t stop the Pharaxions, perhaps we can at least delay them until you and your army arrive. And it sometimes happens that a small party can manage by luck and ingenuity what a greater army never could by mere force.
“As for your son and Lord Skerry,” she added with a glance in their direction, “no doubt your healers here have exhausted their strength trying to help so many. But if you will let me try what I can do, it’s possible they may be able to ride by morning.”
After the King gave his consent, Sindérian transferred Faolein from her arm to Aell’s, braided back her hair, and pushed up her sleeves.
She made each young prince lie down in turn on a bench by the fire. Then she made a careful examination, feeling with a combination of touch and intuition for broken bones, flesh and nerves stretched past their limits, animal spirits failing, and blood running thin. In this way she learned that Kivik had three cracked ribs and Skerry a broken arm, in addition to many gashes, scrapes, and bruises between them. As she had expected, in each case there had been a great loss of blood.
Having determined so much, Sindérian began to set her charms: drawing the runes quornü, rühas, craich, and güwelan in water and ashes, pouring thought and intention into battered flesh and broken bones, along with as much of her own vital and animal spirits as she dared, to compensate for the loss of blood.
“Omaro gürdath maren, oma gürdath onés,” she chanted under her breath as she worked the final shibeath on Skerry. “Diohach séo güwelean nésoma!”
Already exhausted by long days in the saddle, short rest, and less sleep, she was white and trembling by the time she had finished. She took two steps away from the bench, and her bones turned to water, her knees buckled, the world went spinning away into a grey void. She would have fallen if Prince Ruan had not somehow anticipated her swoon and moved in quickly to catch her.
“That was not very wise,” he hissed under his breath when he had helped her back to her former seat by the fire. “One day, you will go too far.”
It was now near midnight and far too dark, under the withered moon, to think of riding out. That meant there was time enough for rest and to eat a scanty meal.
After they ate, one of the healers took Sindérian through the maze of stone and shadows that was the keep, and finally into a tower room where she could sleep.
Strange thoughts danced in her brain, a procession of fey, bright images: wicked queens, bone-grinding ogres, owl-headed witches. I have seen this place, this fortress, before, she told Faolein as she sat down on the small makeshift bed. I dreamed of it long ago. It was different, as things often are different in the way of dreams, but still too like to be mistaken.
And was it a good dream or an ill one? her father asked.
Sindérian shook her head, uncertain how to answer. Neither good nor bad. But I dreamed that dream on the day after the night the Princess was born, and I can’t help thinking we were intended to meet here, she and I.
Neither said so, but they both knew what that meant. If the meeting had occurred as it was fated, everyone might have been spared much trouble and grief. As they had not met, no good could come of it.
In the small hours of the morning those who had been chosen for the rescue party headed for the stables, where horses and provisions were already awaiting them. A cool dawn wind swirled through the courtyards, causing the torches that some of them carried to flicker wildly.
Striding along beside the two Skyrran princes, Sindérian felt stronger after her short sleep. Dismay at arriving too late had given way to her native stubbornness—which always had an invigorating effect. Her mind was so busy with thoughts of the days and challenges ahead, she was taken by surprise when Prince Ruan abruptly reached out and clasped her by the wrist, drawing her away from the others.
His handsome face was pale and oddly intent. “You have some plan you chose not to reveal to the King—when do you not have a plan? But this time the risk is too great. It’s not too late to change your mind, wait here with the King, and follow after us later.”
Sindérian stopped walking. “Do you think I am afraid to share in the danger?”
“No, I think you are careless of your own safety—and therein lies the peril. I think there is something you have been hiding from the rest of us, ever since we almost drowned in the Necke.” His grip on her arm tightened; his suspicious frown deepened. “‘By luck and ingenuity,’ you said. You have a courageous spirit, but even with the greatest luck in the world, what do you think you can do to hinder three Furiádhin?”
She shook back her long, dark hair, made a dismissive gesture. “Éireamhóine faced six of them, and killed three.”
“Éireamhóine had nearly five times your years and experience, and by the King’s account he paid dearly for those three deaths. If I were killed or maimed, who would suffer for it except myself? My grandfather has more than a dozen grandsons. And King Ristil has other sons besides Prince Kivik. But you have gifts that would be sorely missed.”
“Then let me use those gifts! Let me not waste them,” she said passionately. “And you seem to forget that Faolein will be with us.”
“I forget nothing. But Faolein seems to have lost the power to do anything beyond changing his shape—and never back to the one he had before, the one best able to help us.”
Unable to endure his steady, unnerving gaze, Sindérian slipped out of his grasp. The others, after hesitating a moment to see if she and Ruan would follow, were getting too far ahead. Fearing to lose her way in the maze of yards, she gathered up her full skirts in both hands and hurried to catch up with them.
“It’s true my father can no longer make the signs or speak the words,” she tossed over her shoulder, “but every spell and charm he ever knew is still with him. You saw what I was able to do in Arkenfell under his instruction. If Faolein goes, then so must I, to serve as his hands and voice.”
Drawing even with her, the Prince strode along at her side, still scowling ferociously. “It is not for me to tell you what to do. The wizards of Leal are the High King’s allies, not his subjects. But if you were my sister or my cousin—”
“If I were your sister or your cousin,” she retorted, “you still wouldn’t have the power or the right to change my mind!”
12
For a night and a day they travelled at a punishing pace—priests, acolytes, temple guards, and their angry, confused, and terrified prisoner—without sleep, without food, stopping only briefly to rest the horses or to perform their accustomed rituals at moonrise and moonset. At night, the Furiádhin conjured up eerie spinning globes of green luminosity to light the way down dangerous mountain roads. By day, they raised the hoods of their crimson cloaks and rode with their faces in shadow, protecting their moon-pale skin from the sun.
Winloki sat up as straight as she could in the saddle, tearless, defiant, determined to show neither weakness nor fear. She had passed beyond exhaustion into that waking dream-state where the body no longer knows it is being pushed beyond its limits. Her captors had bound her so securely to the saddle there was no danger of her falling off during this wild ride over sometimes rough terrain—they had also, more ominously, manacled her hands. Thin silver bracelets encircled her wrists, joined together by a fine but exceedingly strong silver chain.