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Authors: Tamora Pierce
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their care to Aly as the reason they had kept her with them. Neither the duke nor the duchess had summoned her to discuss the visitation from the god they believed to be Mithros. Instead they hid their thoughts behind polite, distant faces and told Ulasim that Aly would mind the little ones.
Aly hung on to Petranne and Elsren as they jerked and shrieked in her grip. At last she gave up trying to hear. She read the adults’ lips, as she’d been taught by her father.
“I’ll try to get word of events to you as often as possible,” Bronau assured the older Balitangs. “The king’s none too healthy. Things could change suddenly if he passes on. If Hazarin takes the throne, for instance.”
“Don’t speak of such things,” Mequen told Bronau. “It could be taken for treason.”
Winnamine rested a hand on the prince’s arm. “
Try
to be careful, Bronau.”
The prince grinned, then walked down the gangplank as the crew prepared to cast off. The Balitangs waved farewell. Bronau stood on the edge of the dock, watching as the ship weighed anchor.
“Come on, you raka dogs, put your backs into it!” yelled the luarin captain to his sailors. “’Less you want a touch of the whip to smarten you!” It was how many luarin in Rajmuat who were not part of the Balitangs’ circle addressed their raka slaves and servants. Aly thought it was a foolish way to talk to someone who might be inspired to throw one over the rail into a shark-infested sea, but she would be the first to admit she did not have a conqueror’s heart. She couldn’t see who would profit by keeping the original owners of a country ground into the dirt.
Elsren broke out of Aly’s hold and ran toward the rail. Still clinging to Petranne, Aly seized the boy by his shirt with her free hand and dragged him back. “I want Jafa!” wailed Elsren, tears running down his plump cheeks. Jafana had been his nursemaid. “I hate you!”
Aly sighed and wrapped an arm around him. “I know, and I’m sorry,” she replied. “In your shoes, I’d hate me, too, but we’re stuck with one another.” She looked at Petranne. Tears rolled down the little girl’s cheeks. “Sometimes being a noble isn’t much fun, is it?” she asked. Petranne shook her head.
Aly glanced at Mequen and Winnamine. They waited at the rail, none of their feelings on display as the ship drew out into the harbor. As Elsren calmed, Aly studied the city, not having seen it when she first arrived. Rajmuat was splendid, full of peaked gates and three-level temples, each with a spiked tower thrust into the sky. White or rose pink walls contrasted with the dark green of the trees that lined its streets. Homes also sported peaked roofs and intricately carved eaves, those on wealthy houses traced in gold or silver.
Something else reflected the sun, too, pricking Aly’s eyes with swords of light. She looked up. High above the city Stormwings circled like vultures over a carcass. Aly shivered. These part-human, part-metal immortals feasted on the rage, fear, and death spawned by human combat. Their wings, each metal feather shaped precisely like a bird’s, were the source of the bright flashes of sun on steel.
“They always know.” Winnamine spoke quietly. “The Stormwings—they always know when unrest is starting. How can they tell?”
Mequen put an arm around her shoulders. “We don’t know if they do, my dear,” he replied. “Maybe they just know that it’s a sure bet in Rajmuat. There
will
be fighting in the streets, if he doesn’t appoint an heir soon, or if something happens to whomever he appoints. We’re going to be well out of it.”
“We
hope
we’re well out of it now,” replied the duchess.
Aly knew she had a point. Sometimes King Oron did recover from his fears. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he got worse. If Kyprioth was dragging Aly into the Isles’ affairs, they might well be growing.
At least the Balitangs wouldn’t miss life at court. They
Aly hung on to Petranne and Elsren as they jerked and shrieked in her grip. At last she gave up trying to hear. She read the adults’ lips, as she’d been taught by her father.
“I’ll try to get word of events to you as often as possible,” Bronau assured the older Balitangs. “The king’s none too healthy. Things could change suddenly if he passes on. If Hazarin takes the throne, for instance.”
“Don’t speak of such things,” Mequen told Bronau. “It could be taken for treason.”
Winnamine rested a hand on the prince’s arm. “
Try
to be careful, Bronau.”
The prince grinned, then walked down the gangplank as the crew prepared to cast off. The Balitangs waved farewell. Bronau stood on the edge of the dock, watching as the ship weighed anchor.
“Come on, you raka dogs, put your backs into it!” yelled the luarin captain to his sailors. “’Less you want a touch of the whip to smarten you!” It was how many luarin in Rajmuat who were not part of the Balitangs’ circle addressed their raka slaves and servants. Aly thought it was a foolish way to talk to someone who might be inspired to throw one over the rail into a shark-infested sea, but she would be the first to admit she did not have a conqueror’s heart. She couldn’t see who would profit by keeping the original owners of a country ground into the dirt.
Elsren broke out of Aly’s hold and ran toward the rail. Still clinging to Petranne, Aly seized the boy by his shirt with her free hand and dragged him back. “I want Jafa!” wailed Elsren, tears running down his plump cheeks. Jafana had been his nursemaid. “I hate you!”
Aly sighed and wrapped an arm around him. “I know, and I’m sorry,” she replied. “In your shoes, I’d hate me, too, but we’re stuck with one another.” She looked at Petranne. Tears rolled down the little girl’s cheeks. “Sometimes being a noble isn’t much fun, is it?” she asked. Petranne shook her head.
Aly glanced at Mequen and Winnamine. They waited at the rail, none of their feelings on display as the ship drew out into the harbor. As Elsren calmed, Aly studied the city, not having seen it when she first arrived. Rajmuat was splendid, full of peaked gates and three-level temples, each with a spiked tower thrust into the sky. White or rose pink walls contrasted with the dark green of the trees that lined its streets. Homes also sported peaked roofs and intricately carved eaves, those on wealthy houses traced in gold or silver.
Something else reflected the sun, too, pricking Aly’s eyes with swords of light. She looked up. High above the city Stormwings circled like vultures over a carcass. Aly shivered. These part-human, part-metal immortals feasted on the rage, fear, and death spawned by human combat. Their wings, each metal feather shaped precisely like a bird’s, were the source of the bright flashes of sun on steel.
“They always know.” Winnamine spoke quietly. “The Stormwings—they always know when unrest is starting. How can they tell?”
Mequen put an arm around her shoulders. “We don’t know if they do, my dear,” he replied. “Maybe they just know that it’s a sure bet in Rajmuat. There
will
be fighting in the streets, if he doesn’t appoint an heir soon, or if something happens to whomever he appoints. We’re going to be well out of it.”
“We
hope
we’re well out of it now,” replied the duchess.
Aly knew she had a point. Sometimes King Oron did recover from his fears. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he got worse. If Kyprioth was dragging Aly into the Isles’ affairs, they might well be growing.
At least the Balitangs wouldn’t miss life at court. They
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