Hidden Warrior (7 page)

“Do you still miss your family?”

Ki folded his hands across his chest. “Some of ’em, I guess. Ahra, and a couple brothers.”

“After we get things settled in Ero, we could go visit them,” Tobin offered. “I’d like to see where you come from.”

Ki glanced away. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“You just wouldn’t.” He gave Tobin a quick grin. “Bilairy’s balls, I don’t want to go back there. Why would you?”

Tobin let it go; why shouldn’t Ki have a few secrets of his own and, anyway, that was all a long time ago. He pushed his fingers back through Ki’s hair, pretending to take a closer look at the wound. “Anyway, it should leave a good scar.”

“Not one to brag of, though,” Ki grumbled. “Think the girls would believe me if I said we met with Plenimaran raiders on the road, or bandits, maybe? I bet Una and Marilli would believe me.”

Tobin chuckled, but at the same time felt a familiar twinge of jealousy. He’d heard enough stories about his friend’s hot-blooded kin, and Ki already had an eye for anything in skirts.

Tobin’s own bashfulness in that regard had earned him his share of teasing among the Companions. Even Ki wasn’t above the occasional good-natured jibe. Everyone—including Tobin himself—had always put it down to his youth and natural shyness.

Until now.

Now, fingers still twined in Ki’s warm hair, Tobin had his first inkling of what that angry little knot in his belly might mean. He took his hand away and lay back, pulling the covers up under his chin.

I don’t like girls that way because I—

He threw an arm across his face to hide the rising blush burning his cheeks and used Arkoniel’s trick. He thought of Gosi’s rough winter coat, the feel of cold rain down his neck, the bite of his hawk’s talons on his fist—anything but the guilty heat coursing through him. Anything but the way his fingers remembered the weight of his friend’s soft hair.

I’m a boy! Ki would never—

Ki had gone quiet, and when Tobin dared lift his arm he found him frowning up at the rafters. After a moment he let out a long sigh.

“What about Orun? What if he
does
get your uncle to send me away this time?”

“I told you, I won’t let him.”

“Oh, I know.” Ki’s buck-toothed grin flashed as he caught Tobin’s hand in his, but he was worried. “I’ll tell you this, Tob; whatever happens, I’ll always stand by you, even if it’s only as a soldier in your guard.” He was dead serious now. “No matter what happens, Tobin, I’m your man.”

“I know that,” Tobin managed, caught between gratitude and guilt. “And I’m yours. Go to sleep now, before Nari comes in and makes you sleep next door.”

O
run countered with another messenger the next day and, without thinking, Tobin went to get the news. Tharin was with the man in the hall and looked up in surprise as Tobin clattered down the stairs. He was too distracted for the moment to register what that look meant.

Their visitor turned out to be a most unlikely courier. It was Orun’s own valet, Bisir. He was a meek, quiet fellow, pretty in the way that all the young men in Orun’s household were. With his big, dark eyes and soft, nervous hands, Bisir had always reminded Tobin of a hare. He was one of the few people in that household who was always pleasant to him and, more importantly, the only one who was polite to Ki.

“A letter for you from my lord Orun, Prince Tobin,” Bisir said, looking apologetic as he handed Tobin the sealed parchment. “And may I say, my prince, that it’s good to see you looking so well. Captain Tharin’s last letter gave my master to believe that your health might be in some danger.”

Too late Tobin realized his mistake. It would be no use writing back of ill health now. He opened the letter and
saw it made no difference, anyway. Orun was threatening to bring him home by cart, if need be.

I
t’s all right,” Ki said, as Tobin fretted in their room. “I can ride now, really.”

Iya wasn’t so certain, however, and they went to bed that night in low spirits. Unable to sleep, Tobin sent up a half-formed plea to Sakor and Illior, then wondered if the gods ever heard a petition without the offering smoke to carry it.

When he woke the following morning the first thing he noticed was something white on the floor. It was snow. A shutter had come open and a little drift of it had piled on the rushes under the window. More was blowing in. Jumping out of bed, he dashed to the window and leaned out, laughing as the driven flakes peppered his cheeks.

The meadow was gone, lost behind thick, shifting curtains of white. He could just make out the angle of the barracks roof but the bridge was nothing but a dark blur beyond it.

He scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it at Ki to wake him. Evidently the gods had been feeling generous.

T
he blizzard lasted for three days, heaping snow halfway up the doorposts and trapping Bisir in with them. This presented certain complications. Iya had made herself known, but Arkoniel had to stay hidden upstairs in case Bisir decided to wander where he wasn’t wanted.

The young valet was awkward and ill at ease at first, clearly feeling out of place in this rude country household. There was nothing for him to do here, no one to serve. The women didn’t want him underfoot in the hall, so Koni and some of the younger guardsmen took charge of him and dragged him off to the barracks. Ki and Tobin watched from the top of the stairs as they all but carried him out. Surrounded by rough, coarse-spoken soldiers, Bisir looked like he was on his way to be hanged.

They didn’t see him again until breakfast the next day. Though uncharacteristically rumpled, he was actually laughing with Koni and the others, something Tobin had never seen the timid fellow do.

E
ven after the storm ended the roads were so choked with snow that for the present there was no question of travel. For three golden weeks they lived as if they’d never gone to Ero.

The snow kept them from riding, but they spent hours shooting, fighting snowball battles against the guardsmen, building whole squadrons of snowmen, and practicing their swordplay in the barracks. Koni somehow pulled Bisir into these pastimes, but the valet proved to be no warrior.

On those rare occasions when Ki and Tobin did manage to slip away unattended, they looked for Lhel at the edge of the forest, but the witch was either snowed in or refusing to show herself.

K
i grew strong again, but still had trouble seeing clearly sometimes when he was shooting. He thought about going to Tharin but instead ended up at Iya’s door one night after Tobin was asleep. Once there, fear made it hard to tell her what the matter was. Iya was kind, seating him by her fire and giving him spiced wine. When he finally blurted out what the matter was, she seemed relieved.

“You eyes, is it? Well, let’s see what I can do.” Iya bent over him and pressed a hand to his brow. She said nothing for a few minutes, just stood there with her eyes half-closed, as if she was listening inside his head. Ki felt a tingling coldness against his skin; it tickled a little, but it felt good, too.

“You never told me you were a healer.”

“Oh, I know a thing or two,” she murmured.

Whatever she was doing, she soon seemed satisfied. “I
wouldn’t fret about it. That knock on the head is still mending. I’m sure this will pass.”

“I hope so. When we get back—”

“You’ll have to prove your worthiness all over again,” she guessed, wise as always. “Your worth is known to your friends, and you won’t change the minds of your enemies no matter what you do.”

“My friends,” Ki murmured, thinking of Arkoniel. No matter what Tobin or anyone else said, Arkoniel was avoiding him. He’d done no more than peek in at the doorway when Ki lay sick, and they’d hardly seen each other since. It hurt. Ki had always liked the wizard, even when he was forcing him to learn reading and writing. This sudden, unexplained coolness between them was hard to bear.

He had not dared ask Tharin about it, scared of what the answer might be. But now he couldn’t hold back any longer. Iya knew Arkoniel better than anyone else. “Is Arkoniel angry with me for letting Tobin run off?”

Iya arched an eyebrow at him. “Angry? Why would you think that? You know he can’t risk being seen by our houseguest.”

“He was avoiding me before Bisir got here.”

“He asks after you all the time.”

Ki blinked. “He does?”

“Certainly.”

“But I never see him.”

Iya smoothed her hands down the front of her robe. “He’s been busy with some spell he’s working on. That takes up much of his time.”

Ki sighed. That hadn’t stopped Arkoniel from sending for Tobin, just not for him.

Iya must have seen the doubt in his eyes, or maybe she touched his mind to read it, for she smiled. “Don’t worry about this, my dear. Your illness frightened him more than he likes to admit. Perhaps he has an odd way
of showing it, but he cares for you a great deal. I’ll speak to him.”

Ki rose and gave her a grateful bow. He was still too much in awe of her to hug her. “Thank you, Mistress. I’d be awfully sad if he didn’t like me anymore.”

Iya surprised him with a soft touch on his cheek. “You mustn’t ever think that, child.”

I
t amused Niryn greatly to watch Orun fume and fret over Prince Tobin’s absence. He’d suspected from the start that the Lord Chancellor had engineered the guardianship for himself, hoping to cement his connection to the royal family through Tobin. If the child had been a girl, no doubt he’d even have gone so far as to ask for a betrothal. He was powerful, it was true, and his oily loyalty to the king’s mother had gained him both wealth and status; Erius might have considered such a match.

Instead, here was this skinny, skittish little boy, heir to the richest estates in the land, and Orun held the purse strings. Niryn’s own hold on the king was secure enough, but it irked him to see such a plum fall into the lap of the most odious man in Ero. So he bided his time and kept spies in the house to see if Orun would trip himself up. Orun’s penchant for young boys was no secret, though he’d wisely limited himself to servants and whores who could be counted on not to tattle. But if he should forget himself with Tobin? Well, that would certainly be a bit of luck. The wizard had even considered helping the matter along.

It was all moot anyway, though. Anytime the king chose—and here Niryn did have some influence—Erius could with impunity seize Tobin’s estates, his lands, and treasuries. Tobin was young and virtually friendless among the nobles; with his parents dead, such a child was not worth anyone’s loyalty.

If Ariani’s daughter had lived, rather than this sprat, it would have been a different matter. As the plagues and
droughts worsened and the peasants turned to Illior, it had not been terribly difficult to make the king see that any female of the blood posed a threat to his line. If the Illiorans had their way, any one of these pretenders could claim to be a “daughter of Thelátimos” and raise an army against him. The solution was the usual time-honored one.

Niryn had made a near-fatal error, however, when he pointed out obliquely that the king’s sister, Ariani, posed the greatest threat of all. Erius had very nearly ordered Niryn’s execution; that had been the first time Niryn used magic against the king.

The incident passed and Niryn was glad when it became apparent that the king’s forbearance did not extend to his sister’s children. They’d both taken it as an auspicious sign when Ariani’s daughter was stillborn. Later, the princess’ descent into madness had done Niryn’s work for him. Not even the most fanatical Illiorans would want another mad queen on the throne. No one would back Ariani, or her demon-cursed son.

Yet that still left others. A girl, any girl, who could claim even tangentially to be a “daughter of Thelátimos” might find that the Prophecy of Afra had not been forgotten, no matter how many priests and wizards the king burned. It was a fact Niryn counted on.

N
o one had noticed when Niryn began paying monthly visits to Hear. He dressed as a wealthy merchant and added a spell to fuddle the minds of any who might recognize him. In this way he’d come and gone as he pleased all these years. Who would dare spy on the leader of the Harriers?

Riding into the market town that misty winter afternoon, he reveled as always in his anonymity. It was poulterers’ day, and the crowing, quacking, and honking of the birds in their pens echoed loudly inside the walled marketplace. Niryn smiled to himself as he guided his mount through the crowd. Who among them guessed that the
horseman they jostled or muttered at or smiled upon had the power to end their lives with a word?

Leaving the markets behind, he rode up the hill to the most affluent neighborhood and the fine stone house he owned there. A young page answered, and Vena, the half-blind old nurse, met him in the hall.

“She’s been fretting at her window since morning, Master,” she scolded, taking his cloak.

“Is that him?” a girl called from upstairs.

“Yes, Nalia, my dear, it’s me!” Niryn replied.

Nalia hurried down the stairs and kissed him on both cheeks. “You’re a whole day late, you know!”

Niryn kissed her back, then held her at arm’s length to admire her. A year older than Prince Korin, she had her kinsman’s black hair and eyes, but none of his handsome looks. She was a homely girl, made homelier by a weak chin and the irregular pink birthmark that ran like spilled wine down her left cheek and shoulder. It made her shy, and she shunned society of any sort. This had served him well, making it a simple matter to keep her hidden away in this remote backwater town.

Her mother, a second cousin to the king on the matrilineal side, had been even uglier, but somehow managed to find a husband and whelp a pair of girls. Her good fortune had been Niryn’s. He’d seen to the murders himself, stopping the father’s heart as he opened the door to the wizard and killing the mother in the birthing bed. That had been in the early days of Erius’ massacres, when Niryn still saw to such things personally.

Nalia’s twin had been a pretty little thing, untouched by the unkind fate that had marred her mother and sister. She would have grown up a beauty, and beauty was hard to hide. Or control.