Alais flexed her hands, seeing the long nails flash in the moonlight. “I am quicker, and stronger, fleet of foot. But she is the oldest and she rules here.”
“Where did you come from?” Absently he reached out and ran his hand across her smooth back. She stretched under his touch, arching her back, and slid closer to him.
Under the silk, her skin was hot, warming him in the cold night air.
“I came,” she said, leaning her head on hands, wrapped around his knee, “from the north. From high mountains crowned with ice and snow, from highland valleys filled with bright flowers and deep stands of great green trees. My family lived in the high places, above the abodes of men, hunting as we have always done. The air is so clear there, free of the stink of fires and so many men. It was a delicious time. I miss it.”
“Why did you leave?” Maxian rubbed the skin behind her ear and she turned her head, making a low rumbling sound at the back of her throat.
“War came. The night Kings and their blood-drinkers came up the long valleys with bright spears and fire. My people fought and lost, even when the humans in the villages rallied to us. The Dragon-lord and his crimson banner could not be defeated. All of my brothers and sisters died, fighting at Srenu fort. The humans thought it was our one chance for victory-but it was only a trap and a feast for the Dragon.” •
Alais looked up at him, her pupils expanded in the darkness to fill her whole eye. “My people did not have someone like you, my lord. There was no one to lead us, to command us, to understand that victory must be paid for in blood.”
“Do you think,” he said, his voice raw with doubt, “that it is worth it, to pay for victory in blood, to spend the lives of some so that some greater purpose might be achieved?”
She sat up, turning to face him, her hand on his thigh. “Listen to me, my lord. You are a Prince of your people, not some common man. It is the duty of a Prince, or a King, or a chieftain, to see the greater good for his whole people. The lives of individuals must be weighed against the lives of a whole people.” Her voice was strong and sure. “In desperate times, some must be spent to save the tribe.”
“Have I done that?” Maxian’s voice was distant, his face troubled by evil memories. “Have I saved anyone? Everything that I have touched, trying to save, has died so far, and those who remain are so close to death with each day…”
“You will save them,” she said, digging her claws into his leg. “You will save the world. You are strong enough, my Prince, to pay the cost.”
Alais stood, her hair swinging out behind her shoulders. She took the Prince’s hand in her own, pulling him up. “Come, my lord, the sun will rise soon. Time for one more race.”
THE VALLEY OF THE ARAXES, PERSIAN ARMENIA
H
Dwyrin bent close over the surface of the stream, the round disk of the sun glittering up from the waters into his eyes. The water was cold, born in high mountain springs and melted snow. He was stripped to his waist, his pale freckled skin dewed with sweat. Each hand he held just above the water, drifting this way and that like the shadows of the few clouds that marred the otherwise perfect blue bowl of the sky. Around him, spreading out on either side of the stream, was the army of the Emperors. A camp was rising on either bank, the armies segregated not by race or nation but by the order of their march.
Soon, within days, the Romans would meet their allies for the first time. At the moment, however, Dwyrin shut out the sound of axes on wood, the shouting of centurions eager to see their men complete the raising of their tents, and the preparation of cleared lanes among the brush and stands of trees. He focused on the flickering shadows of fish in the stream. Old experience, from when he was only a lad, taken in hand by the great paw of his father, told him that fat-bellied fish, their flanks stippled with pink and gray and black, were waiting.
His hand dipped into the water slowly, without making even a ripple on the fast-moving surface. He ignored the chill in his feet, clammy dampness of his trousers. His hands nestled between a pair of rocks, matching the current. He waited, his breathing steady and even. A fine fat trout swam into the channel among the rocks, brushing over his hand with its supple skin of tiny scales. A grin flickered for a moment on his features, and his fingers moved gently, caressing the flanks of the fish. It shivered at his light touch, but he continued to tickle it gently.
Then Dwyrin’s hand darted and the fish thrashed in his grip, but it was too late. The Hibernian laughed and strung it on a line of cord that hung from his waist, sliding an arrow of bone through its gills. It joined six of its fellows on his belt. Dwyrin turned at a sound.
On the bank, clad in a simple white gown and half cloak of pale green, a young woman was clapping her hands in delight.
“Oh, well done!” she called out, shading her eyes with one pale white hand. Dwyrin flushed and, remembering his manners, bowed. The woman bowed back but then sat down heavily. Dwyrin splashed through the stream, weaving his way among the rocks, to the bank. The lady, for the quality of her bracelets and hairpins marked her as one-, was a little pale. The Hibernian could see, too, that she was very pregnant.
“Domina,” he said, his voice concerned, “are you all right? Should I call your servants?” ‘
“No!” she said, though she was short of breath. “They cosset me to death. Here it is, a gorgeous late-summer day-the sky like the sea, the air freshened by wind. I refuse to sit inside and listen to the natterings of my maids. We are in uncharted lands, filled with savages and Persian spies-I should like to see something of the land I travel through.“
Dwyrin nodded sympathetically, though the thought of being cosseted by white-limbed maids with golden hair was distracting. Still, it was far better to be out and about than stuck in some sweltering hide tent, in the dark, wondering what was going on. “True words, my lady, though in your condition you should take care.”
“Feh.” She snorted. “My condition is held up to me as a fine example of all the things that I should not do. I am tired of it. Tell me, young man, where are you from and where did you learn to beguile fish so?”
She smiled at him, her green eyes merry, her perfect complexion like lustrous pearl. Dwyrin felt a little faint, but somewhere in the back of his mind he realized that she was barely older than he was. A young woman, being carted around by some rich husband-doubtless one of the grandees of the Eastern army-well with child. Distantly, the great brass gong of the school sounded in his head. He looked around furtively.
“Ah, my lady, shouldn’t you have a chaperone, or a maid, or someone with you? Your fair skin and soft hands mark you for a noble’s wife! I’m only a soldier in the Legion-I’m not supposed to traffic with the likes of you. No disrepect meant!”
The lady sighed and looked around as well. The line of her neck did not match the classical beauty of the Greek sculptors, and her nose was too pert and rounded for the image of Athena, but her good humor and ready wit had already captured Dwyrin’s heart. She made a moue and pouted, putting her hands on her cheeks. “Oh, I hate a chaperone! And look at you, a soldier, brave in the face of the enemy, doubtless noted for your daring and courage- looking like a schoolboy caught with an extra pastry! I will be driven mad by this… I am sure of it.”
Dwyrin forbore telling her that he was, in fact, a schoolboy.
“I should go,” he said, mumbling and trying not to look at her. She frowned and patted a rock next to her.
“Sit,” she said with asperity, “and tell me of your life in the Legion. I see so many soldiers, but I never know what they are doing! If you do not, then I shall cry out, making a scene, and you will be punished!”
“I will be killed!” he blurted, then covered his mouth. The lady smiled sweetly at him and patted the rock again. He sat down, though he was not in the least pleased by it.