Master of Ta'arim

The Chronicles of the Last Elder Lord

Book Two: Master of Ta'arim

by

Merilyn F. George and R. Stone Penwell

Copyright 2012 R. Stone Penwell

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, entities or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Note from the Author

The books in The Chronicles of the Last Elder Lord series make use of the second person familiar form of address: thee, thou, and thy. Although these pronouns have fallen out of usage in English, they remain in most other languages such as French, Spanish, and German. Their usage indicates familiarity (for family, good friends), affection or devotion (lovers, deities, masters), condescension or scorn (children, slaves), translating to the ultimate put-down when used to someone for whom you should use the more respectful second person plural (you, yours). However, since it is incredibly hard to write easily readable, flowing English using this form consistently, the usage is inconsistent. I only used it where, to my mind, it really mattered, usually moments of great emotional intensity. This adds a dimension of expression and emphasis as well as a touch of antiquity to the dialogue.

–MFG

Notes on pronunciation:

In general, treat apostrophes as if they separated words. When apostrophes separate repeated vowels, the vowels change value, usually from long to short (e.g. sha'amoth is shay a-moth).

Ard'dr = Ard Der (with a full stop in the middle - not ardor)

Ard'dra'an = Ard DRAY Ann

Sha'azharet'th = Shay AZ-har-edth

Yndrin = IN-drin

Yl'thaia = Eel Thay-EE-ah

Ta’arim = Tay Ha-RIM

Sha’amoth ysthon = shay a-MOTH iss-THON

Caruna = Ka-ROON-ah

Carenar = Ka-REN-ahr

1 - Wanderer

The season was spring, the sun was warm, and the atmosphere in the city of Caideth was happily festive. But Prince Amalrin was not happy. He didn't feel festive, and he didn't think anyone else should either – not when Sarantia was about to be attacked by that bastard Temkar of Tarth, and no one could even agree what they were going to do about it!

None of this seemed to be bothering Roccano, Baron Rocco's son of Suthis. He was laughing raucously at some jibe of his cousin Javik, who, thought Amalrin disdainfully, was a true lick-spittle if ever one was born. Roccano, on the other hand, was big and boorish, caring not one whit whom he pleased or displeased. He displeased Amalrin by his very existence. And it didn't help any that King Amar had ordered him to be nice to this ox, whose father Rocco was the most persistent opponent Amar had in the council. The baron was forever bringing up long-forgotten wrongs, inflaming old feuds, arguing caution when Amar demanded boldness, and then arguing against it in turn, whenever it suited his purpose, all the while protesting his anxious concern for the welfare of all Sarantia. The king had admitted to Amalrin that Rocco exasperated him beyond endurance, but not only did he own most of the border between Sarantia and Tarth, including the only decent crossing of the Nethtil River, but he had too much backing in the council to be opposed openly. So the young prince had forced himself to become an intimate of the baron's spoiled scion, in the hopes of discovering just what it was that Rocco was after, or at least trying to convince him that Amar was not his enemy.

So far, Amalrin couldn't say he had made much progress. Roccano never talked about politics, or his father's ambitions or aims, or even about the inevitable war with Tarth which was the whole reason for this council. He, like the rest of Caideth, seemed intent only on eating, drinking, and whoring. All the city was one big fair, with every merchant, jongleur, prostitute, pickpocket, and knave in Sarantia gathered here to batten on the trains of the visiting barons, and on the troops camped outside the walls.

A seller of brooches seized Amalrin's arm. Jewels, young lord! he panted. Lovely, precious jewels for your beloved! She'll not be able to say no to the bearer of such a gift! Look! Just look! He waved a tray full of brass ornaments, set with bits of colored glass.

Before the prince could even open his mouth, another vendor appeared and plucked the first away. Here, ignorant dolt! Will you speak so to the royal prince's own self? He threw himself to his knees before Amalrin. Your Highness! I beg you merely to glance at this bridle! Poor as it is, I made it all with my own hands, intending it for no meaner mount than Your Highness's own warhorse! Honor me by carrying my feeble workmanship into your battles! Only a paltry ten ros – to pay for the materials only, I swear!

And just another five will buy this lovely brooch, for your sweet one to remember you by and keep her heart true while you're away battling, the first man put in, his hand outstretched with one of his gauds.

Let me see that bridle, Roccano interrupted. He snatched it from the vendor and gave it a quick glance before casting it back into the man's face. I wouldn't put that crap on my ploughhorse! he sneered.

Amalrin half reached for his purse to buy the bridle in pure defiance, but he halted himself in time. He really didn't want the thing, and it was no part of his assignment to antagonize Roccano. He let his hand drop, and shook his head at the pleading salesman, before pushing hurriedly past him. The whore Roccano had picked up ten minutes ago hung now on her prospective patron's beefy arm, mouthing something about how she loved a man who was sure of himself. Amalrin gritted his teeth and scowled sideways at still another merchant who looked as if he were thinking of approaching the party.

Javik had gone ahead, and now beckoned enthusiastically from the booth of a hat maker. Roccano headed that way, but then suddenly halted in midstride, his eyes fixed on something to the left, down a narrow cross street. Amalrin collided with him and bounced off with a short curse. Without seeming to even notice, the baron's son made a quick dash between two booths and down the alley, leaving the prince and the prostitute both staring after him.

What now? Amalrin muttered between his teeth as he followed, more slowly.

The passage was short and ended in a square, which was crammed with sleazy displays, just like every other square in the city. Amalrin circled around the dilapidated fountain in the center, craning his neck this way and that, dodging shoppers, and finally caught sight of Roccano's broad back over by a pair of Domiry wagons. His interest picked up marginally. The Dom were famed as the best entertainers in the West; perhaps he could engage them for an evening at the castle. In fact, maybe that was what Roccano had in mind.

The baron's son was arguing briskly with a wizened old fellow, brown-skinned and white-haired, who held the halter of a tall black stallion. As Amalrin caught up to him, he heard the old man squeak, No, no, sir lord! Me tell you, no sell, not mine, understand, no?

Then who does own him? Roccano bellowed. I want that horse!

No good, the little Dom protested. No good horse. No want, not good....

The horse is not for sale, another voice put in, from between the wagons.

The comment had been deep-toned and quiet, but there was something about it which jerked both Amalrin's and Roccano's heads around to see the speaker. He came out slowly, a tall, slender, young man, dressed in the traditional Domiry flowing shirt, embroidered vest, and baggy pants tucked into calf-high boots. But he was not of the Dom. His face, though tanned, was pale as milk beside the nut-brownness of the old man, and his eyes were grey as a storm cloud. He took the horse's lead out of the Domiry's hand and stepped up to confront Roccano, while the old man scuttled like a squirrel into one of the wagons.

Roccano cleared his throat gratingly. You the owner of this animal? he demanded.

He is mine, for a time, was the reply. It sounded almost as much like a denial as an affirmation. Was the horse loaned to him, or perhaps consigned for delivery elsewhere ...?

The baron's son did not trouble with such nuances. How much do you want for him?

He is not for sale, the stranger repeated equably.

The young Sarantian scowled. I am Roccano, son of Baron Rocco of Suthis, he announced pompously. I saw that beast from a block away, and I knew right then that he was what I needed to improve the northland stock.

For once, Amalrin had to agree with him. The stallion had magnificent lines. He himself wouldn't mind having a couple of foals of his get for the royal stables.

Now I'm no king's son – Roccano glanced sidelong at the prince, with a faint sneer – but my father can afford to be generous. In fact, he'd horse-whip me if he knew I let an animal like this get away. Name your price!

The other shook his head. I'm sorry. I will not sell Nightwind, at any price.

Roccano's face reddened, but he kept his tone deadly level. No price, eh? Then maybe you'd like to give him to me, without price?

Amalrin's nails cut into his clenched palms. Resolutely he clamped his teeth on the angry reproach that rose in his throat. He must not quarrel with his uncouth companion. Let the stranger defend himself, or bow to the threat and sell the horse. Sarantia was more important than any wanderer and his mount.

The tall man gazed steadily into the young ruffian's angry face without expression. Then one corner of his mouth turned up in a faint, lopsided smile, though his eyes were as bleak as mid-winter. Yes, he said softly. Yes, I'll give him to you – if you can ride him.

Roccano's eyes widened, then narrowed in instant suspicion. You're pretty sure of yourelf, he accused. How do I know he's even broke to ride?

He is not. He is not broken, in mind or body or spirit. Yet he allows me to ride him. If he will allow you that same privilege, he's yours. Turning, he placed one hand on the stallion's withers, crouched a little, and vaulted easily to sit sideways on the horse's bare back. The animal snorted and danced one step sideways as the weight came down upon him, but otherwise seemed under perfect control. The stranger patted his sleek neck. However, he continued conversationally, I have some confidence that Nightwind will not accept you as a rider, young lord. In the two years he's been with me, I've not known him to suffer any other on his back. But if you care to take the gamble and risk your neck, you're welcome to the trial. We can meet you outside the walls somewhere, if you wish.

Oh, no, you don't! Roccano snapped. I know you Domiry jackals! As soon as I turned my back, you'd be out of here and gone like the wind! You'll just come along with us right now to the castle, where I can use my own harness and hold you to your bargain. He grinned with savage satisfaction. I've been breaking horses since my dam pulled me off her tits! If any man can ride that brute, I can! Let's go!

The tall man bowed his head politely. As you will, my lord, he murmured, his thin lips still curved in that ironic, secret smile. He slipped down, and ran a quick hand over the horse's coat to smooth the hair where he had ruffled it. Let us go.

He led the stallion out into the square. The girl seized Roccano's arm, but he shook her off with a snarled curse and turned to tell Javik what he planned to do with his new horse when he got home to Suthis.

Amalrin pressed close to the stranger. How are you named, sir? he inquired.

The Dom call me Yndrin.

But you are not Domiry.

True. I'm only a caravan guard.

You are a mercenary, then?

Aye.

Have you considered taking service with the High King?

I've heard he's hiring, the other admitted. He turned his head to look directly at the younger man. And might I have your name as well, young lord?

Oh, sorry. I'm Amalrin.

Prince Amalrin?

The prince nodded shortly.

Yndrin bent his head in a courtly obeisance. I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lord prince.

Startled, Amalrin stopped in his tracks for a second; then someone jostled him roughly and he started walking again. Neither the gesture nor the wording had been that of a mercenary courting favor, but rather seemed the greeting of a gracious equal!

They did not enter the castle proper, but circled around it to the exercise field. Several grooms were already there, working with the latest batch of horses conscripted from the eastern baronies. Among these, Nightwind looked like a king's sword in a pile of rusty pruning hooks.

Roccano despatched Javik to fetch his harness; then he boasted to old Anor, the royal stablemaster, of what he was about, and how he was going to obtain the big stallion without paying out a single farthing.

The old man looked at the horse, and at its owner, with a skeptical eye. Then he shook his head glumly. I've heard tell of the like, he warned. A one-man horse is harder to break than a wild one. Best you forget it, my lord, ere you break your neck instead.

Like Hell I will!

Well then at least take this one piece of advice. Don't let the beast see his master while you're on his back. That will assure that the fellow can't give him some signal, and perhaps he'll be fooled that it's his master atop him.

Roccano considered this, looking as if he intended to reject it as well, but at last he nodded curtly. Not a bad idea. He turned and shouted at the tall stranger. Sirrah! You will stand behind us when I mount.

Yndrin responded with a graceful bow, too deep and expansive to be merely respectful. To Amalrin's eyes it looked distinctly mocking. Anor also measured the stranger with a long glance. Then he shook his head again and limped away, shouting at some of the grooms.

When Javik returned, with another groom carrying the saddle and other harness, Roccano directed the stranger, You put it on him.

Yndrin obediently picked up the bridle and slipped the bit into the stallion's mouth, but not without difficulty. Amalrin saw that it was a deeply bowed curb bit; he wasn't surprised the horse didn't like it. When the headstall proved too short, Nightwind spat out the iron with a toss of his head. Yndrin soothed him briefly, then adjusted the straps and coaxed the bridle back on. He left the reins dangling and the stallion chewing restlessly on the bit while he saddled up and drew the girth tight.

Roccano tested the cinch suspiciously, but could find no fault with the job. He gathered up the rein. All right, he pronounced grimly. Now stand back. You others, hide him from the horse's gaze.

Yndrin stepped back. The baron's son swung up into the saddle and thrust his foot solidly into the opposite stirrup. For one long breath he merely sat there, holding the stallion on short rein.

The horse's haunch twitched; he shifted and suddenly danced sideways as he had done under Yndrin's weight. Roccano gave the rein a reflexive tug.

With no further warning, Nightwind screamed in rage and reared full off the ground, his forefeet pawing the air. Then in one smooth motion he bowed his head between his knees, heedless of the rein, and bucked twistingly three times, his hind hooves now flying as high as his forefeet had done before.

Men and animals scattered in every direction. Roccano sailed out of the saddle and flopped stunningly on the hard earth. Nightwind straightened instantly, and reared over him, teeth bared and hooves flashing to strike his erstwhile rider.

But Yndrin was there too, almost under the angry hooves, though Amalrin had not seen him go. He cried some command in a loud voice. Nightwind thumped down sullenly, inches short of Roccano's ribs. Yndrin seized the rein with one hand and with the other jerked off the bridle. The horse once more spat out the bit and backed away, shaking his head; the mercenary followed, soothing the animal with both hands and voice.

When they were well away, Javik and a couple of grooms dashed out to tend to the groaning nobleman. Roccano did not seem to be hurt badly; he was moving, at least, and cursing luridly as his henchmen helped him to his feet.

Yndrin loosened the cinch and dragged saddle and blanket off the big horse's back, dropping them carelessly on the ground in a heap. He stroked the still nervous animal's neck and head, murmuring in a strange tongue.

Amalrin dared to step nearer. I do not covet your mount, sir, he said with a wry grin. Especially not after that little demonstration! But I'm sure we have a mare or two coming into season. Do you think Nightwind might be willing to favor them? My father will pay for the service.

Yndrin grinned back. I should imagine something could be arranged.

That is, if we aren't all off to war in the next few days, the prince continued gloomily. Although the gods know it looks as if we'll sit here chewing dead bones until Tarth is at our gates. Is he trained to battle?

The other nodded. He is a fierce warrior. One might almost think he enjoyed it.

Roccano had regained both his feet and his composure. He approached slowly, one hand behind his back as though he cradled some pain there. He smiled toothily, a death's-head grimace. Well, it looks as if you won your wager, alien dog, he observed bitingly. Doubtless it amuses you to see your betters tossed in the dirt. But you won't be laughing for long! He sprang forward suddenly and whipped his hand from behind his back. There was a naked sword in his hand.

Amalrin gasped with shock. Where had that come from? All weapons were peace-bonded for the council, and most men didn't even bother to wear them. Roccano certainly hadn't been wearing one! Don't be a fool! he cried. The man's unarmed! And fighting is forbidden ....

This is no fight! Roccano snarled, making a lunge at the alien.

Murder, then! Amalrin shouted, taking a tense step toward the two.

Then Yndrin fell backward, as if the thrusting sword had toppled him, although the prince would have sworn it did not touch him. But before he struck the ground, he caught himself with one hand, turning sideways, while one foot lashed out and up into Roccano's crotch. The baron's son grunted and doubled up, without, however, losing his grip on his weapon. But his stroke went wide, and in the next instant, Yndrin was once more on his feet, whirling inside his guard. He chopped a short, crisp blow to the side of the other's head with the edge of one open hand.

Roccano dropped without a sound, like a poleaxed bull, and did not move again. Javik ran and threw himself on his knees beside his patron, fumbling frantically for a pulse.

Yndrin stepped away, looking at his downed opponent with the sort of expression one might have on finding a fly baked into one's bread.

Amalrin gaped at both him and Roccano, his head awhirl with the incomprehensibly swift march of events. Nor did he get any respite, to catch up.

Javik raised his head and shrieked, He's dead! Dead! He scrambled to his feet and pointed a trembling finger at the mercenary. You killed him! You ... murderer!

The stranger returned a small, sardonic grin. Murderer? he questioned.

Roccano was the one with the sword, remember? Amalrin put in hotly. And you gave it to him! He could see Javik's empty scabbard, the peace-strings dangling where they had been cut. Both of you violated the bonds. Yndrin did nothing except defend himself – and barehanded at that!

Javik was not cowed. I don't think the baron will see it quite that way, he hissed. I demand that man be taken into custody as a murderer!

I myself will take him in ward, Amalrin spat. But I remind you that it is the High King who rules here – not Rocco. Let your master seek the king's justice – if he dares!

Javik turned back to the corpse without reply. The prince grimaced; he could almost feel sorry for the little toady. Rocco probably only tolerated him because of Roccano, and now he'd lost whatever excuse he ever had for hanging on the baron's tunic.

Yndrin caught Nightwind once more and led him away from the group clustered over the body. Amalrin joined him. You'd best stay here in the castle, he warned. If you leave, they'll not only fault me for letting you get away, but they'll call out a manhunt and shoot you down like a stag.

The other shook his head heavily, not in negation, but merely in disgust. I should have let Nightwind kill him, he grunted sourly. Then he added, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't get you in trouble, my lord.

I don't care, Amalrin gritted recklessly. I hated him! I only wish it hadn't been so quick. I scarcely got a chance to see what happened. What kind of blow was that, that could kill a man? It was as if you had an axe in your hand.

"It is called tai-shan."

Will you teach it to me?

Yndrin turned toward him with a smile. "It is not merely one blow, my prince. Tai-shan is a study of many years, a way of thinking, a way of fighting both with and without weapons. I began learning it when I was five, and am not yet a master."

Amalrin smiled back, ruefully. Well, maybe just a little of it? he begged.

Maybe.

Can we take Nightwind to the stables? He won't tear the place apart and trample all the stableboys?

Not as long as I take him there, and no one tries to get on him.

Come this way then.

* * * * *

When the stallion had been safely bestowed, Amalrin took the alien to see his father and explain the incident, before he heard it from Javik or Rocco. On their way, they encountered Princess Hruah, Amalrin's older sister.

She was nearly thirty, long past marrying age, for she was so plain that no man had ever courted her. Nor had she sought a husband, for she was a witch, like their mother. That might also have had something to do with why no man desired her, although King Amar had certainly never objected to his wife's profession.

The prince introduced his companion; Yndrin made another of those extravagant bows, murmuring, It is an honor, Your Highness.

I'm looking for Father, Amalrin told her.

No use. He's in council.

Then why aren't you? he asked in surprise. Amar had always consulted their mother, while she was still alive, and now rarely made any decision without consulting Hruah.

Oh, some fatgut made a remark about the dubious wisdom of hearing a woman's counsel. And it was easy enough to see how many of them agreed with him, even though they kept their mouths shut. So I left. I don't want to make things any more difficult for Father. The gods know, they're difficult enough already.

Amalrin looked at his toes. I'm afraid they're going to get worse.

Worse? How? She almost pounced on him. What have you been up to?

Roccano's dead, killed in a fight with Yndrin here. He had no need to say more; Hruah knew the implications as well as he.

She drew back, her face paling. Dear Mother! she breathed. Then she turned an accusing gaze on the alien, who bowed his head apologetically.

I am indeed sorry to have distressed you, Your Highness.

It wasn't his fault, Hruah, the prince put in hurriedly. Roccano attacked him – with a sword – and within the bounds, too! And he didn't even have a weapon. He killed him with his bare hands!

The princess's shoulders drooped. I do not fault you, sir, she said in a muffled voice. Roccano was no friend of ours. Neither is his father, unfortunately. Rocco will be furious ... probably come out in open rebellion ... who knows how many will follow him ....

Again, I am truly sorry, Yndrin repeated. I need not have slain him. If I had known that such high matters rode on the edge of my hand ....

Hruah shook her head, her long, straight black hair falling about her face and hiding it. You could not know. If he attacked you, you could only defend yourself as well as you knew how.

If there is aught that I might do to amend the situation ..., he offered.

She looked up. Rocco will demand blood, of course. If we could trick him into thinking you were dead ... I know an herb ....

It was Amalrin's turn to shake his head. Not good enough, sister. Rocco will want to kill him with his own hands, and feed his body to the dogs afterward. And Father won't let him do it. He couldn't even if he wanted to. He'd look like a pot-licking tyrant who cared naught for justice or equity, and the loyal barons would go home in disgust. The best he could do would be to release Yndrin openly, but then make a secret deal with Rocco to deliver him later. And he wouldn't do that, in the first place, and in the second place, Rocco wouldn't deal, he'd just chase him down and kill him, and be just as furious. He looked back at Yndrin, his heart sinking. Which is what he'll do anyway. Chase you down and kill you, I mean, the minute you leave the castle. It's hopeless!

Does the baron have any other heir? Yndrin asked.

No, Amalrin answered. That's the hell of it! Roccano was his only legitimate son, and he fairly doted on the oaf. Father says that he's gotten a dozen bastards, but he's managed to put them out of the way by one means or another, so they wouldn't be able to threaten the succession. The gravity of the situation was settling ever more heavily upon him, until his shoulders also drooped. He had felt so glad – fool that he was – when Roccano had hit the ground! But it had only made things worse. There was just no way out. This affair was going to spell the end of the council and the total destruction of Sarantia! If Rocco defected, and took even a fourth of the other barons with him, and even if they didn't turn around and ally with Tarth, which they probably would, just the loss of their forces would weaken Sarantia so much that the High King wouldn't have a sliver of a chance to repel the northern invaders. It was monstrous – nigh unbelievable – but it began to look as if the alien had struck Sarantia as certain a death blow as he had that insufferable pig!

Hruah's expression showed that she had come to much the same conclusion. What are we to do? she moaned, one hand on her throat. How can we warn Father?

What good will it do to warn him? her brother asked gloomily. There's no help for it – nothing he can do, warned or not.

What if, the stranger put in thoughtfully, what if I were to slay the baron as well?

Both of the others turned to stare at him. How? Amalrin blurted.

Hruah caught her breath audibly. If any hint of suspicion attached to the royal house ....

You said he would want to kill me with his own hands. Would he perhaps respond to a challenge?

He would! the prince cried. He is more than vain of his swordsmanship! Then he deflated abruptly once more. And not without cause. I know not what skill you may have with the sword, but unless it's uncommon indeed, I'm afraid you'd have little chance. He won't give you an opening like Roccano did.

The alien's thin lips twisted in a wry smile. Little chance? Can I better my chances by waiting for him to hunt me down like a mad dog? In any case, if he kills me, he will be satisfied. Or at least more satisfied than he would be otherwise.

Hruah nodded decisively. You are quite right, sir. I fear we had forgotten that you have a stake in this affair as well. Whereas we are concerned only with our political games, you have nothing less than your very life to consider. I thank you for your offer.

He dipped his head in response. Most perceptive, my lady. It does indeed seem that I must kill or be killed. Would you prefer that I slew him on the field of honor, or by secret assassination?

The field of honor would be much preferable, Hruah told him firmly. If he is slain in a duel of his own choosing, none can fault the royal house. But you must choose what will be best for yourself. Are you skilled with sword and shield?

They are not my favorite weapons, but I think I can manage. His mouth twitched downward. Death is my trade, after all.

The princess looked at him with what seemed deepening interest. How did this fight with Roccano come about, anyway?

Let's go find Father, Amalrin suggested, and I'll tell you both all about it. He should know what's going on, at least, so he isn't taken by surprise. And he may have a better idea.

Yes, Hruah agreed, but we can't all go together. He, particularly, should not be seen talking to the king. He shouldn't even have been seen talking to us, but there's no help for that now.

Well, I can't go off and leave him. I told Javik I'd take him in ward myself, in order to keep him from having the grooms haul him away.

Well then, you tell me, and I'll go tell Father, while you take care of your prisoner.

Amalrin took a deep breath. The three of us – Roccano, Javik and me – were down in the city, and Roccano spotted this horse – a magnificent black stallion – and he wanted him for breeding, back in Suthis. His name is Nightwind, and he belongs to Yndrin. Roccano tried to buy ....

A wild shout from the other end of the hallway interrupted. There he is now!

A second, deeper voice snapped, Well, don't let him get away this time!

A knot of three men pounded down the corridor, shouldering roughly past a servant girl with a basket of linen; she dropped it with a shrill yelp, and shrank against the wall. Yndrin and Amalrin turned unhurriedly to face the three. The alien gave them an aloof, danger-laden glance that halted Javik well out of his reach, and brought the other two up short of actually laying hands on him.

Amalrin looked past them at Baron Rocco, who was approaching with a little less haste and much more dignity. And just who seems to be 'getting away', my good baron? he inquired icily.

Rocco scowled ferociously, but did not reply. As he drew up level with the rest of his men, and they parted to let him by, the prince continued, We go to seek the king's justice, my lord. You are welcome to accompany us, if you wish.

Aye! the older man snorted. He was taller than his son, and not so heavy. Dressed in full council robes, with his broad, square face contorted in rage, he was a daunting figure. Aye – no doubt the king has justice for his brats, and their guttersnipe friends! But what about a loyal peer of the realm whose son and heir lies dead at the hand of this slime-crawling, maggot-eating jackal? He jerked an accusing hand out toward the mercenary as he spoke.

Yndrin reacted once more with shocking speed. Before the last syllable had dropped from Rocco's lips, he took one long stride forward and lashed the back of his hand across the baron's face, with sufficient force to rock the big man on his feet. No man speaks so to a prince of Ard'dr, without paying in blood! the alien hissed in haughty indignation. I demand that you meet me on the field of honor!

Everyone stood paralyzed for a couple of breaths, staring at the tall stranger. He dominated the group, seeming to radiate an almost palpable force. Rocco's three varlets fell back a step, raising their hands defensively.

The baron himself was speechless, mired in a combination of astonishment and rage. The mark of Yndrin's fingers showed like a brand on his already red face. Finally he lifted a trembling fist. I'll have you flayed alive! he howled.

Yndrin's thin lips twitched in contempt of the threat. Tomorrow at dawn, he suggested in biting tones. Unless you're afraid to face the man who killed your son.

I'll show you who's afraid! I'll carve you into gobbets and feed you to my swine!

The mercenary nodded once, curtly. Well enough – if you're man enough to manage it. Where do we meet?

Somewhere outside the bounds, Amalrin warned.

The tourney field? Javik suggested eagerly.

The tourney field, the baron repeated, spitting out the words like grape seeds. At dawn. To the death! He seemed to have steadied – he no longer shook, and his voice was now cold and deadly. And who shall be surety for your appearance, dog?

I will, the prince announced firmly.

Excellent! Rocco purred, turning a corrosive gaze on the young man. Then if he doesn't show up, I shall have the pleasure of carving you, and robbing your father of his son! He whirled on his heel and strode back the way he had come, leaving his three followers to recover and scramble after him as best they could.

When they had all disappeared around the far corner, Amalrin heaved a fervent sigh of relief. He turned back toward Hruah, saying, Well, now we can all go talk to Father.

She did not reply. She was staring at Yndrin, whose eyes still followed his enemies. Her lips moved faintly, without sound. The prince shifted uncomfortably, thinking she must be reciting some magical formula.

Yndrin finally turned also. As he faced the princess, she nodded slowly. That was well done, my lord.

My lord! Did she think he was really a prince, as he had said? Well, perhaps he was – certainly he had seemed one, when he faced Rocco down.

Now, however, he bowed once again in his odd, lavish way. Thank you, Your Highness. Although the Dom hired me as a guard, they have also pressed me into service as an actor from time to time.

Shall we go see Father now? Amalrin repeated impatiently.

Yes, I suppose, his sister agreed vaguely. As they began walking, she added, to Yndrin, You must stay in the castle tonight. You'll have to send someone after your weapons. Amalrin, maybe it would be best for you to get someone off on that errand right away, and also find him a room somewhere and put a guard on the door – not only for appearance's sake, but also to keep Rocco and his minions out. After that last remark he made, I wouldn't put it past him to try to kidnap or murder Yndrin so he could hold you responsible. And you know how much chance you'd have against his skill.

But there's not an empty room in the whole castle! Amalrin protested. I'm even sharing my quarters with Baron Nikor and his men!

A cell will do nicely, Yndrin suggested. As well as looking better politically, it will be easier to defend against treachery. I would only ask that it be dry, and provided with a little clean straw to sleep on.

Can you rest in such a place? the prince wondered.

The alien smiled lopsidedly at him. I have rested in worse.

Hruah stopped suddenly, turning toward the other two. An excellent idea, she announced. You go take care of that, Amalrin. I'll see if I can get Father out of council. You can come to his chamber when you're done. Master Yndrin, I thank you once again. I wish you success with all my heart, and I shall be at the tourney field tomorrow to see your victory. May the gods be with you.

I shall endeavor to deserve your trust, my lady, the alien replied with a dip of his head.

She turned and strode off. Amalrin sighed, staring after her with a wry smile. She still orders me around as if I were a child, he complained, but his tone was fond rather than bitter. Come along then. We can at least find you a decent meal before we lock you up.

* * * * *

Hruah found the council still in session, so she gave one of the stewards a message to deliver to her father, and then went to his chambers to wait for him. She was just as glad for the delay, for she wanted to consult her seerstone before she talked to him. She went over behind the big shut-bed, where she would not be interrupted by anyone coming in, and drew the stone out of the special velvet pouch that she wore around her neck.

It was no bigger than a pullet's egg, greyish white, stream-smoothed, of no remarkable appearance. Yet it was the most used tool of her sorcery. Not that she did not possess more sophisticated devices – she had a silver scrying mirror which had belonged to her mother, and a big crystal globe her father had brought for her all the way from Starakhan. But the stone was more portable and required less energy to use than either of the other two. And it was just as informative, in most cases. It would not show her pictures of the past, present, and future, as did the others, but it would respond just as reliably to any question she could formulate which could be answered with a plain positive or negative.

Of course, questions about the future often had uncertain answers, even as pictures of the future were uncertain. This was what made the council members so uneasy. They could not seem to understand that such answers could indicate only probabilities and alternatives, since the future was not fixed, and always depended on the choice of action by everyone concerned.

Hruah cupped the stone in her palms and concentrated her arcane powers upon it. The question she formed and threw at it was simple enough: Will Yndrin kill Rocco tomorrow?

The stone warmed with sudden heat. Hruah closed her fist upon it in a rush of triumph; then she gave a rueful gasp and quickly tossed it to the other hand – it was really hot! The answer was affirmative, as clearly so as if she had asked about a practical surety, like whether she would live through the night.

She could scarcely believe it! How could there be such certainty in the outcome of such an uncertain duel? Even if the alien were a wizard with the blade ... a wizard? She froze suddenly, with her mouth open in a silent gasp. Had he not told Rocco that he was a prince of Ard'dr?

Ard'dr was the name of a fabled empire in the ultimate east, an empire which was ruled by the world's mightiest sorcerers. Hence the term prince, or lord, of Ard'dr was loosely applied to any great adept, though he might have no drop of royal or even noble blood, and no faintest connection with the distant empire. Was Yndrin such an adept?

It would explain many things that were strange about him – for instance, the way he had controlled the confrontation in the hallway just now, forcing Rocco to accept his challenge ... and before that, his casual offer to assassinate the baron secretly. Was that how he had been able to kill an armed Roccano with no visible weapon? And how he was, with nearly absolute certainty, going to kill Roccano's father tomorrow?

But if he was a powerful wizard, why was he masquerading as a common mercenary? Temkar had a sorcerer in his entourage, she knew; she had tried often enough, unsuccessfully, to penetrate the magical shields which surrounded their preparations for war. Had that sorcerer perhaps had equal difficulty piercing her shields, and so come to spy out the situation in Sarantia first hand?

The sound of the chamber door opening, and the voices of people entering, interrupted her thoughts. You said my daughter was awaiting me with urgent news? the king's voice accused.

So she directed ....

Hruah put away the stone and swept regally from behind the bed. So I did indeed, Omel. She dropped a minimal curtsey to the king. Your Majesty. If we could be alone.

Amar waved an impatient dismissal at his attendants, who bowed themselves out. Then he turned on his daughter. Neither so tall nor so broad as Baron Rocco, the king was nonetheless an imposing figure of a man. Flowing silver-shot black hair and nearly white beard combined well with his natural commanding poise to make him look every inch the king. His generous brow, normally calmly benign, was now furrowed with a deep frown.

This had better be important, he warned. First Rocco excuses himself for a moment and never comes back. Then Aranid and Morin. And now you drag me out ... what the hell is going on?

Precisely what I came here to inform you, Your Majesty, Hruah replied primly, with reproachful stress on the closing formality.

The king made an apologetic gesture. Ah, my lass, he pleaded. Forgive me! I know you always have my best interest at heart. But it is not a good idea for me to appear to be always ruled by my daughter.

How well I know! the princess agreed bitterly.

Well, well, that's as it may be, he soothed. What is this news that you have for me?

Hruah pressed her lips together, debating quickly how to present her bombshell. Roccano is dead, she announced. Slain by an alien mercenary.

Amar almost staggered. That's what took Rocco out of the council?

The woman nodded, and then held up a hand to keep him from saying more. And, she continued quickly, that same mercenary will also kill Rocco – in a duel, at dawn tomorrow.

The king gaped speechlessly. Finally he turned and wavered over to a chair, into which he dropped heavily. And you have arranged all this? he questioned dazedly.

Not I! It seems to have arranged itself, or perhaps the gods had a hand in it. But we can at least arrange to take advantage of it.

Amar took a deep breath. It's going to take a little getting used to first.

Yes. That's why I thought you should know as soon as possible.

Quite so. Thank you. Now would you like to explain exactly how all this came about?

As to how Roccano came to fight with this man, whom Amalrin calls Yndrin, I have no details. My brother was there, and he'll be coming here shortly to tell you all about it. He did say something about a horse Roccano wanted to buy, which I presume Yndrin did not want to sell, since it ended in Roccano drawing steel within the bounds and attacking the mercenary. Yndrin defended himself bare-handed, but even so managed to kill Roccano.

So Rocco's people hastened to tell him ....

And he went looking for 'the murderer', as he saw him. Meanwhile, Yndrin had been taken in ward by Amalrin, to protect him from Rocco's revenge until they could bring the case to you. Rocco caught up with them here in the castle, where I had already encountered them, by accident, so I actually witnessed the events after that. The baron shouted threats and insults at Yndrin, who slapped his face and challenged him to a duel.

And he accepted? Amar wondered.

He accepted. He was livid with rage, and the fellow maneuvered him very skillfully. Besides, I think he knew you would never give the man to him to kill as he would desire, so this might be his best chance. And then since Amalrin was taking responsibility for his appearance, he might even be able to arrange it so the alien could not appear, and then he could kill your son in payment for the loss of his own.

The king paled, gripping the arms of his chair. Soreeth's eyes! The lad would have no chance ....

He doesn't have to, Hruah cut in. My arts assure me that Yndrin will appear for the duel. And not only appear, but win. Rocco dies tomorrow, as surely as the sun rises.

You're certain?

Absolutely.

Amar leaned back, becoming thoughtful. This ... Yndrin must be a formidable warrior indeed.

Or a formidable warlock! Hruah thought. Aloud she said, I did not see him fight, but Amalrin did. Doubtless he will be happy to tell you all about it. I just met the man in the hallway and can only tell you that he has a courteous and noble bearing, and a quick mind.

But who is he? Where is he from?

He was dressed after the fashion of the Dom, she replied. And the word ‘yndrin,’ in their tongue, means 'wanderer'. But he is not of their race. His hair is dark, but his skin is as pale as my own, and he is taller than Rocco.

Nor have the Dom ever been famed as warriors, Amar mused. They always hire guards for their wagons. As I suppose they must have hired him, though he must have been in sorry case, if they had to give him clothes. Some criminal or outlaw of noble birth, perhaps, fleeing the gibbet? What sort of accent did he have?

None that I could detect. He certainly has the manners of a nobleman, or of one who has been closely associated with nobility, at least – perfectly courteous, but not fawning.

Where is he now?

Amalrin was going to find a dry cell, and lock him up under strict guard – for his own protection, as well as the appearances of the thing. Then he'll come here to tell you whatever he knows of this whole affair.

The king twisted one hand in his beard, his eyes gazing unfocused at the far corner. This could be a most fortunate happenstance. Indeed, it seems almost too fortunate. I have long suspected Rocco to be in secret league with Tarth, without any sort of proof that I judged would be convincing to the council. I could almost have arranged this whole thing myself – except I didn't! It's more Temkar's style – except why would they want to eliminate an ally? Which he was in fact, whether he had any formal contract with them or not.

Maybe one of the loyal barons decided to take matters into his own hands? Hruah suggested, not believing it herself.

Possibly .... He didn't look or sound convinced either.

Another thought struck the princess, born from her suspicion about the stranger's arcane powers. But she was not ready yet to air that suspicion. She chose her words carefully. Perhaps Tarth is behind it after all. What better way for an assassin or spy to ingratiate himself with you, than to remove Rocco? Temkar has never been noted for loyalty to his allies – perhaps Rocco alive was not as useful to him as say, your death would be.

Amar looked quickly at her. The entire council would disintegrate, and leave Sarantia wide open for them to spoil at their pleasure! he cried.

Precisely.

So! This Yndrin could be dangerous.

He most assuredly is dangerous, she agreed with heartfelt emphasis. The only question is, to whom?

Aye. Such a warrior would be a valuable asset for us, especially if he does have a noble upbringing and leadership skills, as well as physical prowess. Unless, of course, he's secretly dedicated to our destruction. He tugged his beard some more. I'd like to see the man, talk to him, assess him for myself.

It would not be wise, Hruah warned. As you pointed out, all the circumstances make it appear that you hired him. There will be plenty of talk, without giving them any more excuse than they have already.

You're right, of course, the king sighed. Could you not inquire by your arts, whether he is an assassin?

That he could well be, and yet no danger to you, Hruah pointed out. However, this I can ask – whether you will die at his hand.

And if the answer is doubtful?

The sorceress shrugged. The inquiry can only point to as much of the future as we can understand, she told him patiently, for what must be at least the hundredth time. It gives few sure directions. If the answer is clearly negative, it may only mean that the fellow will betray you to Temkar, or lead you into an ambush where you will fall by the hands of other men. I cannot possibly ask all the questions that would be necessary in order to be sure what will happen, for the future is never sure.

Yet you are sure he will kill Rocco, he reminded her.

As sure as I can be. If the duel comes about, then Rocco will die at his hand. Of course, I suppose Rocco could take deathly ill, or meet with an accident of some kind, so that he would be unable to fight ....

He raised a defensive hand. Enough, enough. How about this – ask whether he has been hired to betray us. That should be determined already.

Hruah bowed her head, hiding a grimace of annoyance for not thinking of that herself. Correct. She brought out the stone once more, cupped it in her hand, and concentrated. Questions about past actions were certain of answer unless the action had been magically shielded, which this one might well have been. But one could only try. The stone grew cold. After a moment she broke out of her trance and shook her head. I do not think he has been hired to our hurt. Still, in her heart she wondered whether the man might not have planted that answer, or have some other motive in mind, which was not actively hostile, but merely careless of harm to Sarantia.

Amar was satisfied, at least. He blew out a breath, and nodded decisively. Well enough. Most likely there is no plot of any kind. He probably just seeks his own advancement.

The door opened once more, with sounds of protest leaking around it. He said no one was to disturb him!

Then he can throw me out himself, came Amalrin's voice.

Admit the prince! Amar bellowed. He had, of course, given no such order, only implied it by dismissing everyone.

The door banged back. At once, Your Majesty!

Amalrin strode in, looking very young and very excited. Have you told him yet? he demanded.

Your sister has told me all she knows of this affair, Amar informed him. Now suppose you sit down and tell me what you know. How did this all start, anyway?

The prince plopped onto a stool and hunched forward, eyes gleaming. We were down in the city – Roccano and Javik and me – and Roccano spied a horse down a side street and took off after it. We followed and found him trying to buy this magnificent stallion – wait till you see him, Father! Anyway, he belongs to Yndrin – I suppose Hruah told you about Yndrin? Roccano wanted to buy him, but Yndrin refused to sell, so Roccano threatened to just take the horse away from him. Then Yndrin said he could have him, if he could ride him.

This Yndrin didn't deliberately catch Roccano's eye and tempt him with the horse? Amar questioned.

Gods, no! Roccano never would have even seen Nightwind, if he hadn't just happened to look the right direction at the right moment. I didn't see him until I finally located Roccano and he was badgering an old Dom, who hardly spoke enough Sarantian to know what was wanted of him. And Yndrin was behind the wagon. I'd guess the old man took the horse to the fountain – there was one in the middle of the square – to water him, and that's when Roccano looked down the street and saw him.

So Roccano agreed to try to ride the horse? Amar prodded.

You bet! Yndrin said Nightwind wouldn't let anyone ride him, except himself, but Roccano said he'd been breaking horses all his life, and he could ride any horse that any other man could.

Why was he so determined to have that particular horse? Hruah asked curiously.

Why! You should see Nightwind, sister. Even a girl could tell he's a king among horses. Roccano said his father would never forgive him if he didn't get that horse!

So did he make the attempt then and there?

No. We came back to the castle, all together, and went out to the exercise field. Roccano sent for his gear and made Yndrin put it on Nightwind. Then the dumb ox mounted up, and Nightwind gave three jumps and dumped him on his butt on the ground. And then he tried to trample him, but Yndrin ran out and made him stop. He saved that worthless fart's life! And what reward does he get? Roccano cut the peace bond on Javik's sword – he didn't have one of his own – and attacked him! I couldn't believe it!

In Suthis, Amar commented grimly, he doubtless had the liberty to kill anyone who crossed him.

In Suthis, maybe. But here in Caideth, within the bounds, with a peace-bonded blade? And then Javik had the gall to call Yndrin a murderer!

One moment! Hruah interrupted. Back up a little. How did Yndrin – unarmed – manage to kill Roccano?

Well, it happened so fast that nobody had time to realize what was happening. Roccano lunged at him, high, like he planned to hit his face or throat. But Yndrin ducked, or rather, fell backward, so the sword went over him, and then he caught himself and kicked Roccano in the crotch. That gave him something to think about while Yndrin jumped back up and hit him in the head with the edge of his hand, like this, like it was an axe. He demonstrated. Roccano fell down like he'd been pole-axed, and Javik ran over to him and said he was dead. That's all there was to it.

Hruah frowned, trying to picture the fight from