“I mean for a visit. And soon. I want to see how Areava behaves outside of her own den, and I would like to see my son away from this court, if only for a short while.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Orkid said. “Maybe next summer? I could suggest it as part of a tour of all the kingdoms. It would be good for morale if the war with Haxus starts in the spring.”
“That’s an idea.”
“Now relax,” Orkid told him. “The event we have been planning for so many years has at last come to pass. Aman will no longer be considered a small backward province of Grenda Lear. The next ruler in Kendra will share our blood.”
“It is you who did all the work. For that I am grateful beyond words.”
Orkid bowed his head.
“What next?”
“We get the Key of Union off Lynan and make sure it is given to Sendarus,” Orkid said.
“Better he get the Key of the Sword,” Marin replied.
Orkid looked up in surprise. “What?”
“We convince Areava to hand Sendarus the Key of the Sword. If the marriage sees him accepted by the majority of Kendrans, then being bearer of that Key will make him acceptable to all. Even the Twenty Houses would not move openly against him.”
“And how do we manage that?”
“By getting him command of the army to move north in spring.”
“I thought Prince Olio had that command,” Amemun said.
Marin regarded his old tutor for a moment. Amemun had tutored two generations of Gravespears, including himself, teaching them almost everything they knew about Aman and the larger world outside. He felt a surge of affection for the man and his mane of white hair.
“Can Olio be persuaded to surrender it?” Marin asked Orkid.
“It is Areava we have to persuade,” Orkid said.
“Well, I’m sure you can handle that,” Marin said smugly.
“Be careful, brother. She is her own woman, just as her mother Usharna was.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Nonetheless, I have seen how she looks to you, and now that your nephew is her husband, I think she will be even more amenable.”
“You may be right. Time will show us one way or the other.”
“And time,” Marin said, “is something we have plenty of.”
Wedding parties were going on throughout the city. From her window, Areava could see bonfires in almost every square. Lanterns were hauled up the masts of every ship in the harbor. Snatches of song drifted up to the palace in the evening breeze.
“We have made them happy,” Areava said.
Sendarus stood behind her, his arms around her waist and his chin resting on her shoulder. “I am glad some of our own joy has spilled out.” He kissed her neck, and raised one hand to trace a finger along her jaw.
“In one year I must learn to be queen and wife. It is more than I ever expected.”
He kissed her ear and then her temple. He felt her tense.
“Is something wrong?”
She giggled nervously. “I am afraid.”
“Of tonight?”
She nodded, felt like a little girl. “It’s silly, isn’t it? It’s not as if we haven’t...” Her voice trailed off.
“We have never made love as husband and wife before. That is different. We are more than lovers now.” He stood back and turned her around, then kissed her on the lips. “We are one life; we have one future.”
She knew the truth of the words as she heard them, and kissed him back, and even as she felt her breath quicken and her skin flush with blood, the Keys over her heart seemed to come alive with a warmth all their own.
Chapter 12
Snow was falling lightly, but the ground was warm enough to melt it right away. The road had become a long trail of slush. Riders picked their way carefully, but still horses and pack mules slithered and sometimes fell. Jes Prado sighed heavily as another of his mounts had to be put down because of a broken leg and its rider sent to the back of the column with whatever gear he could carry.
Freyma shook his head. “That’s the third today.” Prado said nothing.
“It’s a bad time to be traveling. Even waiting for the weather to turn colder would be better.”
“We don’t have the time,” Prado said curtly. “We have to be in north Hume before the end of winter.”
Freyma used the point of his dagger to pick some of his lunch out from between his teeth. He knew they would lose more horses, and maybe even a few riders to broken necks if Prado did not change his mind. Not that the losses meant much in a company this size. He shook his head in wonder at what Prado had managed to do. No single mercenary captain— general, Freyma reminded himself—had ever commanded such a large force. He had over two thousand riders on his rolls, and nearly another five hundred foot, mostly Arran archers: the best in Theare. The column stretched five leagues from scout to rear, and took a good three hours to pass a single point, and that was on a good road. In this muck it would take five hours or more.
No, it was not the effect on numbers he was worried about, but the effect on morale. Freyma knew from experience in the Slaver War how poor morale could lose a battle even before it had begun.
But Prado was determined, and no one questioned Prado, not Freyma, not even Sal Solway, who had once been a mercenary commander in her own right.
He glanced at Prado, wondering what was going through his mind and what was driving him so hard. There was some demon in there. A shout brought his attention back to the column. A mule was slipping off the road, and its handlers could do nothing to stop it.
“Get the bloody packs off!” Freyma yelled at them, then swore under his breath. He spurred his horse in the vain hope he could get there before it was too late, leaving Prado alone with his own thoughts.
But Prado did not notice. He did not see the struggling riders pass in front of him, even those that offered greetings, and he did not see the mule fall sideways, pinning one of its handlers underneath. He was thinking about Rendle, and wondering what the bastard was doing right now tucked away in his Haxus refuge. His lips were curved in a kind of smile as he thought how surprised Rendle would be when he saw Prado and his mercenaries riding down on his own pitiful company. It was a thought that kept Prado warm even on the coldest nights.
Prado would have been disappointed to learn that Rendle had not paid him a single thought in months, not since the night Prado had escaped his clutches. He had been far too busy with his own plans, and they had nothing to do with revenge.
“Well, my mercenary friend, what do you think?”
Rendle looked up from the map he was cradling in his lap. The man in front of him looked old before his time and overtired, but Rendle noticed the way the man held himself and the look of ruthlessness in his eye and was not fooled. “Your Majesty?”
King Salokan of the kingdom of Haxus—thin, ascetic, and proud—looked vaguely irritated. “What do you think?” He swept his arm out to encompass the military camp that lay before them.
Rendle grunted. “Good. There are four thousand, as you promised?”
“Of course, all mounted.”
“And I have their command?”
Salokan pursed his lips. “Well...”
“That was one of the conditions.”
“I know! I know!” the king snapped, his irritation with the steely little man before him genuine now. “But these are proud men, Captain Rendle. They are not used to serving under a ... under a ...”
“Soldier for hire,” Rendle finished for him, his voice unsympathetic.
Salokan shrugged. “There you have it! It was hard to convince my officers—”
“Who is the brigade commander?” Rendle interrupted.
“What?”
“Who is their brigade commander? I assume he voiced the greatest opposition to my taking over his troopers.”