A Fall of Princes by Judith Tarr Read Free Book Online

in
Kundri’j Asan. Powders and stinks and spells and cantrips, and a great deal of
mystical posturing. It deceives the masses. It enriches the mages. It amuses my
father to retain a few of the more presentable in his court. They can do him no
harm, he says, and one day they might prove useful.”
    “That day has come, and the lord of this province has seized
upon it. I am going to do battle with the sorcerer.”
    “You dare it?” Hirel asked, meaning to mock him.
    “I dare it. You see, cubling,” Sarevan said, “I am one
myself.”
    Hirel blinked at him. He did not sprout horns or cloak
himself in stars or spawn flights of dragonels from his cupped hands. He was
only Sarevan, too large for that cupboard of a room, and rather in need of a
bath. The reek of smoke and anger lay heavy upon him.
    He gathered Hirel’s garments and dropped them on the bed.
“Dress yourself. You must be away from here before they close the gates for the
night.”
    Slowly Hirel obeyed. He would be well rid of this lunatic.
Mage, indeed. Gods, indeed. A little longer and the barbarian would have had
Hirel believing it.
    o0o
    Sarevan saw to Hirel’s bag, packed the seedcakes and a
napkinful of dumplings, added his own waterskin, and rummaging in his scrip,
brought out the purse. Without a word or a glance, he laid it in the bag.
    Hirel’s throat closed. Sarevan held out the bag; Hirel
clutched it to his chest.
    “Come,” the priest said.
    Hirel tried to swallow. Time was running on. And he could
not move.
    Sarevan snatched him up; and he left the inn as he had
entered it, carried like an ailing child. The streets were as crowded as ever,
the shadows growing long with evening.
    Hirel began to struggle. Sarevan ignored him. There was a
new tension in the priest’s body, a tautness like fear, but the press was too
tight, the current too strong; he could breast it, but he could not advance
above a walk, with many turns and weavings and impasses. It was like a spell, a
curse of endless frustration.
    At last he could not move at all, and from his shoulder’s
height the inn was still visible, its sign of the sunbird mocking Hirel’s
glare. “I will do it,” Sarevan muttered. “I must.”
    “What—”
    Sarevan stood erect and breathed deep, and Hirel
felt—something. Like a spark. A flare of heat too brief to be sure of. A note
of music on the very edge of hearing. The small hairs of his body shivered and
rose.
    “There!” Sun
flashed on helmets; a senel tossed its horns and half reared, its rider calling
out, sweeping his arm toward the priest.
    Sarevan plunged into the crowd. It parted before him. But
against the company behind came a second, barring the broad way, and the throng
milled and tangled itself, and no escape but straight into the air.
    Sarevan seized it. He launched himself upward.
    For a soaring, terrifying moment he flew, and Hirel with
him, and people cried out to see it. Then darkness filled the sky. Something
like an eagle stooped above them, but an eagle with wings that spread from
horizon to horizon. With a sharp fierce cry Sarevan reared back, gripping Hirel
one-handed, hurling lightnings.
    Hirel saw the arrow come. He tried to speak, even to shape a
thought. The dart sang past his cheek and plunged deep into the undefended
shoulder. Sarevan cried out again, sharper and fiercer still, and dropped like
a stone.
    o0o
    “Fascinating,” said the Lord of Baryas and Shon’ai when he
had heard his captain’s account, inspecting the prisoners bound and haughty before
him. Hirel had only a set of manacles, which was an insult. Sarevan was wrapped
in chains, his shoulder bound with a bandage, and his face was grey with pain.
But he met the lord’s stare with perfect insolence.
    The lord smiled. He was tall for an Asanian, a bare head
shorter than Sarevan, and slender, and exquisitely attired. His slaves were
skillful: one had to peer close to see that he was not young, that his hair was
not as thick as it feigned to be.