The river is never lost.
– Mahque saying
The signal, when it came, was not at all what Rafi had expected.
Signals were supposed to be subtle things. A nod, a wave, a darting glance. Certainly nothing so blatant as juggling flaming torches. Eshur stood on the stern of a barge moored to the wharf, where the slow-moving Eecoolie River curved around the walled town of Sabee-Saador. Crouched beneath brush cover on the opposite bank, Rafi watched in awe as the burning brands spun through the air, hafts seeming to rest only briefly in Eshur’s hands before flipping up again in a dizzying display.
Yath nudged him. “Can you do that?”
“Sure. In my sleep.” As long as he was dreaming.
He shifted in the muck, feet itching to take off, but unsure if he should commit. For a man who wove stories for a living, Eshur could be surprisingly closemouthed, not to mention vague on the details. Minor things, like what the signal would be, or who they were going to meet.
One of the torches suddenly shot higher than the others, arcing out over the side of the barge, where it plunged into the river and extinguished with a hiss. Well, it couldn’t get more blatant than that. Rafi clapped Yath on the shoulder, and they slipped into the river where his riveren waited. Ceridwen had warned Rafi about pushing Ghost too far upstream from the ocean, where the lack of salinity in the water could be sickening to seabloods, though only after prolonged exposure. Rather than risk it, he had left the colt behind in the jungle and opted to catch a ride with Yath.
Gliding smoothly through darting fish, skirting the writhing tendrils of angling vines, they slowed alongside the barge. With the aid of a subtle swell that lifted Yath’s steed without forcing it above the water, Rafi caught the tall stern of the barge and hauled himself, dripping, onto the rocking deck.
What he could see of the vessel was empty, though his view of the elongated prow where rowers would sit was blocked by the cabin that sat atop the center of the barge like a hut. Voices rumbled within, and as Rafi crept closer, a damp breeze caused the silk hangings over the entrance to gust outward.
“Ah, that would be him now.” Eshur’s voice.
The hangings swept open, and the taleweaver ushered Rafi into a richly draped and carpeted space, thick with the spicy scent of incense. Coils of it hung from the ceiling, emitting thin wisps of smoke that stung his eyes. He had to duck under them, which drew an amused sniff from the cabin’s occupant, a woman clad in robes of embroidered silk, who reclined on an ornately cushioned couch in the center of the room.
“Silent One Alive, he’s completely drenched,” she said in the cultured drawl affected by those from Cetmur. “You might have mentioned that you were dredging him up from the riverbed, Eshur.”
“And ruin such an entrance? No taleweaver worth his salt reveals all his secrets.” Eshur swept a low bow, colorful coat flaring wide around him, and the woman shook her head with a suffering mien, then fixed her gaze on Rafi.
“Well, don’t just stand there dripping on my carpet. Come in, so I can have a good look at the one who claims to be Nement’s son.”
She spoke with such an air of authority that Rafi found himself obeying reflexively. He could see now that she was older than the dark hair piled atop her head had led him to expect and thin almost to the point of gauntness. There was a sort of fevered brightness to her eyes that nearly outshone the cascade of gold necklaces draped down to her waist. “Eshur told me your story. Quite the riveting tale, full of wicked plots and the most inventive twists, but then he is a taleweaver, so of course, I would expect nothing less.”
Rafi tipped his head. “So pleased my misfortunes didn’t disappoint, alasha.” It was a Nadaarian honorific for a woman of high rank, which she clearly was, and in lieu of a formal introduction, it would have to suffice, even as an afterthought.
She pressed her lips together. “Oh, I didn’t say that. But it is why I wish to hear from you now, and not our silk-tongued friend. Tell me, O prince, did you eat with your family the night they fell ill?”
“If you mean the night they were poisoned, then yes.”
She smiled, as if that was exactly what she had expected him to say. “And how, if they were poisoned, can you explain your survival?”
“I can’t.” Though he and Delmar had speculated about it often. “Maybe they ate something I didn’t.”
“Such as?”
Rafi bit back the first words that sprang to his lips, an admittedly insolent suggestion that she ask the poisoner rather than the victim. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention to the food on every plate.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And why, O prince, if your uncle truly did scheme his way to the imperial seat, did he leave you alive?”
“Overconfidence in the architects of his dungeons?”
“But to take such an easily avoidable risk . . .”
“Tell you what, O alasha, I’ll be sure to ask next time I see him. Now that he knows I’m alive, he’s bound to welcome me back with open arms—all the easier to stick a knife between my ribs.”
She rose abruptly with the aid of a gilded cane. Standing, her head barely reached his shoulders, but there was an aura of gravity and regality to her that he had recognized in Delmar, and had seen in Ceridwen, and that he lacked. Ches-Shu, must he always play the fool? He was supposed to convince this woman that he was truly a prince, but rather than maintaining his brother’s noble bearing, he allowed her to needle him into acting like, well, like himself.
“It’s not, actually,” she said.
He cocked his head at her, puzzled.
“Open arms don’t make it easier to stick a knife between your ribs. That only invites you close enough to do the same. Far better to strike from a distance, with cunning, such that you never see it coming.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You should, if you ever wish to sit upon your father’s throne, Crown Prince Rafi Tetrani, son of Nement, heir of House Korringar.”
His mouth went dry. “So you believe me? You don’t want me to share details only I could know to prove that I’m me?”
Her lips twitched. “If only you could know them, I would be unable to corroborate them, wouldn’t I? No, I knew you as soon as you began to speak. You have the look of your father about you.”
That took Rafi aback. “I do? But everyone always said Delmar looked like him.”
“He did, and so do you. More so now than your brother did then, I would say. Oh, you have your mother’s spark of wit, I’ll grant you, but that belligerent stone in your eyes is your father’s.”
Where before she had irritated old wounds, now she no doubt meant to salve them. His father’s face had long since faded in his mind’s eye, and Rafi feared that Delmar’s would soon follow, but if the face he offered the world was not his alone, maybe they need not be lost to him forever.
“You must have known them well,” he said.
“Well enough. We have met before, you know.”
No, he didn’t. Really, couldn’t Eshur have prepared him?
His struggle to recall must have shown on his face, for she gave a sharp, dry laugh and squeezed his hand in her own small yet wiry grip. “I am not offended you do not remember, my prince. You were but a cub then, though you still had that unseemly and incorrigible sense of humor. I am Imbé Tisani, and I am your father’s third cousin, once removed. Under your father, I administered foreign trade for the empire. Under Lykier, I am but a glorified tax collector.”
“Speaking of taxes,” Eshur spoke up, parting the silk hangings so he could look out. “I have more for you to see, Imbé.”
“More? I ask for proof, and you bring the crown prince himself. What more could you possibly show me?”
Gongs crashed high upon the walls of Sabee-Saador, and there was a grim satisfaction in Eshur’s voice as he flung the hangings open wide. “Proof that he can indeed bring Lykier to his knees.”
Imbé exited with deliberate steps that masked her limp, and Rafi trailed after, knowing already what she would see. From the stern of the barge, they had a clear vantage of the roadway that snaked from the jungle toward Sabee-Saador. And of the three soldiers that scrambled from the trees and raced down it, chased by a handful of Moc’s rebels on foot, voicing war cries and shaking their spears.
“Silent One Alive,” Imbé murmured. “The convoy.”
One soldier fell and was dragged back toward the jungle. The other two stumbled and staggered on, rebels howling at their heels.
Then the gates of Sabee-Saador, bolted in anticipation of nightfall, groaned open, and out poured a squadron of soldiers. The thud of their booted feet and the clank of their armor carried over the water as they rushed the rebels, who abandoned their pursuit and jostled one another in their haste to retreat.
Rafi fidgeted, suddenly wishing he were out there with them, and Eshur shot him a steadying look. This was the trickiest moment. If the garrison recalled their troops now, satisfied with driving off a few rebels, there was nothing gained by the ploy. But if they tried to recover the convoy . . .
“They will,” Ceridwen had insisted. “They will envision either a slow-moving cart or a handful of rebels making off on foot, burdened with sacks of coins. Trust me. They won’t be able to resist.”
Without slackening pace, the squadron plunged after the rebels into the Mah.
Imbé did not speak, but stood, watching. For a moment, all was silent. Then the very trees seemed to shake as a rumbling tore through them, and cries of alarm rang out and were cut off. Soldiers spilled back onto the roadway like a flock of birds startled from the canopy, fleeing the onrushing tide of demon-steeds and the blazing figure at their head.
Ceridwen tore after the fleeing Nadaari and felt Mindar’s strides quicken, until the wind of his speed seemed to lift every burden from her shoulders. Until there was only the rush of the chase, the thrill of this glorious ride. Few could withstand the shock of a fireborn descending upon them in fume or flame, and these soldiers, stunned at the sight of solborn on their soil, did not have the war-hardened discipline of those who had invaded Soldonia.
So they fled before her, but there was no escape.
Jasri’s stormers, who had been soaring high above, dropped in a howling dive, then, skimming low over the roadway, charged the soldiers head-on. Catching the horn strung about her neck, Ceridwen blew a long blast, and with a low rumbling of hooves, the rest of her forces broke from concealment bordering the roadway and crashed into the soldiers’ flank.
Upon the walls, the gongs continued clashing, and a small squadron of archers raised bows skyward and loosed a haphazard hail of arrows that whistled and thwacked among both steeds and soldiers. One glanced off Ceridwen’s upraised blade, but the gates did not reopen. No more of the garrison marched to relieve their beleaguered companions.
She had chosen to attack within sight of the wall, so that the legend of the demon-steeds might spread through the heart of Nadaar. Her riders lacked the honed finesse of Soldonian warriors, but Ceridwen wielded them like a cudgel, trusting in momentum and shock to do the trick. The result was a chaotic, teeming mass of whirling steeds and scattering soldiers, pouring out over the roadway. In some places, clusters of Nadaari put up a stronger resistance, and it was there that Ceridwen focused her effort, crashing into their midst and lashing out with both chet and steed until their defense shattered.
Some fled and had to be chased down.
Some threw down their arms in surrender.
One mass broke off, retreating into the trees, and with shouts of triumph, dozens of her riders poured after them. Ceridwen shifted her blade into her rein hand, then, seizing her horn, blew three sharp blasts to call off the pursuit. Though some checked their steeds, most hurtled on, unheeding, into the woods that would favor their enemies. Cursing their lack of restraint, Ceridwen shot a glance over the field, then tore off at an angle she hoped would intercept the reckless pursuit before disaster overtook them.
She passed Flick loping back on his earthhewn, one of the few who had obeyed her signal. “With me,” she called, and he wheeled the horned beast and fell in behind her.
Mindar surged into his stride, sparks flying from the whipping ends of his mane. She urged him on, aware of the perilous line she trod. She needed speed, but not too much heat, lest she lose control of both, and perish in her own blaze, as even Glyndwr—faithless, treacherous Glyndwr—had warned. She whispered to her fireborn and kept a gentle restraint on his reins, until she spied steel gleaming through the trunks ahead.
She sang out the Outrider war cry, and Mindar sped faster in response, leaving Flick behind, as first his mane, then his tail, then his hooves caught alight.
Rivulets of flame crawled across his hide, and within a dozen strides, both her saddle and leathers were smoking. Without skivva oil, neither would resist for long. But she was so close now. She could not slow, and she would not turn back. Only one choice remained. Gritting her teeth, she slashed her chet across the waterskin she had tied to the front of her saddlebow in anticipation of such a failure, and the hide burst, dousing Mindar’s flames in an instant.
The shock of it caused Mindar to stumble.
He shuddered, smoke puffing to white, then dissipating entirely. That glint of steel resolved into helmets, and she drove Mindar out after the soldiers. Only, they weren’t fleeing anymore. She came to a plunging halt, facing a tight formation bristling with spears and arrows.
Her senses sharpened to a heightened awareness.
Bow strings creaked. Hooves raced up behind as her rebels charged forward, unaware of the danger. Instinctively, she called for flame, for with a concentrated burst, a fireborn could destroy arrows before they struck, but Mindar had none.
She had quenched Mindar’s reserves, and now, she could not save her warriors. She could not even save herself.
Strings twanged and the arrows flew.
And with a roar, Flick—sweet Flick, with the wide smile and the big ears and the hands so gentle upon the reins—spurred into their path before her. The volley struck. Her ears filled with the thwack and snap of arrows. She envisioned Flick toppling before the onslaught, but it must have been aimed for her steed, rather than for her, for most of the shafts splintered off the earthhewn’s broad chest as it rammed into the formation.
Most, but not all. Flick grunted in pain, and Mindar jolted as an arrow tore through the tip of his right ear. But she was completely unscathed. She flung herself furiously into the fray, cutting down an archer as his shot whizzed past her, knocking aside a spear thrust with her backswing. Wheeling Mindar in their midst, she sensed the resistance failing, even before the other rebels tore up to join the fight.
For a firerider, battles were measured in strides, in smoke, and in firestorms, but this one was over before Mindar’s flames even rekindled.
Steed circling restlessly, Flick grimaced, gripping an arrow that stuck from his thigh. His knuckles tightened, readying to yank it out, but Nef, already dismounted, caught his wrist.
“Don’t be an idiot. Do you want to do more damage?” Scowling, he tugged a cloth from his belt pouch, wrapped it around the shaft and folded Flick’s hand around it, then seized the earthhewn’s reins and started to lead him away.
Ceridwen cut them off. “What were you thinking?” she demanded of Flick. “Your steed may be immune to arrows, but you are not. You’re not invincible.” She raised her voice. “None of you are. So when I call the halt, you will heed my word, or you’ll find yourself grounded for the duration of the fight. By blood and blade, I swear it.”
Nef sniffed as she spun Mindar away.
He had probably been at the lead of those who had ignored her command to halt. She would address him alone later.
But now, with the reek of her own failure rising from the dampened ash still clinging to the hide of her steed as she rode to regroup with the others, she could not bring herself to care.