CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Alone, he had wandered south through field lands for two days, stopping once at an isolated farm house to buy food and water his horse. “Do you speak Athadian?” The elderly couple there had shaken their heads; but the oldest son, who had traveled, was able to fabricate with Cyrodian a mutually comprehensible jargon. Ebu—food. Water for my horse. I can pay you in Athadian gold.… When he left them, at twilight, he made sure that one essential message was quite clear to them: If others come after me, others who speak Athadian, tell them I rode north.

He had been concerned all during the ride that Captain Uvars might kill him. Cyrodian couldn’t believe that Elad hadn’t given the commander such an order. When he had been freed and no threat to his life made, the import was clear: Assassins would come later, or riders had been sent ahead to wait for him. So he journeyed cautiously.

Two days south; another day brought him to border posts, obelisks that marked the border of the kingdom of Emaria. Cyrodian found shelter in a small huddle of rocks. He waited. There was a lake, so he fished, doing as well as he could, devising a makeshift stick and line without the use of any weapons. But he had flint and steel, and so he was able to keep himself warm with a fire. The days were cool and, here on the open plainfields, chilly with wide breezes. At night, the air turned cold, and Cyrodian was surprised that it did not snow.

He waited, day upon day, but still there was no indication of riders coming to assassinate him. Neither was there any sign of Umothet or of Umothet’s hirelings bringing him weapons and decent food.

A week passed. He was becoming ill, surviving only on small fish. He couldn’t understand what delayed Umothet. It occurred to him that their plot might have been uncovered, but Cyrodian dismissed that possibility; they had planned well, and each of them involved in the coup had sworn an oath of silence. Yet his accomplices did not appear. Cyrodian began to wonder whether he was a fool for having trusted anyone.

Finally, disgusted and hungry, weaponless, he mounted his horse and continued south, into Emaria. He had no map with him, but he had led a sufficient number of campaigns and had surveyed enough maps of the region to know that Lasura, the capital, should be but a week’s ride distant.

* * * *

That evening, as the cold wrapped around him and as his horse staggered, he sighted an Emarian fort. It was situated on a low rise, and the land around it had been denuded. Cyrodian approached and watched, amused, as soldiers formed a line atop the wall to observe him. Coming within speaking distance, he hailed them and called, “Iro supeke Athadaki? Do you speak Athadian?”

The soldiers looked at one another, surprised, and finally one yelled back, “I speak Athadian! Who are you? Where are you from?”

Leaning forward on his horse, his giant frame a blot in the dusk, his voice the tumble of coming thunder: “I am Cyrodian! Sent into exile by my brother Elad, King of Athadia. I need food and rest and weapons!”

There was confusion then on the wall; the speaker slapped one man on the shoulder, and that one hurried down from the battlements.

“Let me in, damn you!” Cyrodian yelled. “My horse is ready to drop!”

The soldier returned to the wall with his commander beside him. The commander stared down for a space, then went down again.

Suspicious bastards, Cyrodian thought. It came to him that perhaps Elad had entered into an agreement with them, with their king. Were these, then, his assassins?

Slowly the great doors of the fort were pulled open. A voice called, “Enter, Prince Cyrodian!” and he nudged his horse forward. Through the gate he went, beneath keen eyes in the guard towers, and into the wide yard. An Emarian cavalryman, if Cyrodian identified him correctly from his badges, took the reins of the prince’s mount and held them while Cyrodian dismounted. Then the cavalryman led the horse to a nearby stable.

He stood, erect and proud, regarding the gathering before him. Their commander, a tall, slim man with the rangy physique of a hillman, stepped ahead, lifting his arm in an open-handed Emarian salute.

“You are welcome here, Prince Cyrodian. I am Commander Lieutenant Laguro. Are you in need of food?”

“I’m famished.” Cyrodian returned the salute with his own: a seriously executed Athadian fist over the heart.

* * * *

In the mess hall, where he sat opposite Lieutenant Laguro while many retainers and officers crowded toward him, Cyrodian asked, “Then you have heard nothing from Athadia?”

“Only that Elad has taken the throne, and that Queen Yta stepped down following your father’s death. No more than that. Our forces here were doubled, of course.”

Cyrodian smiled. The relationship between Athadia and Emaria had ever been a cautious one. As he chewed on beef and drank deeply of wine, he explained to Laguro and the others exactly what had precipitated his appearance here at the fort. Elad, eager for the throne, had forced his mother to step down; he had ordered the assassination of Dursoris, the youngest prince, and placed the blame on Cyrodian. But the army had become threatening, refusing to let one of their own go to the ax. Therefore Elad, under duress, particularly from some members of council, had ordered Cyrodian into exile.

“I am still,” he informed Laguro warily, “in fear of my life. Elad may have sent killers.” He said this defiantly, looking the commander in the eyes.

Laguro was not one to be intimidated. “We knew nothing of this,” was his reply. “Are there men upon your trail, then?”

“I saw none as I came here.”

Every man in the room began muttering. Laguro ordered them to silence.

“I would like,” Cyrodian said to him, “weapons for myself and a night’s rest. With your permission, I intend to ride on to Lasura and approach King Nutatharis.”

“For asylum?” Laguro interpreted. “That may be agreeable to him.” The commander knew that his monarch was ever ready to take advantage of political strife.

“Can you lend me an escort?’’ Cyrodian asked him. “Even a few men?”

“I intend to do exactly that,” Laguro agreed. “Do not fear for your life here, Prince Cyrodian. I certainly don’t care to have an incident take place under my command. Your safe passage to Lasura is assured.”

Cyrodian grinned savagely to hear that and wiped wine drops from his beard.

He slept that night in the fort, after first choosing for himself large, heavy weapons from Laguro’s armory. And as Cyrodian slept, a rider from the fort departed under the clouds of night to warn King Nutatharis in Lasura that an international incident was in the making—to his tremendous advantage.