A Daughter of Kings

Chapter I

The Messenger

Alirah crouched as low as she could into a thicket of gambrel oak and prayed its new leaves would conceal her. She cursed the colorful clothes she’d worn that day. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath came in short, quick gasps. In her mind she could hear the voices of her mother and father and who-knew-how-many others warning her not to wander away on her own.

About thirty yards away, three men sat astride big, brown warhorses. They were all clad in strange armor, fashioned from overlapping layers of hide and stiffened with metal rivets. Each bore a light shield and was armed with a long, curved sword. She did not know who the men were, but after hearing so many dreadful rumors about the Taragi barbarians surging out of the west, she felt sure of her guess. She had no idea if they’d seen her before she leapt into the bushes, or what they would do if they had.

Worst of all, she had no idea if they were real.

They had appeared suddenly and soundlessly. She’d bent down for just a few moments to gather up some of the medicinal kaisa plant for the healers back at the encampment. When she’d stood up again the riders were there. The three of them sat alongside one another. They were facing her, but while all three of them looked toward her with keen, dark eyes, none of them seemed to look quite at her. None of the men spoke, and the horses’ hooves seemed to make no sound as they stamped on the hard, dry earth.

The men ought to have seen her. There were a few tall stands of gambrel oak growing out of the dry grass around her, along with a pine tree here and there, but no vegetation that would have hidden her at a distance. Even the fog, which also seemed to have blown in suddenly out of nowhere, was too thin to hide a person only a few paces away. Still, minutes passed and nothing happened. So Alirah waited, and waited, terrified and shivering in the misty cold.

This can’t be real, she thought at last. Three men wouldn’t just sit there like that. They’d say something to me, or to one another, or at least just keep riding. And it can’t have gotten foggy so quickly. Slowly her heart ceased its hammering and the taste of bile receded from her mouth. Finally she clenched her hands into fists and whispered aloud to herself.

They’re… not… real!

With a great effort she forced herself upright. Her chest heaved up and down as she gasped for breath, but she stared steadily at the riders as if daring them to approach.

For a long moment nothing happened. The riders remained perfectly still and silent. Then, suddenly, all three of them turned their gaze upon her. The motion was subtle but unmistakable; Alirah knew she had been seen. As one the three men urged their steeds forward. The horses moved slowly, as if they were exhausted and could only manage a shuffling walk. But they did not have much ground to cover.

Alirah felt an icy stab of new fear and shrank where she stood. For an instant she hesitated, not sure whether she should scream or run or even just say hello. Before she could make up her mind, the mists around her suddenly billowed and swirled. The fog grew thicker, or else the sunlight itself dimmed, for all at once she could barely see the riders. Reflexively she rubbed her eyes. When she looked again there were five of them.

A scream gathered in her throat, but even before it could pass her lips she saw six, then a dozen, and then more. Before she knew what was happening she found herself gazing upon a vast host of riders, hundreds if not thousands strong. All of them looked vague and dim in the growing shadows and all were as silent as a grave. Stricken with horror, Alirah covered her eyes and screamed at last. She staggered backwards. Her foot caught upon one of the hard roots of the oak bush. With a cry, she tumbled back into its branches.

In a panic she scrambled up again as fast as she could. As she did so the vision changed again. The mist swirled away. The phantom horde blurred and faded like a whiff of a dream lingering after one’s eyes had opened. But for a split second she saw another rider, closer and clearer than all the others. He was tall and lordly, dark of hair and eye. He was clad in steel rather than hide, and rode upon a great, dark horse. He seemed at once to command all the others, and yet to be separated from them by a vast distance or time.

Then all of a sudden he too had vanished. By the time Alirah got back on her feet she found herself blinking at empty, sunny grasslands. A warm, dry breeze fluttered her clothes and hair. A few thin clouds raced overhead, but there was no trace of fog upon the land.

Alirah!

She whirled about, looking for the source of the cry. Finally she caught sight of Berun. He had just come over a low rise to the south and was running toward her. He’d been out with her, hunting while she’d gathered herbs, but she hadn’t realized he was still so close by. Now he clutched his bow in one hand. His quiver of arrows bounced violently against his back as he flung himself down the little hill.

What is it? He shouted wildly. What’s wrong?

Not again, Alirah whispered. Her cheeks burned and tears of frustration started in her eyes.

Alirah…

I’m all right, she called back, wiping her eyes angrily. She was still trying to brush the twigs off her clothes and out of her hair when he rushed up beside her.

What happened? He asked, panting. You were screaming!

Nothing! I… I’m fine, she stammered.

Berun looked pale and scared. His dark eyes were wide. Now that he’d seen her standing there unharmed, his alarm was fading, but it was clear he’d been terrified.

"You saw something, didn’t you?"

I… yeah, she murmured. She wished she could deny it but she could think of no other reason for having shrieked. Her heart still raced in her chest and she felt an odd sort of tingling all over, which she had come to expect after so powerful a vision, and which she imagined must show itself on her skin somehow.

Are you okay? What happened? What did you see?

I don’t know, said Alirah. She heaved a long, shuddering sigh. She wanted to just reassure him she was fine, that it was only a vision or an illusion or whatever – her father called it the Sight – and that no harm had come other than few scratches from the oak bush. But as always, whether the visions brought fear or joy, the feelings lingered after her sight cleared. Now she felt a deep, damp chill that the warm sun did not touch, and she could feel herself shaking. She wiped her eyes again and tried to say something light and carefree, but no words came out.

Hey, murmured Berun. With the familiarity of long friendship he pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. It’s okay.

I know, she said, but she hugged him tight in return.

Berun was seventeen years old, half a year younger than she was. They’d been friends as long as she could remember, and had grown up together like a brother and sister who just happened to live with different parents. Nobody who saw them standing next to each other would have mistaken them for siblings, however. Berun was both tall and broad, with heavy muscles becoming ever more prominent as he grew into manhood. Alirah was slim, and while she was not exactly short, no one would ever call her tall either.

Anyone who knew of the Kwi’Kiri people could have picked Berun out as one of them at a glance. His short hair and his eyes were both dark brown, and his skin was a deep, copper-tan. Alirah’s complexion was somewhat more fair. Her hair and eyes were also brown, but a warmer, lighter shade with whispers of gold in its depths. Nobody who lived in a far northern country of mountains and forests, where snow lay upon the ground for a quarter of the year, would think that she was pale; but her friends among the Kwi’Kiri did.

Alirah held on to him for a minute, then drew back.

I’m sorry.

Don’t be sorry. I just wish there were something I could do.

So do I, she assured him.

So… What did you see, anyway?

Alirah hesitated. She had learned long ago that it was not always wise to tell people about the visions which plagued her. But she’d known Berun her whole life and had no secrets from him.

Horsemen, she said at last. "Armed riders. Some of the Taragi, I guess, though I don’t know for sure. At first there were just three of them, but then there were more and more, and everything got dark and cold. I was afraid… It was so real this time!"

Berun sighed. Well it’s not hard to guess what that might mean. But we already knew the Taragi were coming this way.

Yeah. Just as the vision ended there was someone else, though. A single rider. I had the impression he was their king, or something, but he seemed like a different kind of person altogether. He had different armor, a different skin tone, that kind of thing.

Berun took a breath as if he was about to say something, but then suddenly he stopped. His face blanched and his eyes widened.

What is it?

You saw riders? A rider? he stammered. Did he look like that?

With one hand he turned her around and with the other he pointed. She felt a momentary shock of fear. For a split second she thought she’d see a thousand shadowy warriors about to ride them down. Instead, following Berun’s arm to the north, she saw that a solitary rider had just come over the low ridge which shortened the horizon in that direction.

He was not one of the riders from her vision. This man’s horse was white rather than brown or black. The rider himself was wrapped up in a great, dark green cloak even though the May sun was warm. A long sword hung at his side, but it was straight and leaf-bladed rather than curved. Also, he did not ride his horse so much as he was carried by it. He slumped so far forward in his saddle that he may as well have been laying on the animal’s neck. He bounced and jostled at every step. Then, even as Alirah watched, he lolled to one side and slipped from his saddle. He fell hard to the ground, rolled over, and lay sprawled on his back without moving. The horse continued on for a few slow steps, then came to a halt. It turned about slowly to gaze at its fallen rider, and then stood there without moving.

Oh no! cried Alirah.

Without a thought she sprang up the slope towards the fallen man.

Wait! cried Berun, hastening after her. Be careful! Weren’t you just… You don’t even know who he is!

I know he’s hurt, she called back impatiently. He might be dying!

It only took a moment to reach the man. She flung herself down in the grass alongside him, then hesitated. Her hands hovered, trembling, over his stricken form. She had no idea what to do.

The man was covered in blood. Some of it was old and dried into his clothes, but some was still fresh. Its scent filled her nostrils and made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. He was also young: maybe a handful of years older than she was, but with a boyish look that made him seem more youthful. His light brown hair was matted with sweat and flecks of blood. His complexion was quite fair, and either pain or loss of blood made him even look more pale.

Under his cloak but over his ordinary clothes he wore a stiff leather jerkin that must have served for light armor. The jerkin had been rent by sword-strokes, but she could see only two significant wounds upon the man. A slash cut across his thigh, and he had a stab wound high on his right shoulder. The wounds had been bound up with strips of torn clothes, but the makeshift bandages were soaked and red. Yet even together with a few other scratches, they did not seem adequate to account for all the blood that she saw; some of it must have belonged to others.

As Alirah gazed at him, half appalled and half fascinated, his eyes fluttered slowly open. She saw they were a light, blue-gray color and were now clouded by pain and fever. He peered around himself in a vague, unfocused way, apparently seeing very little. At first he did not even seem to be aware of her leaning over him.

Um…. hello, she said timidly, letting her hands fall to her sides.

Her voice seemed to reach out to him like a beacon through a fog. His eyes focused upon hers with a sudden, fearful intensity. His expression became desperate but doubtful, like that of a wanderer long lost in the desert who sees an oasis in the distance. After a moment she could not endure his gaze any longer and she looked away, blushing furiously. She felt suddenly very grateful to have Berun standing big and solid beside her.

As she looked away a spasm passed through the fallen man’s body. His hand shot out suddenly and seized her wrist in an iron grip. She cried out in pain and surprise.

Get off her! roared Berun. He hurled himself down beside her and seized the man’s arm with both of his beefy hands, as if he meant to tear it from its socket.

No, wait, you’ll hurt him! Alirah cried.

"He’s hurting you!" yelled Berun, but he did hesitate.

The fallen rider hardly seemed to notice Berun. His eyes remained focused on Alirah. He tried to say something but only croaked unintelligibly. He wet his dry lips with his tongue and tried again, but she still didn’t catch his words.

I’m sorry, I don’t understand you… Alirah began, then stopped. She realized he was speaking in the common tongue, and she had to switch her own words out of the language of the Kwi’Kiri.

What? What did you say? She asked in his language.

Ethyrin… he croaked. I… I’m looking for Prince Ethyrin. Do you know who he is? Do you know where he can be found?

For many long seconds Alirah could only stare down at him, stupefied. At last, blinking and stammering, she found her voice.

Um… yeah. I know him… He’s my dad.

It was the stranger’s turn to stare at her in bewilderment. His grip on her wrist slackened. Alirah tore her arm away and clutched it protectively with her other hand. Then, as if the possibility of Ethyrin being her father was too terrible to endure, the man sank back down onto the dry grass. His eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered closed.

Alirah gazed down at him in silence. For a moment she was terrified that he had actually died then and there, but soon she could see that his chest still rose and fell regularly. Still, nearly half a minute passed and she did not speak or move. The only sound was the wind rustling in the grass. At last Berun stirred beside her, speaking again in the Kwi’Kiri tongue.

Are you okay?

She nodded.

What could he want with your dad?

I have no idea, she said. Already her mind had begun to race with fear.

Of course she knew her father’s story; everyone in the tribe knew it. He was not one of the Kwi’Kiri by birth, but rather a prince of Arandia. He had fled into exile thirty years before, and along the way had helped her mother to escape from slavery at the hands of the Jeddein. Alirah knew that most of the Kwi’Kiri only half believed in his royal ancestry, and those who did believe attached little importance to it. To them Arandia was little more than a rumor of power and wealth, far to the east. She herself had always believed his stories, however. She’d always wondered what it would be like to be a princess in a golden castle somewhere.

Well, there’s only one way to find out, I guess, she said at last. And we can’t just leave him lying here anyway. Help me lift him up.

She moved to try to get one of her shoulders under the man, but Berun put his arm out to stop her.

Here, let me do it, he said. You’ll get blood all over your clothes.

"So? So will you."

These are my hunting clothes, he said. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Fine, she said irritated. I’ll get his horse.

On one hand he was right, Berun’s clothes were quite old and careworn. They’d once been green and brown, but along with his heavy boots they were now so faded and covered with old stains that their original color could only be guessed. Her own clothes, though also hand-me-downs from some other girl, were much newer. She had on a light blue shirt, a rose-red skirt that fell just past her knees, and supple leather boots. She had no desire to get the stranger’s blood on any of them, but she found it exasperating how helpless she’d apparently become over the last few years in the eyes of the boys that she knew. Berun was better than most, but he was not immune.

Berun wedged his shoulder under the fallen man’s, and then with a thrust of his legs bore him to his feet. Luckily the man was not very big, neither quite as tall as Berun nor as muscular, though he was solidly built. Alirah walked over to the man’s horse, which she saw was a mare with big, intelligent eyes. She took hold of her bridle and murmured soothingly while Berun heaved her rider back up, more or less onto into the saddle. The violent motion made the man stir slightly, but he did not awake. He murmured unconsciously in a deep delirium.

Should we take away his sword? asked Berun, eyeing the weapon suspiciously.

The sheathed blade stood out awkwardly from the man’s belt. Its scabbard was made of fine, soft leather, though it was now thoroughly battered and travel stained. The sword itself looked a little crude in its shape, as though it had been forged by an apprentice who still had a few things to learn. Yet something about it drew Alirah’s eyes as surely as any gold or jewels would have. She could half see, half imagine a pale light shining around it that had nothing to do with the bright sun overhead. She knew without asking that Berun could not see this vanishing glow, but she’d seen something like it before, and she guessed at once what it meant: spells were wound about the blade.

Leave it alone, she advised. I don’t think he’s going to go swinging it at us any time soon. Let’s just get him back to camp. My mom and dad will know what to do with him. I think. At least, I hope they will.

The encampment of the Kwi’Kiri lay some three miles to the west of the little valley they’d chosen for hunting and herb-gathering. They walked back as quickly as they could, spurred on by fear and excitement. Alirah walked before the horse, leading her by her reins. Berun stalked warily alongside them. His eyes were constantly upon the stricken rider, and one hand hovered near the big hunting knife that hung at his belt.

Broad, grassy hills spread out in all directions, broken here and there by stands of gambrel oak, thickets of pine trees, and outcroppings of weathered rock. The high grass was still a bright, spring green. In the distance to the north and east, higher buttes and mesas of pale sandstone arose like islands from a green sea. To the south and west a shimmer in the sky spoke of the real sea, twenty miles or so away. There was no path to follow, only the faint tracks they’d left on their way out a few hours earlier. However there was no chance of their getting lost. The hills across which they walked were called the Swaia’ee in the musical language of the Kwi’Kiri, and from one encampment or another Alirah and Berun had spent their entire lives trampling over them.

Their current encampment lay at the bottom of a wide, shallow valley between two long swells of land. Through the center of the valley a clear stream meandered in long curves toward the nearby coast. Several dozen large tents had been erected on the high, eroded banks which rose upon either side of the water. Each tent had been painted in a different bright color, though the sun and the wind had long faded them all. A number of smaller tents were interspersed amidst the larger ones, along with numerous covered wagons.

By the time Alirah and Berun returned, the afternoon had grown old. People were finishing up their day’s work. They’d kindled cook fires in the broad spaces between the tents. The blazes sent thin plumes of smoke up into the clear sky. Men and women had gathered about the fires, while children ran around and played everywhere the adults were absent.

About three hundred people dwelt in the encampment. It was not the only such encampment of the Kwi’Kiri: at any time there were several such bands, called pana in their language, roaming that little corner of the world. Sometimes the different pana were separated by only a few miles and sometimes by long days’ of travel. Now with the growing threat of the Taragi they’d gathered closer together than Alirah could ever remember. Even as she gazed down at her own camp, she could see the tents of another as splashes of yellow, blue, and red in the distance to the west. Still, there were probably less than two thousand people altogether who called themselves the Kwi’Kiri. Compared to the oncoming Taragi, they were but one more leaf before a storm.

Though such a thing would have been unheard of a generation ago, sentries on horseback, armed with bows and hunting knives, now stood guard around the little valley. The nearest hastened toward Alirah and Berun at their approach, and then rode down to the encampment to spread word of their arrival. Alirah could see ripples of alarm spread through the camp as she and Berun made their way toward it. Any stranger who appeared in their isolated community was cause for excitement, but now with tensions already running high, a man obviously wounded in combat brought outright fear. Parents ran to collect children, while spouses and lovers ran to collect each other. A handful of people strode out to meet Alirah and Berun, calling out questions as they did so.

Who is that?

What happened?

Were you attacked?

As people closed in about them a grim expression stole onto Berun’s face. He seemed to hunker down as he walked, as if fortifying himself against attack. In contrast Alirah stood up excitedly and tried to answer everyone at once.

"We weren’t attacked, she said quickly. We’re fine. I don’t know who this is. He came over a ridge near us and then just fell off his horse. He’s hurt and he’s sick and he needs a healer. Where’s my mom?"

Nobody knew immediately, but there weren’t many places to look. A couple of kids took off at a run to search. At the same time Alirah saw her little sister, Kaya, rushing up along with a few of her friends. Kaya was a small, skinny girl of thirteen, only just now starting to grow into herself. Like Alirah she was fair-skinned for one of the Kwi’Kiri. As always she wore her hair in a neat, careful braid, into which she’d tied a faded ribbon of blue silk. Now her bright eyes were wide as saucers. She looked from Alirah to the fallen rider and back with an almost comical expression of alarm.

"What’d you do?"

I stabbed him and knocked him out, said Alirah.

Re… Really?

Alirah rolled her eyes. Of course not! He rode up to us and fell over. So we brought him back here. Where’s Mom?

"She’s here."

Their mother, Nuara, now made her way through the crowd. She was a slim woman of middle years with a Kwi’Kiri’s vibrant, copper complexion. Her eyes were very dark: so deep a brown as to be almost black, though they shone with intensity and wit. She wore a white muslin shirt and a dark green skirt. A scarf covered all but a few stray locks of her dark hair, which only recently had begun to fleck with gray. She drew up next to Kaya and lay a slim hand on the girl’s shoulder as if to reassure herself that she was safe. Nuara’s gaze swept over Berun and the unconscious stranger in a flash, then settled back upon Alirah. The other folks who’d come running out of the camp formed a loose circle about them.

Are you okay? What happened? Where were you? Nuara’s words came out in a rush, her voice wavering between anger and fright. Alirah blushed.

I’m fine, Mom.

What happened to your wrist?

I guess he left bruises, Alirah thought, but she shook her head dismissively. "It’s nothing. He grabbed it when he was delirious. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He’s hurt, though. I’m sure he’s got a fever. Can you help him?"

Nuara glared suspiciously at the young man. Who is he?

How in the world should I know? Does it matter?

It does if he’s a Taragi scout, looking for a nice little camp for his people to pillage.

He’s not.

How do you know?

I… For a second Alirah hesitated. There were no secrets in the little pana, but she didn’t want to blurt out what she’d Seen in front of a crowd. Also, she suddenly recalled the last rider of her vision, the one who had seemed to lead the Taragi and yet not be one of them. Could that last, briefly glimpsed figure and this stranger be the same person? But gazing again at the young man, seeing his youthful face drawn in slumbering pain, she felt certain it was not so.

I just know, she said at last.

Nuara leveled a glower at her. "You just know?"

He was looking for Dad.

Whatever Nuara had expected her daughter to say, that wasn’t it. Her darkling eyes flew as wide as Kaya’s, then narrowed as she turned a shade paler.

"He was what?"

We found him a few miles east of here, said Alirah, stammering. "He just rode up over a ridge, and then he fell over. He… he said he was looking for Prince Ethyrin. He said it in the common tongue rather than our language, of course, and he had a strange accent. I told him Ethyrin was my dad. Then he passed out."

Nuara glanced at Berun as if for confirmation. The boy nodded silently, and Nuara turned her gaze upon the stricken rider himself. As she stared at him her expression darkened, until Alirah began to fear that she would reach up and throttle the unconscious man. But then suddenly Nuara shook her head and shut her eyes. When she opened them her murderous gaze had vanished. Her hands had clenched into fists, but now they relaxed at her sides. She heaved a sigh.

Run and find your father, she said to Kaya, her voice heavy. "He’s over in the other pana with the council."

The young girl took off at a run. Her friends deputized themselves as escorts and followed her. Nuara turned back to Alirah and Berun.

We need to get him out of the sun, and I’m sure he needs water. We’ll take him into our tent for now. Come on Berun, we’ll need your help to get him down. Follow me. The rest of you… go find something else to do.

She turned and strode imperiously through the crowd, which parted for her in silence. Alirah and Berun followed in her wake, still leading the stricken man’s horse with him on top of it. Luckily the mare seemed to be used to crowds, and it regarded everyone with the same calm, intelligent stare. Only after they had all passed did a hubbub of murmurs and whispered questions arise among the onlookers. Alirah did her best to ignore them.

Nuara led the way through the encampment to the tent that she and Ethyrin shared. Once a bright blue, it was now thoroughly faded by more than twenty years of wind and sun. A hodgepodge of weathered boxes and bundles ringed the tent, while a small fire ring stood before it. A handful of sawn logs draped with woven mats served as porch furniture.

Berun carried the fallen rider into the tent and laid him down on a thick rug which covered the ground. Nuara knelt down beside him and began to examine his wounds.

These don’t look too bad, she said after a few minutes. I don’t see any sign of infection either. I’m guessing there’s some poison at work. I’ll need to get his clothes off to get him cleaned him up. Alirah, you wait outside.

But I can help! she protested. "I brought back some kaisa leaves, which I know you said is good against fevers. I… She stopped. Groping in her pocket she felt nothing, and she realized she’d left the little bundle of herbs behind when she’d climbed out of the scrub oak. … Well, I guess I forgot them. But I can still…"

Just get outside, will you!

Fine!

I’ll go too, said Berun.

No, you stay. I could use some help and I don’t want to be alone with him if he wakes up all of a sudden.

Grumbling under her breath, Alirah stepped back out of the tent and let the canvas flap which served as its door close behind her. She found a good sized crowd waiting for her outside. Most of the pana’s kids were grouped there, along with some grown-ups too nosy to go about their own business when something unusual was happening. She glared at them angrily.

What? Are you just going to stare at the outside of the tent? You heard my Mom! Go away!

The kids laughed at her, and the adults clucked their tongue in irritation, but one by one they all departed. Of course, they did not have far to go. Real privacy was a rare commodity in the encampments of the Kwi’Kiri, but Alirah soon had as much of it as she ever did. She found herself staring at nothing. Her mind raced in circles but only formed one coherent thought, over and over again.

What does he want with Dad?

Chapter II

The Message

After a few minutes, not knowing what else to do, Alirah stalked over to the nearest of the stump chairs and sat down to wait. At first she felt indignant, but it was a relief to be off her feet after the long day of walking. After a while she decided she would rather not have helped wash up some filthy stranger anyway. From inside the tent she could clearly hear her mother issuing commands in a firm but gentle voice, each followed by a quiet, monosyllabic reply from Berun.

Overhead the first stars began to twinkle in the east. In the west the sun sank below the horizon in a conflagration of orange and red. As it became obvious that no more information about the stranger would be forthcoming, life in the camp began to return to normal. Soon the smells of roasting venison and baking flatbread filled the air. Alirah’s stomach rumbled angrily. She hadn’t eaten anything since a few strips of dried meat and a dense round of flatbread at midday. She was about to get up and go in search of food, when a voice called out to her.

Hey Princess.

She looked up, startled, and saw her father striding toward her.

Dad!

Almost before she knew what she was doing, Alirah leapt up and flung her arms around him.

Whoa, hey there, he said, laughing with surprise. He hugged her back tightly then stood her out at arm’s length, gazing into her eyes. Are you okay?

All of a sudden she felt anything but okay. Some horror from her vision still lingered deep inside. Now as she looked into his eyes she had the irrational sensation that it was the last time she’d ever see them. Her stomach clenched inside her, but she forced out a smile nonetheless. Yeah. I’m fine.

His smile broadened but became bittersweet. He reached up to caress her cheek tenderly.

Liar.

She sighed heavily. Then to her own surprise and frustration, tears sprang to her eyes. She wiped them away roughly. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.

There’s nothing to be sorry for, he said. Your sister told me the stranger was badly wounded. It isn’t easy to see such things, especially for the first time. Kaya looked pretty shaken up herself.

Oh, it isn’t that, Alirah said quickly, although the memory of the young man covered in blood and staring at her so desperately made her shudder. "It’s… I saw something, Dad. Again. And it was worse than usual. I thought everything was really happening right then and there. And I just can’t stop feeling all cold and scared. I’m afraid of… of I don’t even know what!"

Shh… he murmured, drawing her close again.

Ethyrin was not a large man. He was sparely built and stood only a handful of inches taller than she did. Now as she hugged him she could lay her cheek against the crook of his neck. His complexion was a shade or two fairer than her own and had an olive tinge rather than a coppery one. He had dark brown hair, now streaked with gray, and sea gray eyes with crinkles of laughter about their edges. Although most Kwi’Kiri men grew neat beards once they were old enough to have raised a family, Ethyrin was clean-shaven and had been for as long as she could remember.

It’s okay, he murmured at length. Don’t be afraid.

I saw the Taragi, she said. At first she mumbled, but as she spoke her voice grew almost to a cry. "I saw thousands of them. Coming toward me. Coming here. And… Oh, I just wish I could stop it! What good is it to see something you’re already afraid of? And then a completely different person shows up anyway! And he wants something from you…"

With a great effort she controlled her tears, but a solitary sob escaped her. He sighed and held her more tightly.

I’d give anything to help you, Princess, he murmured, half to himself. But I’ve never had the Sight. Not beyond funny dreams anyway. I don’t know what it’s like, or what to do about it. In Arandia, young girls who have the Sight so strongly that it bothers them go to Illmaryn and learn from the Priestesses of Illana there how to control it. Boys go too, of course, though it’s always seemed as if more women have the Sight than men, or else have it more strongly. If we lived closer, I would say you should go there. But the Priestesses aren’t the only ones who have the Sight or who learn to deal with it. I’m sure in time you’ll learn to control it better.

I know, murmured Alirah, though she felt no such certainty.

For a moment they just stood together in silence. Alirah recalled the words of the stranger and his desperate look. I seek the Prince Ethyrin… Abruptly she realized she was clinging to her father as if he might be taken away from her at any moment. She forced herself to loosen her hold and she took a step back. Wiping her eyes again, she tried to smile as she changed the subject.

So how did the council go?

Ethyrin sighed. "Good. Or not good, depending on what you wanted out of it. The panas are going to move again."

Alirah’s shoulders drooped. But we just got here a month ago!

He nodded. I’m not looking forward to tearing everything down and setting it back up again either. But we cannot stay. Every day there are stories of violence and death at the hands of the Taragi. There’s no doubt that there are many thousands of them, and that they’re coming west. We’ll be killed or enslaved if we stay here much longer. We’re going to head back to the sea, and then south along the coast. The lands are still empty there, so far as we know. Hopefully we’ll be safe.

At that moment Nuara pushed her way out of the tent. Berun followed her quickly, looking relieved. He gave Alirah a brief, meaningful glance, then mumbled something about getting dinner and fled. Ethyrin strode to his wife and kissed her briefly.

So I hear someone’s been asking for me, he said lightly.

Nuara smirked. "He’s been raving is what he’s been doing. Talking about war and death and Darksouls, whatever they are. His wounds aren’t that severe, but there was a poison of some sort in them. I think I’ve drawn it out, but only time will tell. For the moment he’s sleeping. But he’s desperate to see you for some reason. Though he can’t have been alive yet when you ran away with me. Where’s Kaya? I sent her to find you."

I heard her stomach rumbling. I sent her and her friends to get some dinner, said Ethyrin. Then he frowned. "Did he really use that word? Darksoul?"

Yes. Several times.

Ethyrin’s frown deepened. He stared at the closed flap of the tent as if his gaze might pierce it and discern the wounded man within. He looked more grave than Alirah could ever remember seeing him.

What is it, Dad? She asked. What does that word mean?

Ethyrin did not answer her for a long moment. Finally he shook himself and gazed back at his daughter with a sigh.

I’m not sure I really know, he said. "When I was little, it was a bogey-man word. Any monster you wanted to invent to frighten a child was a Darksoul. Or else you would say it of a really awful person. But what the word really means, what it meant long ago anyway, was a person who’d given their soul to the Deceiver: one of the Sa’Hadran."

Alirah’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She’d heard the term Sa’Hadran before, but only in old ghost stories told around the campfires late at night. They were legends, and different in every story though they were always evil. They weren’t something real that a person might actually find in the world under the sun. Nuara must have shared her opinion, for she shook her head.

Do any of them still exist? asked Nuara. If they were ever real in the first place, that is. And even if they were, what could that have to do with you, today? You were fourteen years old when you left Arandia.

Ethyrin shook his head. "They were real. But I have no idea what it could have to do with me, and there’s no point in guessing. As soon as he’s well enough I’ll speak to him. We all will. I will tell the leaders of the pana. Those of us who speak the common tongue will hold a council and hear what this man has to say. But for the moment, I’m starving. Let’s go get some food. There’ll be time for questions and answers later."

Night had fallen and a big, waxing moon had risen far into the clear sky before the council was convened. They gathered in one of the large communal pavilions which stood at the center of the encampment. This particular pavilion was the Council Tent, where the elders of the pana would meet for formal councils or ceremonies. Alirah had rarely been inside it, and probably was allowed in that night only because the stranger had asked for her father by name.

The Council Tent was circular, and big enough to accommodate thirty or forty people in a pinch, but now less than two dozen were gathered inside it. They sat around a small fire that burned upon bare ground at the center of the tent. It sent its little smoke and few sparks up through a hole in the canvas roof above. The air inside the tent was warm and smelled strongly of steeping tea.

The stranger sat propped up on soft cushions and pillows. He’d changed out of his bloodstained clothes, but his new garments were still travel stained and somewhat threadbare. They also looked a bit too big for him, as if they were hand-me-downs from some heavier brother, or as if he’d lost weight on his long journey. Bandages wound about his shoulder and thigh made bulges under his clothing, but his sword still hung at his side. Despite the heat in the tent he wore his big green cloak around his shoulders, and he did not look warm.

Ethyrin and Nuara sat close together, directly across the fire from him. Each held one hand beside and a little behind them, to clasp the other’s out of the stranger’s sight. Between them and the stranger, forming a rough circle around the little blaze, were some of the older men and women of the pana who were accounted elders and who helped to make such decisions as would affect the whole encampment. They all sat cross-legged upon woven rugs and cushions. At that moment those seated were half chanting, half singing the ritual prayer-song with which all councils were begun. At the same time a young man and woman, attendants to the elders, were distributing steaming tea in little earthenware cups.

Alirah sat with Kaya and Berun upon cushions of their own. After the long day in the sun, Berun’s eyes were now half closed with sleep. Kaya lay against Alirah on her other side as if ready for sleep herself, but Alirah could feel her sister’s heart beating fast and she knew the younger girl was wide awake. Butterflies danced in Alirah’s own belly. She fidgeted constantly upon her cushion like a restless child.

For the evening Alirah had tied back her hair and covered much of it with a light scarf the way her mother and most of the grown women among the Kwi’Kiri always did. Alirah herself seldom wore a headscarf. While it was traditional there was no strict requirement to do so, and now many of the youngest women of the tribe were forgoing them. But it would never have occurred to Alirah to walk into the Council Tent with her hair uncovered. Even Kaya had donned a headscarf for the night.

When all the tea had been served and the ritual song had concluded, a heavy silence filled the tent. Everybody gazed at the young stranger. He looked dreadfully uncomfortable under their stares. Every so often he would look up to meet Ethyrin’s eyes, but then after a while he would lose his nerve. His gaze would dart right or left, only to find the sunned, wrinkled faces of the elders staring back at him with grave expressions. Finally he would look down at his own lap again, abashed. But he was either too proud or too determined to stay that way for long, and after a moment he would raise his head and start the process all over again.

Finally Ethyrin stirred. He cleared his throat and spoke in would-be friendly tones, although his voice sounded strained.

Why don’t you start by telling us all who you are, and where you’ve come from?

I… I am Kelorn, son of Kardir, said the young man shakily. I am a druid in the service of Illana and the Lady of the Holy Isle…

"You’re a druid?" Ethyrin exclaimed in surprise, interrupting him.

I… yes, I am. Why shouldn’t I be?

You’re not old enough, are you?

I’m twenty-four, said Kelorn, coloring slightly. It’s been almost a year since I took my vows on the Isle of Illmaryn.

"He’s not too young. You’re too old," said one of the Kwi’Kiri elders. A wave of gentle laughter spread around the room. Kelorn grinned faintly. Ethyrin grimaced, but then after a moment managed a smile of his own.

Alright then. So why have you come here, Druid?

Kelorn’s smile vanished. He took a deep breath before he spoke. I have come here searching for Prince Ethyrin, who was the son of Prince Elidan the Repentant, and who vanished thirty years ago and has been presumed dead. Are you him?

Ethyrin waited a long time before he answered. Before he spoke he looked at Nuara and into her darkling eyes. A moment passed before she nodded, once. Then Ethyrin turned back to Kelorn.

I am.

Alirah thought he looked and sounded almost like someone confessing to a crime. She felt a surge of hot anger within her, and she fidgeted even more restlessly on her cushions.

Be still, whispered Kaya.

Well he’s acting like it’s something to be ashamed of! she hissed back.

Shh!

This was not Kaya but her older brother, Elidan, who sat nearby in the second ring behind the elders. He was three years older than she was. In that time he had gotten married and had a child, though now his wife and baby son were back in their own tent and probably fast asleep. Elidan himself looked a lot like Ethyrin, only with a Kwi’Kiri’s coppery complexion. He had deep gray eyes and darkish hair that was always half wild. Alirah glared at her brother but fell silent.

Meanwhile Kelorn stared at Ethyrin for a moment, blinking, as if taken by surprise. Oh… good… I mean, what am I saying? Then you are my liege lord.

Suddenly, though it cost him an obvious, painful struggle, he rose to his feet and then dropped formally to one knee. He started to say something, but before he could get the words out Ethyrin had leapt to his own feet in turn.

Get up! he cried. Get up. Stop that!

Ethyrin half helped, half forced the astonished young man back onto his cushions. Then he sat down alongside his wife once more. Alirah thought her father looked pale, like a haunted man.

You came here searching for Prince Ethyrin? Well, you have found him. Now why have you come here? And how did you find me, since no one in Arandia ever knew where I had gone?

I have come on behalf of the Lady Aila, Kelorn began.

"Lady Aila? The same Aila who was a maiden of the Light in Arandinar thirty years ago?"

Yes. Or, I mean, I think so. She is a full Priestess of Illana now, at any rate. She believed that you were still alive and she sent us to find you.

Us?

There were three of us who set out, said Kelorn. Beyond the borders of Arandia we each went our separate ways. Aila thought that you would have gone west, but that you would have gone west from Calimshaan. So that probably meant south as well as west, for us.

Ethyrin stared at the young druid. The eyes of everyone in the room had swiveled back and forth between him and Kelorn as they’d volleyed questions and answers. Finally Nuara gave her husband’s hand a squeeze.

Why don’t you tell your story, from the beginning, she said to Kelorn. And we’ll see if we can keep from interrupting you anymore.

Okay… said Kelorn. He paused for a long moment, gathering his thoughts. Well, to start with, I should say that times are growing dark in Arandia. Archandir is now High King, and for those of us still loyal to the old laws and the old ways, he is an even worse Tyrant than his father Artan was.

Under his rule, we are on the brink of open war with the Northmen, and one spark would send any or all of the Tributary Kingdoms into open rebellion. But Archandir is not troubled by this at all; if anything he’s anxious for the fight. He’s talked about sending the legions into both places and conquering them: making them part of Arandia itself. As if he could do that by force. Anyone who stands up to him, or speaks against his views too loudly, is arrested for treason. Even worse, in these last few years, they just disappear. There’s no talk of a crime or a punishment. One day a person is there and the next day he’s gone and nobody ever knows what happened to him.

And worse things are happening too. Or, if not worse, at least more mysterious. Dragons are stirring in the northern wastes. Goblins and trolls are spreading down from their holes in the mountains. Rumors say that Darksouls have arisen again. Certainly isolated homesteads and even whole villages have been suddenly destroyed, with the Black Star marked amidst their ruin. It’s even whispered that Archandir himself has begun to worship the Deceiver.

"With all this happening, Lady Aila gathered a few of us younger druids together. She told us that you had not stolen away with Irudan’s envoy on a whim, as was believed, but had fled to escape assassination by King Artan. She said she believed, as many do, that you were still alive. Stories of the Lost Prince Ethyrin have spread like wildfire in Arandia ever since Prince Irudan returned alone from Calimshaan all those years ago. Lady Aila said that for Arandia to be saved you must be found, and that time was short.

We rode out in secret while snow still lay upon the ground. We made our way through the Tributary Kingdoms, always south and west. But nobody that we encountered knew anything about Prince Ethyrin beyond the legends we’d all heard already. At last, when we had passed beyond the Tributary Kingdoms to lands that none of us knew well, we decided to split up and search separately.

I journeyed on through lands that were mostly empty. On the maps in Arandia that extend so far, those lands are called the Red Desert, but I don’t think the name is very good, for it was a beautiful place. The land was dry and very red, but forests of pine grew atop the hills and little streams of clear water cut through them.

"At last, beyond the Red Desert, I reached the city of Rusukhor north of here. It was the first real city I had seen for many weeks. It was there that I heard a rumor that one of the Lords of the East, by which the speaker meant an Arandian noble of some sort, was living in exile with a little tribe of people to the south called the Kwi’Kiri."

I rode south at once as fast as I could. Then two days ago I saw a great plume of smoke rising far off to the west. It was much too large and black to be a campfire, and too narrow for the grasslands themselves to be ablaze. I rode west to investigate, but I never saw what was burning.

Coming over a ridge I ran straight into three riders armed and armored like none I had seen before. They had long, curved swords: not heavy scimitars like the Jeddein use but longer, slimmer blades. They wore armor like folded hides. Either they did not speak any of the common tongue, or they just chose to attack me without answering my questions. I… I killed two of them…

Kelorn faltered for a moment as if stricken by the memory, but then grit his teeth and plowed on. At least… At least I think I did. I didn’t stick around to find out. The other rider fled from me, but I fled too. I was hurt. I did my best to bind the wounds, but I think there was some poison in them. I got more and more sick. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just kept riding south. I must have passed out in the saddle. The next thing I remember I was on the ground, looking up at a young… at… at her.

For the first time since she’d entered the Council Tent, Kelorn looked directly at Alirah. Until that moment she’d assumed he wouldn’t remember speaking to her; he’d been so delirious before. Now as their eyes met she saw him blush deeply. After less than a second he looked away. At the same time her own gaze dropped to her lap. She felt her own cheeks burning, though she could not have said why.

For a few moments a tense silence hung in the air. Ethyrin, Nuara, and the elders waited for Kelorn to go on with his story, but of course he did not have much more to say. Whatever words he’d meant to conclude with now seemed to stick in his throat. At last, to Alirah’s surprise, her brother Elidan stirred and broke the silence.

You say you fought three of them? He asked. Three Taragi warriors, I’m guessing. You killed two and sent the other one running?

Kelorn swallowed audibly.

I… yeah. I did.

A quiet murmur of approval spread through the tent. After more than a year of hearing the Taragi spoken of only with fear and dread, there was something savagely wonderful about hearing that even a few of them had been slain. Elidan himself was normally a gentle person. He’d passed through his entire boyhood with hardly a scuffle; but he had become almost fierce since the birth of his son. Now he grinned faintly.

When the murmuring subsided another long silence fell. This time Ethyrin broke it, speaking in a slow, grim voice. So my daughter and her friend found you and brought you here. And here you have found me: Ethyrin son of Elidan son of Artanimir, the last rightful king of Arandia. But what is it that you want me to do?

Kelorn looked relieved at the change of subject. His eyes lit up with hope. Isn’t it obvious, your Majesty? Come back with me! Your kingdom is in peril. Your home is in peril! You are the true High King, and Arandia needs you. Give up this life of exile and return to her!

Alirah caught her breath. Beside her she felt Kaya stiffen with fright. For just a moment she felt certain it would be so. Ethyrin would stand, take up his old sword, and ride away with this stranger to the rescue of his faraway kingdom. And they would never see him again. Fear and grief surged like ice through her veins. Then Ethyrin shook his head and gave a grunt of a laugh.

And I thought druids were supposed to be wise.

Kelorn looked as if he’d been struck, but Alirah started to breathe again.

"This life of exile is my life, said Ethyrin. I sit beside my wife, whom I love. My son and my daughters sit behind me. One little grandchild sleeps in a tent not far from here, and another is on its way to being born. Shall I bring them all back with me, to a land they’ve never seen? To a land I haven’t seen since I was a boy?"

He did not wait for an answer but continued, now raising one arm to encompass the tent and the unseen encampment all around it. You say my home is in peril? You’re right. The Taragi are in our backyard. Many thousands of them bent on conquest and plunder, and only a few hundred of us. Shall I abandon my people now, when their peril is greatest? Would you do that? You’re too late, son of Kardir. You’re almost thirty years too late.

For a minute Kelorn, visibly crestfallen, could only stare back at his King. Then he cast his gaze around the room, as if searching for a friendly face or a new idea to help him. All at once he seemed to find something, for his eyes lit up again.

"No, your Majesty, I would not. I would stay and fight. But… But think how much more good you could do there than here. Here you are one man fighting with his small people. There you are the High King of by far the most powerful nation in the world! More than one horde of barbarians has met its end against the Legions of Arandia! For seventeen hundred years our nation has stood as a light against such darkness. Now by our own hands that light is going out. You could change that!"

As Kelorn spoke, a vision took hold of Alirah. It came so suddenly and so intensely that she squeezed her eyes shut and covered them with her hands. Even so, she beheld a great army, tens of thousands strong. Their helms and swords and mail were wrought of bright steel, and their raiment was blue. A hundred blue banners bearing the emblem of a golden dragon floated above their ranks. Before them all rode her father. He sat astride a white horse and wore a jeweled crown upon his head. His hair looked grayer and his face was more lined with care, but his eyes looked bright and young. He roared at the top of his lungs, and in response his great army marched towards their opponents like an oncoming tide.

The men of Arandia fought against an army that was shrouded in darkness. Alirah thought at first that they were the Taragi, but she could not see them clearly. Yet the longer she strained her eyes against the shadows, the more she was certain that many kinds of people marched in that host: tall and short, dark and fair. They marched from many places and across many years. While they marched under many different banners, each bore upon it somewhere the device of a black star. Likewise, when she looked again at the Arandians she saw that they but formed the vanguard of a host innumerable. And not only soldiers marched in that host. Behind the warriors came a great press of women and children and the aged: everyone who would live free and unafraid under the sun. Some had come to fight, while some could only watch with hope and fear.

As the hosts met she heard the ring of steel upon steel, shouts of triumph and screams of pain. The scent of blood assailed her with such intensity that she almost threw up. Yet though many of them fell, the Arandians and their allies were victorious. Their enemies fled, and the awful darkness they’d brought with them passed way.

At the same time she saw and heard