The scrolls were delivered the next day, four stained and ancient documents describing in obscure language the coming of the Matholych. Jermain studied them with interest. Apparently the Matholych grew weaker as it came farther north; the records noted it repeatedly, but gave no clue as to why. The scrolls contained no physical description of the monster, but they were eloquent indeed on the subject of its power. Jermain began to wonder how big the Matholych was, and how far its power extended. Something that could suck three kingdoms nearly dry of magic for hundreds of years . . .
Abruptly, Jermain set down the scroll he was reading and spread out one of his maps. He looked at it for a long moment, then began carefully going through the scroll, noting the places it mentioned as having been destroyed by the Matholych, along with the dates of their destruction. When he finished, he did the same for the other records Carachel had given him. He sat back and looked at the map.
He saw the pattern at once, a giant wedge forced into the middle of the Seven Kingdoms. There were a series of circles in northern Mournwal and another series in Gramwood, slanting upward through Sevairn almost to the Morlonian Hills. The northern most point of the pattern of destruction was directly north of the site Carachel had chosen for the battle. Jermain traced the line absently, noting with a twinge of apprehension that Leshiya lay almost exactly halfway between the battleground and the edge of the Matholych’s destruction.
Shaking his head, he turned back to his study of the scrolls. The Matholych, after all, was Carachel’s to deal with; a human army could do nothing, unless it were an army of wizards. He put the thought out of his mind, and began searching for references to the Hoven-Thalar.
When Jermain finally finished with the four scrolls, he thought he understood Carachel’s insistence on the location of the battlefield, and he was more than a little apprehensive. In the last invasion, the path of the Hoven-Thalar followed a straight line north from the wasteland, but the path of the Matholych moved forward more like a wave, surging up on either side of the nomads’ trail. The Matholych, if it was a single being, must be enormous; villages in western Mournwal and northern Gramwood had been destroyed at virtually the same time. Or perhaps it was not impossibly large, but simply was not limited by distance. Jermain remembered Carachel’s spell of traveling, and shivered.
Firmly, he turned his mind back to the plans in front of him. If this invasion followed the same pattern as the last one, the destruction that marked the path of the Matholych would at first move northward faster at the eastern border of Gramwood and the western border of Mournwal. In the center, where the Hoven-Thalar would be riding north, the Matholych would move more slowly, forming an arc of ruin around an untouched center. Eventually, the center began moving forward more quickly, reaching halfway to the northern border of Sevairn in a single sudden wave.
Jermain could understand why Carachel did not want to explain his battle plan in great detail. It looked very much as if Carachel’s army would be facing the Hoven-Thalar in the center of the arc, with the Matholych spreading northward on either side. And if the center of the Matholych moved forward too quickly, or sooner than Carachel expected . . .
Carefully, Jermain rolled the crumbling scrolls and stacked them on the edge of the table. He put out the lamp and lay down on his cot, but it was a long time before he slept.
CHAPTER 9
B
y the time Eltiron reached the bottom of the tower, the courtyard was full of hurrying people. Eltiron picked his way among them, wondering who had brought word to the castle and whether the Princess really was with the caravan. He had covered barely a quarter of the distance from the tower to the main entrance of the castle when he was hailed with relief by the harried castle steward, who informed him that the Princess of Barinash would be arriving within an hour. Eltiron, said the steward, was commanded by the King to prepare himself to formally receive his bride; the Princess and her escort would be brought directly to the Gray Hall and everyone must be there to meet her, and why was Eltiron just standing there? Eltiron left hurriedly.
An hour and a half later, Eltiron stood beside Marreth at the center of the Gray Hall, waiting. He was uncomfortably aware of the way the courtiers were eyeing him, and he found himself wishing he could talk to Jermain, or Vandaris. But Jermain was in exile, Vandaris was somewhere among the mass of people lining the walls in hopes of witnessing the Princess’s arrival, and Eltiron did not feel up to starting a conversation with his father. He waited in silence.
Terrel stood on Marreth’s other side, looking as calm and at ease as if he had not dressed as hastily as everyone else in the room. He wore a red silk shirt, heavily embroidered with gold, which suited his blond coloration perfectly, and he seemed cool and comfortable in spite of the room’s warmth. The crowd of courtiers had been waiting for nearly an hour, and the Gray Hall had quickly become overheated despite its size.
Silently, Eltiron cursed the man who had decided that pale blue velvet would be appropriate for the Prince of Sevairn to wear to meet his bride. The clothes were hot and uncomfortable as well as unbecoming; once again, Terrel looked more the prince than Eltiron. Eltiron felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Mentally, he cursed again and wished he had the courage to tell the tailors what he thought of this wonderful idea. His collar was making his neck itch. He put up a hand to ease it, and the horns outside blew to announce the arrival of the Princess.
A moment later, the doors swung open and the Princess of Barinash and her escort entered the room. First came the guards, resplendent in green-and-silver uniforms, and Eltiron had time to wonder how they managed to look so fresh after two or three weeks of traveling. A short, unpleasant-looking man followed; Eltiron had a vague memory of his having been an ambassador or something several years before. Behind him came the Princess and two of her ladies.
The short man began a rambling speech of introduction, none of which Eltiron heard. As the Princess entered, Eltiron’s face grew hot, and he dropped his eyes in an attempt to regain some of his composure. Why hadn’t anyone told him that the Princess Crystalorn was beautiful? At least, he thought it was the Princess he’d seen. He looked up, and his stomach knotted. The Princess hadn’t even noticed him. She was watching Terrel.
Swallowing disappointment, Eltiron forced himself to look at the Princess’s companions. She doesn’t know yet who I am, he thought. Underneath the thought was the hurt of knowing that he was right, that he did not look like a prince, that when she did learn who he was she would be disappointed. He didn’t want to think about disappointing her, because there was no way he could prevent it. In a few minutes, she would be formally presented to him, and she would know.
Abruptly, Eltiron realized that he was staring at one of the Princess’s ladies, a tall woman with hair the color of unpolished steel. She was regarding him with a direct and rather disconcerting gaze, and Eltiron blinked apologetically. The woman smiled warmly, and Eltiron felt himself smiling in return. As she looked away, Eltiron noticed with unreasonable satisfaction that her gaze swept by Terrel without pausing. At least there was someone among the Princess’s escort whom Terrel did not impress.
“Eltiron!” Marreth’s voice was low, but it held an angry warning. Eltiron came back to the present with a jerk and a sick, sinking feeling. He had not noticed when the unpleasant little man had finished his speech and the Princess had come forward. Now Marreth was facing Eltiron, the Princess Crystalorn at his side.
“My son,” Marreth said in a louder voice, “I present to you the Princess Crystalorn Halaget, daughter of King Urhelds of Barinash.”
“I give you greeting, my lady.” Eltiron gave the formal response automatically.
“I thank you for your welcome, Prince Eltiron,” the Princess said.
Eltiron was uncomfortably aware of the sweat on his palms but unable to do anything about it. As he took the Princess’s hand and bowed over it, the room erupted into cheering. He straightened and found himself looking down into a pair of impossibly blue eyes framed in waves of thick brown hair. The eyes were studying him with a speculative frown, but before their owner could say anything, Marreth raised his hand and the courtiers quieted.
“We welcome the Princess of Barinash and her companions to our court, and we hope . . .” Marreth began the speech he always gave when someone of importance arrived in Leshiya, and Eltiron stopped listening. Instead, he watched the Princess watching him.
The Princess’s scrutiny did not last much longer. When Marreth was about three sentences into his speech, she gave her head a tiny shake and gently disengaged her hand from Eltiron’s. She turned slightly, so that she faced Marreth once more, and Eltiron thought he saw her sigh.
Marreth’s speech seemed to last hours. When he finally finished, Terrel announced that the welcoming feast would be held in two days’ time, to give the Princess and her escort time to recover from their journey. Then the horns blew again, and the formal welcome was officially over. The delegation from Barinash was shown to the rooms that had been prepared for them, the courtiers dispersed, and Eltiron, his head still whirling from his brief encounter with his prospective bride, went to look for Vandaris.
He found her in the gardens, shaving long curls of wood from a rough staff. She looked up as he approached and raised an eyebrow. “Well, now that you’ve met her, what do you think of her?”
“The Princess Crystalorn? She’s . . . she’s very pretty.”
“Sweet snakes, man, is that all you want in a bride? I thought you had more sense!”
“Well, I don’t know anything else about her; I’ve hardly talked to her at all,” Eltiron said defensively.
“So arrange to talk to her! It shouldn’t be that hard.”
“What difference would it make? Terrel was the one she was looking at. Didn’t you notice?”
“I think you are underestimating yourself rather badly,” Vandaris said with uncharacteristic gentleness. “And I think you’re underestimating Crystalorn as well. As for Terrel Lassond . . .” She frowned. “I wish I knew for certain what he’s doing and how he’s doing it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see the way he and Parel were eyeing each other?”
“Parel?”
“Salentor Parel, molasses mind. He’s the Barinash ambassador who brought Crystalorn. You can’t have missed him; his speech went on forever.”
Eltiron felt his face grow warm. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”
“I see,” Vandaris said dryly. “Well, the two of them looked like a pair of cats watching the same mouse hole—cooperating, but not too pleased about it, if you see what I mean. It makes me wonder.” She sighed. “I wish Trevannon were here; I could use some of his sources.”
“I thought you already were.”
“What?” Vandaris sat up sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“The Hoven-Thalar you were talking to the day of our first practice match. Wasn’t he the same one Jermain used to talk to? I was sure I recognized him.”
Vandaris stared at him for a moment. “You’re sure?”
“I think so. I’ve seen Jermain with him several times. You mean you didn’t know?”
Instead of answering, Vandaris began cursing quietly. Eltiron listened for several minutes before he finally tried to interrupt. “Vandaris?”
“—and next time I see that lizard-livered nomad, I’m going to feed him his own feet unless he tells the truth. All of it. That lock-jawed idiot knows where Trevannon is, and he didn’t say a word about it!”
“He does? How do you know?”
“I don’t,” Vandaris admitted, “but I’d still bet diamonds against dragon dung that I’m right. You didn’t see the way he reacted when I said I was looking for Trevannon. And the worst of it is, he left nearly a week ago; he could be anywhere by now. We’ll just have to hope he has sense enough to let Trevannon know what I told him.”
They talked for a few minutes more before Eltiron left to attend to his duties. He spent the rest of that day and most of the next running from one not-quite-finished thing to the next and wondering why no one had made any arrangements for the possibility of the Princess arriving early. Everyone had discussed at great length what to do if she arrived later than expected, but no one had been prepared for her to appear a day sooner.
In his few spare moments, Eltiron worried about the welcoming feast. Terrel’s wit was always more pointed when he had a large audience, and he had arranged to be seated on the other side of the Princess from Eltiron. And how would the Princess Crystalorn react when she saw Marreth walk in with one of his “ladies”? Eltiron wished fervently that he could speak to her privately before the feast, even for a little while, but there was no way he could arrange it.
The feast was even worse than he expected. Marreth was unusually loud and irritable, and the entertainers were nervous. Terrel monopolized the Princess’s attention for most of the meal, pointing out the important members of Marreth’s court and making occasional verbal jabs at Eltiron. By the time the uncomfortable evening ended, Eltiron was more than glad to escape to his rooms.
After an hour of brooding on all the things he might have said in response to Terrel, Eltiron could stand the silence no longer, and he went out to pace the halls of the castle. The hour was late enough that hardly anyone was stirring; he passed an occasional guard, but that was all. He was tempted to visit Vandaris, but he doubted that she was still awake. Besides, he couldn’t just keep running to her every time something went wrong; sooner or later he would have to do something. The question was, what?
Scowling in frustration, Eltiron kicked at an imaginary wrinkle in the carpeting. This was getting him no closer to solving his problems with Terrel; he might as well go back to his chambers and get some sleep. He glanced up to see where his rambles had brought him and saw a dim light spilling through a half-open doorway at the end of the hall.