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LUCA USED THE FIRST of the money Shianan left him to send an ashamed letter to his siblings, breaking the news of Isen’s death, explaining how he had been robbed of his inheritance and enslaved once more. It would take time to reach Ivat, but they deserved to know. It was possible Thir could send around to cancel the letter of credit, so the thieves could not bleed their house. And it was possible Jarrick might come for him again, if he dared return to Alham. Despite what Luca had told Shianan... He did not want to go home again; it was home no longer. He did not know what he did want. But he would not refuse to see his siblings again.
Then, as Luca had once wished his family had searched for him, he searched for Marla and Cole. He did not have the resources of a merchant house, but he’d sent letters to traders near where they had been attacked. Even if he did not reach the trader who had one or the other, another might note the described slaves if there were profit in it. Luca could earn back their price for Shianan.
He was kneeling beside the fountain, scrubbing out Shianan’s water pitcher, when a soldier came running across the courtyard, stumbling with weariness. Luca moved aside as the soldier approached the fountain. But immediately others crowded about, trapping Luca close. “What word? How’s the battle? How do we stand? The horse messenger didn’t tell us a thing.”
“We’re stopped,” panted the soldier, cupping water with his hands. Someone pulled Luca’s pitcher away to fill, and he took it gratefully. “Black Mage and Pairvyn ni’Ai together ordered a truce, surprised everyone. There’s talk of peace—but nothing’s sworn. We need royal word for that.” He gulped more water.
Luca breathed for the first time since the soldier’s appearance. A truce! That was the best he could imagine.
“The king has to ratify Prince Soren’s word?” someone asked.
The soldier lowered the pitcher, beard dripping. “No, and that’s a sticking point—the prince is missing.”
“Missing!” gasped a half-dozen voices.
He nodded and rubbed the back of his hand across his wet beard. “Not dead—missing. There’s some that say the Ryuven took him.”
“A hostage to hold the peace?”
“Maybe. But they’re not claiming him, if they have him.”
There was a moment of muttering while the listeners considered this.
“The Black Mage?” someone asked skeptically. “That’s lowest in the Circle. How does the Black Mage order a truce?”
“She pops into the sky like a seeding Ryuven, floating with Pairvyn ni’Ai and cracking magic to deafen everyone within half a league, and she kills the first man to heft a weapon, that’s how.” He nodded significantly. “It’s going to be messy, I’ll gamble—if she did arrange a peace with the Ryuven, ending the raids, that’s one thing, but if she took authority what wasn’t hers to do it...”
“She doesn’t know where the prince is?”
“Who knows? She’s not there. She just walked away. She and Pairvyn both—they just vanished. Went their separate ways and left the generals and the Ryuven lords, whatever they are, to kind of sidle up to each other, scratching their heads.”
Luca kept his face low, listening intently. Ariana Hazelrig had returned safely from the Ryuven, at least. But what had become of the prince? And where was Shianan?
“What now?”
“The horse messenger is to be getting the king’s word on whether we’ll hold to the Black Mage’s peace. No one’s guess what that will be—she’s got no authority to treat at all, but she brought a faith-gift from the Ryuven. The Indigo Mage is gibbering about it, some sort of priceless medicine he says will stop the spreading flux and anything else, it seems. So they don’t want to just throw it back in their winged faces, anyway. And no one knows where Pairvyn ni’Ai is again, and that’s to be considered.” He took another drink. “It’s twisted wrong—but they’re saying the Ryuven will pay in coin for what they want. If the monsters could be trusted, I suppose.”
“Trade with the Ryuven,” someone mused. “They’ve never traded. They’ve stolen and left blood-debts years long.”
“I’ve got to go for the chancellors,” said the soldier. “I need a breather after that.” He dropped the pitcher into the fountain, where it filled and sank, and started away. A few followed him, clapping hands on his shoulders, while others consulted and debated.
Luca stared at the pitcher, watching it drift to the fountain’s floor. Then he summoned his courage and ran after the soldier. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but do you have any word of Commander Becknam? Count of Bailaha?”
The soldier looked at him. “Becknam the bastard?”
This man wasn’t one of Shianan’s men, wasn’t from Alham’s garrison at all. “Yes, my lord, that commander. My master.”
“Well, did you want him dead or alive? You can’t be glad for either just yet. He’s missing from the field.”
Luca’s heart stilled.
“Not found dead, but he’s not answering, either. Like the prince, and maybe the Ryuven stole others, too. Men are swearing blue he wouldn’t have run off the field like a whipped Furmelle, that he had to have been taken. So you’ve got a bit of time before you go on the block. Enjoy it.” He walked on.
Shianan was missing. They couldn’t even find his body—but there would be no reason to take Shianan. He wouldn’t be a valuable hostage like Prince Soren. He was missing—wounded, perhaps, beneath brush or behind a boulder or unrecognizably maimed. He was dead or in trouble, and no one knew to help him.
Dear Holy One. Luca turned back to the commander’s quarters, numbness spreading through him. He passed through the front office into the sleeping room. He hesitated a moment, and then he went to the coffer Shianan had indicated. Within it lay several folded papers, a few sealed packets, and a small bag of coins. Luca lifted out the bag and slipped it into his clothing.
EWAN HAZELRIG’S HEAD throbbed with each heartbeat, and it seemed as though everyone were speaking from a distance, though they were gathered close about the camp table. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of cloth beneath his sweating palms. He could feel Elysia’s gaze on him.
“Without the prince, we haven’t the royal authority,” insisted Kannan, his tone barely civil. “And without the prince, we aren’t inclined to make any promises that might preclude our having him back.”
The Ryuven opposite flexed his fingers into the table. He sat sideways on his chair to accommodate his trailing wings, twitching in his frustration. “As I have said, I do not know where your prince may be. I did not order his capture and I have had no word of him.”
“But you did not know of this truce, either.”
The Ryuven scowled. “No. And the Pairvyn has—leave that aside. But we cannot wait upon your masters’ approval. My warriors are impatient and hungry.”
“And what of your own master?” demanded Kannan.
“He will not attend himself,” came the level answer. “He is occupied.”
“We can ease the wait,” Septime offered, “for all our troops. We will share our meal tonight as evidence of our good faith. None of us want to break truce tonight, while we wait for word. Let’s feed our soldiers and hope that eases some of the tension outside.”
“My lords,” Hazelrig said, “I think that is the best suggestion we could hear. Let’s send word out quickly that meals are to be prepared and shared—from the same pots, so there is no question of faith.”
“And we will continue to wait upon word from your king and council?”
“Yes, we will. We can do nothing but that.”