The Finest Challenge
, by Rabe, Jean
- ISBN: 9780765308221 | 0765308223
- Cover: Hardcover
- Copyright: 9/5/2006
They were the Finest Creations-mystically forged creatures of perfection sent by the creators to aid the Fallen (mankind) during their mortal existence. Though they resemble ordinary horses they are highly intelligent, capable of communicating telepathically, and completely moral. They are assigned to bond with individuals of great potential and then protect them from harm while guiding them along a path of virtue. Kalantha, the human ward of Gallant Stallion, has rescued her brother from the influence of the evil bishop. Now, separated from their equine guardian, they must undo the machinations of war that threaten the entire country as an avian menace prepares to launch a decisive attack on both the mortals and the Finest Creations.
A former journalist and news bureau chief, Jean Rabe has written seventeen fantasy novels and more than three dozen fantasy, science-fiction, mystery,
and military short stories. Among her works are the Finest trilogy from Tor and numerous Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms books for TSR/WotC. She has edited several anthologies and has collaborated with Andre Norton on Return to Quag Keep and A Taste of Magic. She lives in Kenosha, Wisconsin, with her husband, two dogs, and a miniature macaw.
and military short stories. Among her works are the Finest trilogy from Tor and numerous Dragonlance and Forgotten Realms books for TSR/WotC. She has edited several anthologies and has collaborated with Andre Norton on Return to Quag Keep and A Taste of Magic. She lives in Kenosha, Wisconsin, with her husband, two dogs, and a miniature macaw.
Chapter One
War Torn
A proper king's feet should be deeply rooted in his country. His heart should beat with concern for his people. His head should be filled with plans for a better future. And his eyes should always observe the rest of the world.
~Sorrel Wintermane, shepherd to Bernd Sameter, first king of Nasim-Guri
The large tent had been intended for summer festivals, when long tables spread with desserts and fruits would be arrayed inside for the dining pleasure of noble guests. But the dirt and bloodstains marked the tent's new and grim purpose this early spring.
A guard bowed and held the flap open. “Sire.”
“Are you sure you want to see this, Kal?” Meven squared his shoulders and looked down into his sister's wide green eyes. “It's cold out here. It smells pretty awful in there and . . .”
“You know I've seen wounded men before, Meven.” A pause: “And plenty of dead ones.” She pulled her cloak tight around her. “Besides, I'd rather be with you than in that old palace of yours. I don't like the looks some of your servants give me. Your palace is . . .”
“Our palace.”
“Is too big. I could get lost in it.” She brushed past him, then threw her hand over her mouth and gagged. Kalantha instantly felt weak.
The cloying odor of diseased and rotting flesh was the strongest, and under that the coppery scent of blood. Cots stretched end to end in rows from the front to the back of the tent, and not a single one sat empty. The most grievously injured rested the farthest away, which was where Kalantha headed. The people tending the wounded huddled back there, clustered near a single cot and talking so their words sounded like the buzz of an insect swarm.
She passed men with bandaged arms, some splinted with what looked like chair legs. A few had woolen strips wrapped around their heads. One man's eyes were thickly bandaged; his cheeks were pink with a fever, and his hands alternately clenched and released the blanket. She stopped and stared, wondering if she should say something to comfort him.
“Why don't you go back to the palace? I'll see you there in a bit.” Meven moved up next to her.
She drew her chin against her neck. “No.”
“Kal . . .”
“I want to see this.”
Meven put a hand on her shoulder, the gesture somehow giving her strength. She straightened and stepped back from the feverish man, nearly backing into the cot behind her.
“I want to see what the war has done.”
“What I have done, you mean.” Meven sucked in a breath. “This is all my fault. By the gods, all of this is because of me.”
She spun and looked up. Though only two years older, he was more than a head taller. “It's not your fault, Meven. It's not your war. Bishop DeNogaret . . .”
“Wanted the war with Nasim-Guri, sure. But I was weak enough to let him talk me into it. I think a part of me wanted Nasim-Guri, and maybe a part of me still does. More land. More subjects and more power. But I don't want this.” He gestured at the cots. “I honestly never wanted any of this.”
He dug the ball of his foot into the ground and opened his mouth to say something else. Kalantha took a last look at the feverish man with the bandaged eyes, then went to the back of the tent.
“They're all so young, Meven. Why did you want to come out here this morning to look at them?”
He followed her without answering, then lengthened his stride and passed her by. He nodded to a young knight he'd sparred with once, but the man was unconscious.
“Theron, are these the men brought in late last night?” Meven directed this to the tallest officer in the huddle.
The man separated from the group and stopped at attention in front of Meven. “Aye, Sire. These men fought just across the border, against fifty Nasim-Guri soldiers. They drove the enemy back beyond the river, and killed more than a few of them. About a dozen of our men were wounded in the process. The worst we brought here, the rest were patched up and sent back out to fight. The villages farther south already were full with wounded, no room for these men. Not sure if any of them will make it, after us carrying them so far. Should have stayed with them in the field until the end, then buried them.”
Steeling himself, Meven took a deep breath and edged forward.
The men who were gathered around the cot parted.
Theron whispered: “His name is Weldon Smithson, Sire. His father is a prominent wheelwright in Nadir and head of the guild. That's the reason we brought him, his father being in the city. Else we would have left him somewhere along the road and buried him in a field. We're all surprised he's still with us.”
Meven knelt next to the cot and took Weldon's hand. The young man offered the King a weak smile.
“Has his father been summoned?”
“Not yet, Sire. We . . .”
Meven's eyes narrowed as he looked up at Theron and the others. “He should have been summoned last night when you arrived. Doesn't matter how late the time.”
“We were tending to everyone, sorting things out, Sire, and . . .”
“Summon the elder Smithson now. Right now. His wife . . .”
“She died some years ago, Weldon told us.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“One brother, Sire, and he's fighting north of Duriam.”
“Summon the elder Smithson now,” Meven repeated. “Now. Have it done, Theron. Do it yourself.”
The tall man gave a nod and whirled on his booted feet, nearly bumping into Kalantha, who'd crept nearer.
Meven returned his attention to Weldon. “Your father will be here soon.”
Weldon shook his head, and a line of blood spilled out of his mouth. “Don't want him to see me like this, Sire. I . . .”
“He'll see you now, and later when you're well. I'll have you and him brought to the palace for dinner. Next week, in fact.”
Weldon's eyes were fixed, and his hand went limp in the King's grip. His breathing grew shallow.
“Weldon?”
The young man coughed, pinkish bubbles trailing down his chin. Meven raised Weldon's head.
“It will be a fine dinner,” Meven continued. “Roast goose, I think. Brushed with butter and stuffed with rice and some of those tiny onions from the fall harvest that the cooks saved in the pantry. They say onions are the food of poor people, but I like them well enough. We'll have soup, of course. The cooks make soup every night. I get tired of it. Dessert. They always make dessert, too. I never tire of that. Have you a favorite cake?”
Sweat beads covered Weldon's face, and his skin had gone paler in the few moments Meven held him. The young man was practically as white as parchment.
“Spice cake is my favorite, I think. My sister, Kalantha, she's right here behind me . . . she likes any kind of cake. The cooks put the frosting on thick for special occasions. And if we've raisins imported from the south, they use some of those, too. Do you think you'd like spice cake, Weldon?”
“He's dead, Sire.”
One of the soldiers pulled the blanket up and waited for Meven to move.
“A dagger to the stomach, they said. Truly surprised he lived as long as he did, considering it took days to get here. We were certain he wouldn't make it through the night. I think he held on just because we told him you were coming by to visit everyone this morning. Said he'd never seen the King up close.”
Meven pulled his arm free and released the dead man's hand. He stood shakily, his eyes locked on the corpse's fixed gaze.
The soldier tugged the blanket over Weldon's head. Behind Meven, a soldier covered another corpse.
“You'll clean him up before his father comes?” This came from Kalantha. “And take him outside this tent? No need for the elder Smithson to come into this horrid, smelly place.”
The soldier looked to the King.
“Yes, clean him up,” Meven said. “Put him in something not so bloody. He's about my size, so you can ask the steward for one of my tunics. Lay him in the palace entry hall if you'd like. Kal's right. His father . . . none of these men's families should see them in this place.”
Meven stared at the blanket-draped form until Kalantha tugged on his arm. “We should go, Meven, and let these men tend the wounded. They're not working with you here.”
Meven numbly concurred and let her lead him from the tent.
Kalantha breathed deep once the soldier closed the flap behind them. “Smells better out here. Will smell even better the farther we get from the tent. I think . . .” She spotted two more tents, smaller than this one and closer to the wall. She realized more wounded were in them. Between the tents was a tarp covering a mound of something.
“Bodies,” Meven said, following her gaze. “They put the dead outside and cover them up until the families arrange for burial. And if there are no families, or if they can't tell who the dead are, they bury them in a mass grave near the cliff.”
Kalantha continued to stare. “How many?” she asked finally. When he didn't immediately answer, she asked again. “How many soldiers have died?”
“Knights and soldiers,” Meven said. “And some villagers who joined up along the way.” His voice was flat. He glanced down at his hands and saw they were covered with Weldon's blood. The front of his richly embroidered tunic was blood soaked, too. “I don't know how many. A lot, I'd guess. Not near so many as Nasim-Guri has lost, the soldiers tell me. Too many, though. There are more dead and wounded in the villages between here and the Nasim-Guri border. Too many.”
They didn't move and didn't speak for several minutes. The wind fluttered the edge of the tarp, revealing the bare feet of several corpses. A dog barked in the distance. Closer, a knight drilled a gathering of soldiers preparing to march to Nasim-Guri. They looked young and clumsy.
“How could I have wanted all of this blood, Kal?” He still looked at his hands. “How could I have wanted all this death?”
“Bishop DeNogaret . . .”
“He encouraged me to make war, Kal. But he didn't force me. He couldn't have forced me to do something I didn't truly want to do.”
She vehemently shook her head and opened her mouth to argue. But she stopped herself.
“I wanted a bigger country, Kal. Maybe I still do, a part of me wants it. But I don't need a bigger country. Galmier is more than enough for me to rule.” He let out a clipped laugh. “Too big for me to rule. Prince Edan should be alive and King. The crown falling to me is an accident.” He finally raised his head and looked toward the palace. “I needed the Bishop's help to manage all of this . . . the estate, the city, the country, and the war. We're very close to winning, my advisors tell me. Nasim-Guri could be ours in a week or two, the capital falling. The Bishop—”
“Now you have me.”
Meven smiled, honest emotion behind it. “I will need your help, Kal.”
“Bishop DeNogaret, is he going to live?”
Meven pointed to a tower with an elaborately crenelated top. “He's high in the north wing, and I've a few servants tending him.” He shrugged. “They think he'll live. But they think he'll be crippled. Rue crushed his legs and broke his ribs.”
“A horrid man.”
“Bishop DeNogaret raised you and me, Kal. I just can't imagine why he'd try to kill you. Maybe he went mad. Happens to people, you know.”
“Have you seen him?”
Meven shook his head.
Kalantha closed her eyes and remembered their arrival yesterday. Rue was moving slowly because of his lame leg. She took him to the stables and was looking for a groom to see to him when Bishop DeNogaret appeared. He had a knife, and he tried to kill her with it, all the while raving that he should have done the deed himself in the first place rather than relying on his bird lackeys. She would have died, but Rue attacked the Bishop and slammed his hooves into the man's chest. Rue would have finished it, but she and Meven pulled the punch back. The Bishop was carried to the palace. She wondered if she should have let Rue kill him.
“I'm certain Bishop DeNogaret had something to do with the assassin-birds, the ones that tried to kill us . . . and tried to kill me on the way here. That book I brought from the Vershan Monastery, it has a picture in it of someone who looks just like Bishop DeNogaret. There are birds mentioned in the book, smart evil ones. You promised you'd look at the book, Meven. I think Bishop DeNogaret is far more powerful than we realized. He caused the war, I know it.”
Meven watched the knight drill the young soldiers. “Not right now, Kal.”
“I think the book could be important. You promised.”
“What's important is you going back to the palace.”
“No. I'm going to stay with you and—”
“Go back to the palace and pack a few changes of clothes. We're leaving today for Duriam in Nasim-Guri.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Meven faced the tarp-covered mound of bodies. “We're going to see King Hunter Silverwood in Duriam. I'm going to put an end to this war, Kal. No more killing. No more mounds of bodies waiting to be put in the ground. I have to summon my commanders, tell them the war ends this minute. Then I'm going to make amends to King Silverwood. Somehow patch all of this up. I could win in a week or two, have a lot more land and subjects, but—”
“You're right to stop it now.” Kalantha's smile reached her eyes. “I'll start packing right away, Meven. But the book. I really think you need to look at it, at least the part with—”
“We'll leave this afternoon, Kal, after the noon meal and before sunset, after I've met with the commanders. I'll send them out along the fields to help spread the news. Then there will be no more blood spilled because of me. Never again because of me.”
“The book, Meven. You have to—”
“I'll read it later, I promise. A book is not nearly so important as putting an end to this war.” He made a huffing sound, his breath fluttering the hair that hung down over his forehead. “I promise I'll look at the book when we get back from Nasim-Guri. After the war is done.”
Kalantha decided it was an argument she couldn't win and headed toward the palace. Neither she nor Meven saw a thin crow hovering above the largest tent-infirmary. It flew toward the palace, reaching it long before Kalantha. Perching on the north crenelated tower, it cawed to a dozen blackbirds, which were quick to join it.
“Ninéon,” the crow said. “I must find Ninéon and tell her of King Meven's intentions.”
“Tentions?” a big cowbird asked.
“Intentions, plans,” one of the blackbirds corrected. “What plans, Arlee?” Not all of the blackbirds were capable of speech, but this one was and the crow knew her to be overly curious. “What plans does the man-king have? Are they interesting plans?”
Two blackbirds with small red patches on their wings moved close to the crow, their dark eyes wide and shining. One bobbed its head and made a sound that approximated “what?”
“What, what?” repeated the blackbirds who could speak. “Arlee, what?”
The largest edged near the crow and met its gaze. “Interesting plans, Arlee, else you would not want to find Ninéon. Share what you know!”
The thin crow drew itself up to its full height and fluffed its feathers before it divulged its precious news. “It is about King Meven.”
“The man-king,” one of the blackbirds cut in. “The one who glitters like a peacock.”
Arlee narrowed his eyes to needle-fine slits. “King Meven says he will end the precious war.”
The blackbirds squawked, and the nearest shook its head. “Bad plan. Most unfortunate.”
The crow clacked its beak. “Ninéon will be angry.”
“Yes! Bad angry, Arlee,” the nearest blackbird agreed. “Bad, bad angry.”
“But Ninéon will not let it happen,” Arlee continued. “Ninéon will come here, and she will find the Bishop.”
“Bishop DeNogaret,” one of the blackbirds supplied, pleased with himself that he'd recalled the old priest's name.
“Yes, DeNogaret. Ninéon will talk to the Bishop. The Bishop will dominate King Meven again, manipulate him like the soft mud of the riverbank. Then the man-king will make the war go on. On and on and on.”
“On and on!” The smallest blackbird spread its wings. “We will find Ninéon for you, Arlee, and she will make certain the blood continues to flow.”
Copyright © 2006 by Jean Rabe
War Torn
A proper king's feet should be deeply rooted in his country. His heart should beat with concern for his people. His head should be filled with plans for a better future. And his eyes should always observe the rest of the world.
~Sorrel Wintermane, shepherd to Bernd Sameter, first king of Nasim-Guri
The large tent had been intended for summer festivals, when long tables spread with desserts and fruits would be arrayed inside for the dining pleasure of noble guests. But the dirt and bloodstains marked the tent's new and grim purpose this early spring.
A guard bowed and held the flap open. “Sire.”
“Are you sure you want to see this, Kal?” Meven squared his shoulders and looked down into his sister's wide green eyes. “It's cold out here. It smells pretty awful in there and . . .”
“You know I've seen wounded men before, Meven.” A pause: “And plenty of dead ones.” She pulled her cloak tight around her. “Besides, I'd rather be with you than in that old palace of yours. I don't like the looks some of your servants give me. Your palace is . . .”
“Our palace.”
“Is too big. I could get lost in it.” She brushed past him, then threw her hand over her mouth and gagged. Kalantha instantly felt weak.
The cloying odor of diseased and rotting flesh was the strongest, and under that the coppery scent of blood. Cots stretched end to end in rows from the front to the back of the tent, and not a single one sat empty. The most grievously injured rested the farthest away, which was where Kalantha headed. The people tending the wounded huddled back there, clustered near a single cot and talking so their words sounded like the buzz of an insect swarm.
She passed men with bandaged arms, some splinted with what looked like chair legs. A few had woolen strips wrapped around their heads. One man's eyes were thickly bandaged; his cheeks were pink with a fever, and his hands alternately clenched and released the blanket. She stopped and stared, wondering if she should say something to comfort him.
“Why don't you go back to the palace? I'll see you there in a bit.” Meven moved up next to her.
She drew her chin against her neck. “No.”
“Kal . . .”
“I want to see this.”
Meven put a hand on her shoulder, the gesture somehow giving her strength. She straightened and stepped back from the feverish man, nearly backing into the cot behind her.
“I want to see what the war has done.”
“What I have done, you mean.” Meven sucked in a breath. “This is all my fault. By the gods, all of this is because of me.”
She spun and looked up. Though only two years older, he was more than a head taller. “It's not your fault, Meven. It's not your war. Bishop DeNogaret . . .”
“Wanted the war with Nasim-Guri, sure. But I was weak enough to let him talk me into it. I think a part of me wanted Nasim-Guri, and maybe a part of me still does. More land. More subjects and more power. But I don't want this.” He gestured at the cots. “I honestly never wanted any of this.”
He dug the ball of his foot into the ground and opened his mouth to say something else. Kalantha took a last look at the feverish man with the bandaged eyes, then went to the back of the tent.
“They're all so young, Meven. Why did you want to come out here this morning to look at them?”
He followed her without answering, then lengthened his stride and passed her by. He nodded to a young knight he'd sparred with once, but the man was unconscious.
“Theron, are these the men brought in late last night?” Meven directed this to the tallest officer in the huddle.
The man separated from the group and stopped at attention in front of Meven. “Aye, Sire. These men fought just across the border, against fifty Nasim-Guri soldiers. They drove the enemy back beyond the river, and killed more than a few of them. About a dozen of our men were wounded in the process. The worst we brought here, the rest were patched up and sent back out to fight. The villages farther south already were full with wounded, no room for these men. Not sure if any of them will make it, after us carrying them so far. Should have stayed with them in the field until the end, then buried them.”
Steeling himself, Meven took a deep breath and edged forward.
The men who were gathered around the cot parted.
Theron whispered: “His name is Weldon Smithson, Sire. His father is a prominent wheelwright in Nadir and head of the guild. That's the reason we brought him, his father being in the city. Else we would have left him somewhere along the road and buried him in a field. We're all surprised he's still with us.”
Meven knelt next to the cot and took Weldon's hand. The young man offered the King a weak smile.
“Has his father been summoned?”
“Not yet, Sire. We . . .”
Meven's eyes narrowed as he looked up at Theron and the others. “He should have been summoned last night when you arrived. Doesn't matter how late the time.”
“We were tending to everyone, sorting things out, Sire, and . . .”
“Summon the elder Smithson now. Right now. His wife . . .”
“She died some years ago, Weldon told us.”
“Brothers? Sisters?”
“One brother, Sire, and he's fighting north of Duriam.”
“Summon the elder Smithson now,” Meven repeated. “Now. Have it done, Theron. Do it yourself.”
The tall man gave a nod and whirled on his booted feet, nearly bumping into Kalantha, who'd crept nearer.
Meven returned his attention to Weldon. “Your father will be here soon.”
Weldon shook his head, and a line of blood spilled out of his mouth. “Don't want him to see me like this, Sire. I . . .”
“He'll see you now, and later when you're well. I'll have you and him brought to the palace for dinner. Next week, in fact.”
Weldon's eyes were fixed, and his hand went limp in the King's grip. His breathing grew shallow.
“Weldon?”
The young man coughed, pinkish bubbles trailing down his chin. Meven raised Weldon's head.
“It will be a fine dinner,” Meven continued. “Roast goose, I think. Brushed with butter and stuffed with rice and some of those tiny onions from the fall harvest that the cooks saved in the pantry. They say onions are the food of poor people, but I like them well enough. We'll have soup, of course. The cooks make soup every night. I get tired of it. Dessert. They always make dessert, too. I never tire of that. Have you a favorite cake?”
Sweat beads covered Weldon's face, and his skin had gone paler in the few moments Meven held him. The young man was practically as white as parchment.
“Spice cake is my favorite, I think. My sister, Kalantha, she's right here behind me . . . she likes any kind of cake. The cooks put the frosting on thick for special occasions. And if we've raisins imported from the south, they use some of those, too. Do you think you'd like spice cake, Weldon?”
“He's dead, Sire.”
One of the soldiers pulled the blanket up and waited for Meven to move.
“A dagger to the stomach, they said. Truly surprised he lived as long as he did, considering it took days to get here. We were certain he wouldn't make it through the night. I think he held on just because we told him you were coming by to visit everyone this morning. Said he'd never seen the King up close.”
Meven pulled his arm free and released the dead man's hand. He stood shakily, his eyes locked on the corpse's fixed gaze.
The soldier tugged the blanket over Weldon's head. Behind Meven, a soldier covered another corpse.
“You'll clean him up before his father comes?” This came from Kalantha. “And take him outside this tent? No need for the elder Smithson to come into this horrid, smelly place.”
The soldier looked to the King.
“Yes, clean him up,” Meven said. “Put him in something not so bloody. He's about my size, so you can ask the steward for one of my tunics. Lay him in the palace entry hall if you'd like. Kal's right. His father . . . none of these men's families should see them in this place.”
Meven stared at the blanket-draped form until Kalantha tugged on his arm. “We should go, Meven, and let these men tend the wounded. They're not working with you here.”
Meven numbly concurred and let her lead him from the tent.
Kalantha breathed deep once the soldier closed the flap behind them. “Smells better out here. Will smell even better the farther we get from the tent. I think . . .” She spotted two more tents, smaller than this one and closer to the wall. She realized more wounded were in them. Between the tents was a tarp covering a mound of something.
“Bodies,” Meven said, following her gaze. “They put the dead outside and cover them up until the families arrange for burial. And if there are no families, or if they can't tell who the dead are, they bury them in a mass grave near the cliff.”
Kalantha continued to stare. “How many?” she asked finally. When he didn't immediately answer, she asked again. “How many soldiers have died?”
“Knights and soldiers,” Meven said. “And some villagers who joined up along the way.” His voice was flat. He glanced down at his hands and saw they were covered with Weldon's blood. The front of his richly embroidered tunic was blood soaked, too. “I don't know how many. A lot, I'd guess. Not near so many as Nasim-Guri has lost, the soldiers tell me. Too many, though. There are more dead and wounded in the villages between here and the Nasim-Guri border. Too many.”
They didn't move and didn't speak for several minutes. The wind fluttered the edge of the tarp, revealing the bare feet of several corpses. A dog barked in the distance. Closer, a knight drilled a gathering of soldiers preparing to march to Nasim-Guri. They looked young and clumsy.
“How could I have wanted all of this blood, Kal?” He still looked at his hands. “How could I have wanted all this death?”
“Bishop DeNogaret . . .”
“He encouraged me to make war, Kal. But he didn't force me. He couldn't have forced me to do something I didn't truly want to do.”
She vehemently shook her head and opened her mouth to argue. But she stopped herself.
“I wanted a bigger country, Kal. Maybe I still do, a part of me wants it. But I don't need a bigger country. Galmier is more than enough for me to rule.” He let out a clipped laugh. “Too big for me to rule. Prince Edan should be alive and King. The crown falling to me is an accident.” He finally raised his head and looked toward the palace. “I needed the Bishop's help to manage all of this . . . the estate, the city, the country, and the war. We're very close to winning, my advisors tell me. Nasim-Guri could be ours in a week or two, the capital falling. The Bishop—”
“Now you have me.”
Meven smiled, honest emotion behind it. “I will need your help, Kal.”
“Bishop DeNogaret, is he going to live?”
Meven pointed to a tower with an elaborately crenelated top. “He's high in the north wing, and I've a few servants tending him.” He shrugged. “They think he'll live. But they think he'll be crippled. Rue crushed his legs and broke his ribs.”
“A horrid man.”
“Bishop DeNogaret raised you and me, Kal. I just can't imagine why he'd try to kill you. Maybe he went mad. Happens to people, you know.”
“Have you seen him?”
Meven shook his head.
Kalantha closed her eyes and remembered their arrival yesterday. Rue was moving slowly because of his lame leg. She took him to the stables and was looking for a groom to see to him when Bishop DeNogaret appeared. He had a knife, and he tried to kill her with it, all the while raving that he should have done the deed himself in the first place rather than relying on his bird lackeys. She would have died, but Rue attacked the Bishop and slammed his hooves into the man's chest. Rue would have finished it, but she and Meven pulled the punch back. The Bishop was carried to the palace. She wondered if she should have let Rue kill him.
“I'm certain Bishop DeNogaret had something to do with the assassin-birds, the ones that tried to kill us . . . and tried to kill me on the way here. That book I brought from the Vershan Monastery, it has a picture in it of someone who looks just like Bishop DeNogaret. There are birds mentioned in the book, smart evil ones. You promised you'd look at the book, Meven. I think Bishop DeNogaret is far more powerful than we realized. He caused the war, I know it.”
Meven watched the knight drill the young soldiers. “Not right now, Kal.”
“I think the book could be important. You promised.”
“What's important is you going back to the palace.”
“No. I'm going to stay with you and—”
“Go back to the palace and pack a few changes of clothes. We're leaving today for Duriam in Nasim-Guri.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
Meven faced the tarp-covered mound of bodies. “We're going to see King Hunter Silverwood in Duriam. I'm going to put an end to this war, Kal. No more killing. No more mounds of bodies waiting to be put in the ground. I have to summon my commanders, tell them the war ends this minute. Then I'm going to make amends to King Silverwood. Somehow patch all of this up. I could win in a week or two, have a lot more land and subjects, but—”
“You're right to stop it now.” Kalantha's smile reached her eyes. “I'll start packing right away, Meven. But the book. I really think you need to look at it, at least the part with—”
“We'll leave this afternoon, Kal, after the noon meal and before sunset, after I've met with the commanders. I'll send them out along the fields to help spread the news. Then there will be no more blood spilled because of me. Never again because of me.”
“The book, Meven. You have to—”
“I'll read it later, I promise. A book is not nearly so important as putting an end to this war.” He made a huffing sound, his breath fluttering the hair that hung down over his forehead. “I promise I'll look at the book when we get back from Nasim-Guri. After the war is done.”
Kalantha decided it was an argument she couldn't win and headed toward the palace. Neither she nor Meven saw a thin crow hovering above the largest tent-infirmary. It flew toward the palace, reaching it long before Kalantha. Perching on the north crenelated tower, it cawed to a dozen blackbirds, which were quick to join it.
“Ninéon,” the crow said. “I must find Ninéon and tell her of King Meven's intentions.”
“Tentions?” a big cowbird asked.
“Intentions, plans,” one of the blackbirds corrected. “What plans, Arlee?” Not all of the blackbirds were capable of speech, but this one was and the crow knew her to be overly curious. “What plans does the man-king have? Are they interesting plans?”
Two blackbirds with small red patches on their wings moved close to the crow, their dark eyes wide and shining. One bobbed its head and made a sound that approximated “what?”
“What, what?” repeated the blackbirds who could speak. “Arlee, what?”
The largest edged near the crow and met its gaze. “Interesting plans, Arlee, else you would not want to find Ninéon. Share what you know!”
The thin crow drew itself up to its full height and fluffed its feathers before it divulged its precious news. “It is about King Meven.”
“The man-king,” one of the blackbirds cut in. “The one who glitters like a peacock.”
Arlee narrowed his eyes to needle-fine slits. “King Meven says he will end the precious war.”
The blackbirds squawked, and the nearest shook its head. “Bad plan. Most unfortunate.”
The crow clacked its beak. “Ninéon will be angry.”
“Yes! Bad angry, Arlee,” the nearest blackbird agreed. “Bad, bad angry.”
“But Ninéon will not let it happen,” Arlee continued. “Ninéon will come here, and she will find the Bishop.”
“Bishop DeNogaret,” one of the blackbirds supplied, pleased with himself that he'd recalled the old priest's name.
“Yes, DeNogaret. Ninéon will talk to the Bishop. The Bishop will dominate King Meven again, manipulate him like the soft mud of the riverbank. Then the man-king will make the war go on. On and on and on.”
“On and on!” The smallest blackbird spread its wings. “We will find Ninéon for you, Arlee, and she will make certain the blood continues to flow.”
Copyright © 2006 by Jean Rabe
What is included with this book?
TheNewcopy of this book will include any supplemental materials advertised. Please check the title of the book to determine if it should include any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.
TheUsed, Rental and eBookcopies of this book are not guaranteed to include any supplemental materials. Typically, only the book itself is included. This is true even if the title states it includes any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.
Please wait while the item is added to your bag...
