Kate Elliott - His conquering sword

Stiff with fright, the priestess dipped a bowl into the pool, rose from her seat, and brought the water to Bakhtiian. Her hands trembled as she lifted the bowl up, cupped in her pale delicate fingers, offering it to him. He accepted it, took three sips, and handed the bowl to Mitya, who drank off the rest. Then Bakhtiian urged his horse forward to the pool and let it drink. The whiterobed woman went as pale as death, watching the stallion drink from her fountain, and a moment later she collapsed to the ground in a faint. The Habakar priests wrung their hands, terrified and distraught, but they did not object to this impiety.

Bakhtiian pulled his horse away and motioned to the rest to water their own mounts. He moved up beside his prisoners. Shadows drew out across the courtyard, thrown by the minarets and the ring of tall columns. The horses drank noisily from the pool, serenaded by the pleasant murmur of the fountain and the muted dissonance of the bedlam in the city beyond. Plumes of smoke clouded the sky. The sun sank toward the western hills in a haze of red fire.

"You may leave," Bakhtiian said. "That much mercy I will grant you and your people." His expression remained fixed and distant.

"But, Lord," protested one of the priests, the eldest of them, "the holy books of the Everlasting God, which reside in the temple…" He bent his head over his hands. Nadine saw tears in his eyes and a look of bitter despair on his face. The others whispered fiercely to him. The nobleman knelt and bowed his head, not to Bakhtiian, but to the temple itself, as if saying farewell to it.

"Books!" Bakhtiian's gaze jumped back to the priests for an instant. "Konstans. Give these priests wagons, so that they may save their books. Take five hundred men and strip everything else that is valuable from the building."

"But, Lord, our temple took years beyond counting to build. And the palace-" The others hissed at him, but the old man set his mouth and continued. "Let him kill me if he wills. I am old enough to die without fear. Lord, surely once you have taken what you wish, we can return to our homes. Surely you or the young prince-" He glanced up at Mitya and away, as if he feared his impudence in looking directly upon the young prince might be punished, "-will wish to rule from here."

"Karkand is no more," said Bakhtiian in a quiet voice, deceptively quiet, Nadine understood now, seeing in his face the depths of his rage and of his anguish. "Nothing will be left of her once I am through. No one will live here, no thing will grow here, where I lost my son."

Aleksi knew how to get places without being seen. Charles Soerensen knew how to be seen. Once they had ridden far enough in toward the battle, once the prince had been recognized and waved forward by enough people, Aleksi got them lost and brought them out on a different side of Karkand, three jaran riders of no particular importance headed out on patrol. He did not find it difficult to avoid jaran patrols. But the khaja who had been driven from the outlying districts of Karkand flooded every path and road and least byway, and in the end they cut up into the hills early and wound a laborious way through the scrub until they came at last to a small defile hidden between two ridges.

"Here," said Charles, and they dismounted and led the horses down the steep hillside to the flat grassy floor. It was midafternoon by now, and already shadows covered the western flank of the little valley. They stood there, resting while they watched the horses graze.

"We're only about eight kilometers from camp," said Marco, "had we ridden straight here, but we rode over twice that. Goddess, what a lot of refugees."

"Let's hope," said Soerensen quietly, regarding the sky pensively, "that none of them decide to hide in the hills until we're gone. Or at least, in these hills."

Marco sighed. "Just think of all the people still left inside the city. I wonder what will happen to them."

The prince folded his arms on his chest and regarded the other man. A breeze slid through the grass. Here, in this peaceful valley, it was hard to remember that a battle raged a short ride away.

Marco clenched his hands. "Or what will happen to the people in camp if Bakhtiian loses." He looked white.

"I'm sorry, Marco," said Soerensen, more quietly still.

"You're sorry!" demanded Marco. "You're the one who abandoned Tess!"

"And Cara and David and all the rest of them, true. But I have faith that Bakhtiian will win. Hell, I have to believe it. And in any case, that's not really who we're talking about."

Marco swore and stalked off to talk to the horses who were, no doubt, more soothing company.

"Romance," said the prince, looking after him," is vastly overrated." He sat down and reclined on one elbow.

Aleksi crouched down beside him. "Is Erthe really such a place as this?" he asked, waving toward the ridges and the silent stretch of grass and brush lying within the valley walls. "Or is it like the plains? And if it lies up in the heavens, why can't we see it?"

Soerensen smiled. "You remind me of Tess," he said. "Hell, you remind me of me."

The simple words provoked a sudden flush of happiness in Aleksi. By this, he was acknowledged. He could not help himself. He smiled back.

The prince chuckled. "Well, we have about two hours until the shuttle is due in. Let me see." He settled into a more comfortable position. "I'm not a very good storyteller, and I don't have any visual aids…"

"Oh, I don't mind," said Aleksi hastily. "Tell me a simple story first. Tell me about-" He hesitated, stunned for a moment by his own audacity. But Tess was his sister and, by some measure, Charles Soerensen his brother. "Tell me about your mother and your father and your tribe."

"My mother and my father and my tribe," mused the prince. "Well, then, let me start with the story of how they met-or at least, how they told it to me. I heard a different story from my mother's sister, which I'm afraid I believe more." But by his grin as he spoke, Aleksi saw that both these stories rose from love. Content, Aleksi settled in to listen.

The sun had fallen below the western ridge and twilight cloaked the valley when Marco left the horses suddenly and ran over to them, interrupting Soerensen right as he was getting to the part where Tess was born.

"Perimeter alert," said Marco. "We've got two riders approaching." He had a huge black stone attached to his wrist, and he stared into it now as a Singer might stare into feathers and bones to read omens.

"Refugees?" the prince asked, climbing to his feet. "Damn."

"I don't- No. They've got homing equipment. Must be ours."

Aleksi heard the horses before he saw them, picking their way down the western ridge. Soon enough he could make out their riders as well: One person walked, leading both horses, and a second clung to the saddle of her fine mare.

"Tess!" Aleksi said her name on the same breath the prince did. Then Marco said, "Maggie! What the hell-?" They all stared.

Zhashi looked no worse for wear, although not surprisingly she wasn't happy about going down an unfamiliar slope at twilight, but Tess looked awful. They reached the valley floor and Aleksi ran to help Tess down off the mare.

She collapsed into his arms and just hung against him while Maggie took the horses out to me others and hobbled them.

"And what the hell," Tess demanded of her brother as he hurried up to her, "do you think you're doing?" Her voice was strong, but still she clung to Aleksi. He wondered if she could even stand by herself.

"I might ask the same of you," Soerensen said, looking shocked, but he did not move to take her out of Aleksi's grasp. "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"What? You don't want me to? You still have too many uses for me?"