“inconvenience.”
Camhóinhann’s long figure moved across the camp to join her. He was followed by one of the acolytes, who placed a large bundle of cloth in her lap. She frowned up at him, startled, suspecting…she scarcely knew what she suspected, only that it could hardly be anything good.
Still, her curiosity had been piqued, and she could not resist unwinding the wrappings. Inside, she found a gown and a cloak: the former of a dull gold velvet, the other of a rich brocade. She stared at these things for several minutes, dumbfounded, before she realized such beautiful garments were meant for her.
Then the priest bent down and deftly removed the chain from the silver manacles. “I believe this will no longer be necessary. And it is time we began to treat you according to your rank. As a princess of Phaôrax, it is hardly appropriate for you to be taken there in rags and chains.”
At first she was only bewildered, trying to make sense of his words. Despite her abduction by Ouriána’s priests, she had never imagined that she herself might have any connection to Phaôrax—because if that land had a legitimate claim to her, what need for kidnapping? Besides, if she were a Pharaxion princess—
Understanding came like a physical shock. “But that would mean—that would—that would mean some near kinship with…” Try as she might, she could not get the words out.
“With the Empress Ouriána, yes. Her sister was your mother.”
A thousand new questions, a thousand wild speculations and suppositions jostled for space in her mind.
Incredible to believe she could actually be related by blood to the woman most hated and feared in all the world—and a self-proclaimed goddess at that! She cudgeled her brain, trying to remember everything she knew about the Dark Lady of Phaôrax. Again her knowledge was far too scant, and none of it encouraging.
“But then why was I taken to Skyrra? Why was I raised there and never told anything about my mother or father?”
“Your mother was sister to the Empress, but your father was a Thäerian prince. Not of the Pendawer line; of the house that ruled there before the fall of Alluinn, when the High Kings made Thäerie their home. That is where you were born, on the isle of Thäerie, almost twenty years ago.”
“But Thäerie and Phaôrax are at war. They’ve been at war since—” Truly, she did not even know how long. It might have been a century, it might have been forever. What had that war ever meant to her, half the world away on Skyrra?
“Your father was killed fighting that war, and your mother…indirectly.” Camhóinhann hesitated, so briefly Winloki almost failed to notice it. “When she died, there was some question where you belonged, who should take charge of you. The King on Thäerie and his allies on Leal decided to hide you away, so that your mother’s people would never find you.”
Lies, he is telling me lies, she thought. Or at least, he’s not telling me all of the truth. How many of those omissions concealed a threat? Certainly, there were no answers to be had from studying his face.
The eyes are windows to the souclass="underline" she had heard that said many times. But the eyes of a furiádh admitted no light; they only reflected it, so that you could never see in. The dead white skin was similarly opaque; even the lips and the rims of the eyes were void of color, apparently bloodless. That there was blood in his veins she knew only from the powerful beating of his heart that first day, when he snatched her up in his arms and carried her before him on his horse.
She looked down again at the fine clothes he had given her, and the silver she wore on her wrists caught the light. Without the chain she could move more freely—but so long as the bracelets and her guards remained she was still his prisoner. That hardly argued that his Empress’s intentions were wholly benign.
And if I am half of Thäerie and half of Phaôrax—which half is it that Ouriána wants?
17
The rescue party, muddy, disheartened, and weary after three days wandering, came out of the fens, leading their horses, and walked into a world of wind and empty sky, so flat and featureless it might have been the world unmade and waiting to be created again. To the east and west, there was only silt and sand, unmarked except for occasional bird tracks. To the south the salt flats ended at a glittering sheet of water.
For a time nobody spoke; the sickening sense of failure was simply too great. All possibility of fulfilling their avowed task—to delay Winloki’s captors until King Ristil and his army might arrive—came to an end at the sea. The Necke was a barrier the King and his riders would never cross, not while half of Skyrra remained in Eisenlonder hands.
Sindérian was the first to break the silence. “Camhóinhann and the rest can’t fly to Phaôrax; neither can they swim.” Though her words were clearly intended to encourage the others, she spoke in a dull voice, entirely lacking the vitality and determination Prince Ruan had come to expect of her. “There may be news of them somewhere along the coast. Let us at least make certain they are no longer on Skyrran soil.”
They mounted and rode east into that vast emptiness, while a bitter-tasting wind off the sea tried to blow them back into the marsh. Sometimes they splashed through shallow saltwater creeks running inland; sometimes they could hear the muted roar of the sea, faint but threatening, like thunder heard at a distance.
In the afternoon they came into a village: about twenty houses gathered together on two crooked streets, and another half-dozen straggling along the beach. Most were only driftwood shacks, but a few of the better sort were of wattle and daub with seashells showing through the plaster. In Ruan’s experience, the great cities, the larger towns, they each had their distinctive character whether you travelled north, south, east, or west, but coastal villages were much the same everywhere. He saw little to distinguish this one from hundreds like it on Thäerie and Leal. There was even a ramshackle pier staggering out into the water, and a slatternly little tavern with a starfish tacked up over the door. He saw no boats, not even a sail on the horizon, but then, at this hour the fishing boats would be about their business far from shore.
Hunger and a desire for news drew the weary travellers inevitably toward the alehouse. Once through the door, the interior was smoky and unwholesome, so small that half of the riders chose to sit outside on the porch instead. The host served a surprisingly good thick soup, along with beakers of a dark local brew tasting strongly of seaweed, which made a satisfying meal. And before he moved on with his pitcher of ale, he regaled the princes and Sindérian with a tale that had been amazing people up and down this stretch of coast for the past three days: how some odd-looking foreigners had been seen in the town of Havneby thirty miles away, how a fine, large fishing boat had disappeared that same night, all of which had been followed by a mysterious gift of thirty-five riderless horses the townsfolk discovered grazing in their gardens or running wild on the beach the following morning.
“But why a fishing boat?” Kivik exchanged a bewildered glance with Skerry across the scarred plank table. “I always thought they would have a ship of their own waiting for them. If they are planning to sail to Phaôrax—”
“They have no such intention,” said Ruan. “They will be travelling overland most of the way, as they did before—although this time almost certainly not through the coastal principalities.” He took out his knife, began sketching out a map on the table. “The waters along Weye and Hythe are full of warships they won’t want to meet. And no one ventures into the empty reaches of the Thäerian Sea—or at least, no one has tried in more than a century. Those waters are known to be deadly perilous.”