He stood up and shrugged off his new poncho—a long, fur-lined garment given him by Korigan—because it was starting to make him sweat. He hardly felt the cold at all anymore, something he put down to that part of him that was Chett rather than to his new nature. He had been so busy since reaching the High Sooq he had not had much time to consider the changes wrought in him by Silona’s blood, and was relieved for it. Silona was not someone he wanted to consider in any way or form.
The air was filled with the smell of burning cow dung, an unexpectedly sweet aroma. In the middle distance cattle clumped together for warmth. He could hear, but not see, the training: the clash of wooden swords, the trot, canter, and gallop of the cavalry, the barked orders.
Lynan recognized Kumul’s voice and kept down the anger and jealousy that rose in him like bile. He hated himself for feeling this way. He had no claim on Jenrosa, had even stopped thinking about her in that way, but the thought of Kumul together with her made him feel spurned. He thought he could have handled it had it been Ager or Gudon or Korigan ... in fact, anyone who hadn’t been so important in Lynan’s life as Kumul.
What did she see in the old fool, anyway?
He cursed himself loudly. Kumul deserved better from him. In fact, Kumul had always deserved better from him.
He closed his mind to it, delved deeper to try and make sense of everything that was happening. There were some days when he wished everything would just get on, that winter would finish, that he could ride east and force the issue with Areava and have it decided one way or the other. Then there were other days when he wanted nothing more than to slow everything to a crawl so he had time to understand fully what was happening, especially now that he was making decisions not just for himself but for thousands—tens of thousands!—of other people. He could not even conceive what it must have been like for his mother, who had ruled over millions. Was it something she became inured to?
Lynan could see as far as the end of winter. He would have an army then. But what to do with it? East into Hume? He nodded to himself. He had to secure the Algonka Pass, the only easy way for an army to cross from Grenda Lear’s eastern provinces into the Oceans of Grass. South was desert, occupied by the wilder and even more warlike Southern Chetts, a people about whom he knew nothing, and about whom even the Northern Chetts knew little. If an army trying that route did not die from thirst, they would be butchered in its sleep. That left the north. The plains were protected from Haxus by a spur of the Ufero mountain range that divided the Chetts from the east, and was pierced by a few narrow and dangerous passes that no army could successfully navigate; at least, that’s what Gudon assured him. Assuming that to be true, the Algonka Pass was the key to everything.
And once the pass was in his hands? What next? He shook his head in frustration. He did not know. It would be hard to make a decision about that without more intelligence on what Areava was doing. And there was only one way he could be sure to get that intelligence.
It took him twenty minutes to walk to Ager’s training area, filled with a hundred warriors practicing hard with wooden short swords. Many of them were just beginning and insisted on using the weapon in great slashing arcs; they were paying for it with bruised ribs as their more experienced opponents jabbed at their chests and bellies. Ager was with a small group of Chetts that included Gudon. He was surprised to see that the right hand of a number of the training Chetts were dyed a bright red. Ager was holding the wrists of one of the warriors so her movements had to copy his own as he fenced with Gudon.
“You see that?” Ager told the warrior. “Keep your movements short, concise. Never move just for something to do. Don’t lose your balance on the attack. The only time you lengthen your pace is when you thrust!” With the last word he lunged forward suddenly, his whole body angling over his right knee, his right arm extended; the warrior almost toppled over, but managed to stay on her feet, her body stretched to its limits. Gudon backed up, barely deflecting the blow. Ager stood and freed the warrior. “You see? You don’t lunge as far as you might with a long sword, but you can still get the reach of someone flashing a saber around.”
She limped away, smiling gratefully. She looked up and saw Lynan, bowed deeply, then hurried on.
“What was that about?” Lynan asked Ager.
“Fencing lesson—”
“Not that. The bowing.”
Ager glanced at Gudon, who seemed pleased with himself. “You are a prince of the realm,” Ager said offhandedly.
“I was one of those yesterday, too, and no one bowed to me like that then.”
“Ah, but yesterday no one belonged to the Red Hands,” Gudon said.
“The red what?”
“Like the Red Shields,” Ager explained. “Except with them it’s their hands. Shields would have been difficult since the Chetts don’t use them as a rule.”
“Red Shields? Red Hands? What are you getting at, Ager?”
“Your bodyguard, your Majesty,” Gudon said.
“My bodyguard?” Lynan was astounded. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I need an army.”
“You’ll get both,” Ager told him. “The Red Hands are sworn to protect you, no matter what comes. They will die for you. You should be proud.”
Lynan closed his eyes. I don’t want anyone else to die for me. He sighed. Then throw away the army, he told himself. Leave the Chetts; flee the continent altogether.
He knew he would do none of those things.
He opened his eyes and nodded wearily. “How long have you two been planning this?”
“Since three nights ago,” Ager said cheerily.
“Why?”
Ager and Gudon exchanged one of those glances again.
“Something happened three nights ago, didn’t it?” Lynan asked.
“Yes, your Majesty, but not directly against you.”
“Ah, I see. It was directed against you, or Gudon.”
“Truth, little master,” Gudon said, “perhaps both of us at the same time, or maybe against you through us. We don’t know.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes,” Ager said bluntly.
“When do my bodyguards start... well... bodyguarding.”
Gudon looked over his shoulder and nodded to someone. Lynan heard two sets of footsteps behind him. He turned and saw two large Chetts, one female, one male, each with bright red right hands. They bowed deeply to him, then waited. Their faces were impassive. He saw from the designs on their ponchos that the man belonged to the White Wolf clan, and the woman to the Owl clan.
“They start now, your Majesty.”
“And who is their captain?”
Gudon bowed low this time. “If the little master will accept me.”
Lynan felt a surge of affection for his two friends, and pride. “But their captain cannot stay with them.”
Gudon looked at him questioningly.
“I have a mission for you.” He turned to Ager. “Go back to your training, old crookback. I need to discuss matters with my new captain of the royal bodyguard.”
“The Red Hands, your Majesty,” Ager corrected him.
Lynan smiled slightly. “Indeed. My Red Hands.”
Ager finished the training soon after Lynan and Gudon left; he had more training scheduled for the afternoon and needed to rest. A group of four Chetts were waiting for him behind his tent. He recognized the symbol of the Ocean clan on their ponchos. Three of them were middle-aged, the fourth a young woman. All were armed.