"I cannot." She sounded sad but certain. "I don't have the strength to cross back over. I know where I am now, Barrick, and I know what is possible. You have brought me as near to the lands of the living as you can. Now you must continue on your own."

"No! I'll never leave you! I will stay here with you . . . !"

"You will not," she said calmly. "We would have a little time, but then we would both have to cross the river and who knows what would happen after that?"

"But I won't give you up to death. I won't."

"You are too fearful. I will be able to remain here, close to the lands of the living-our love has made that certain. What we made together is strong, my sweet Barrick, like a great stone set deep in the ground. I can cling to it for at least a little while." She reached out then-he felt her fingers on his face, warmer now, as though some life had flowed back into them. "Go back now. I sense you had something planned-perhaps it will still save us."

He tried not to sound bitter. "It will save others. You will suffer from it, as I have."

She laughed, an astounding noise to hear in this place. "Then I will suffer, Barrick, and be grateful for it. What sort of life do you think I had before this? I would rather a hundred times the suffering if I also have your love."

He didn't even need to think. "You have it. You have it always."

"Then go, and trust that."

Never before had he felt so uncertain of anything. But never before had he known anything for which he was so willing to fight. Trusting, though-that was harder than fighting. "Wait for me, Qinnitan, my sweet voice, my dear one. Promise me that no matter how long it seems, no matter how impossible that I am still coming . . . that you will wait for me."

And then he turned and hurried toward the land of the waking and the living. Unkind Fate denied him even a last look back.

Barrick knelt beside Saqri. He could not bear to look at Qinnitan's face only a short distance away, so still, so much like death. "I have brought her as close as I can. Can you find her?"

Saqri's eyes were half open, a trapped creature breathing its last desperate breaths. I . . . cannot . . . see . . . anything . . . beyond this . . . I . . . cannot . . . see . . . anything . . . beyond this . . .

"Then let me help." He ignored his own bone-deep weariness to bend over. He lifted Saqri's dry, cold hand and placed it on Qinnitan's brow. A slight constriction of the muscles around Saqri's eyes was the only sign that she still survived. At last, her voice came, a murmur, a defeated sigh . . .

I cannot find her . . .

Barrick set his own hand on top of the Queen of the Fay's, then closed his eyes and let himself tumble down into the darkness he had just escaped. The Fireflower voices cried out in sudden terror: Too weak, manchild! You are too weak . . .

You will die, too. You, Saqri, and the girl. Everything gone . . . !

Do not risk it!

But Barrick could do nothing else. Without Qinnitan, he would become something ugly-a cold, raging shadow of himself, a living ghost haunting his own life. Better to go now if he could not save her, to leap into the fire and make a quick ending.

Down, down Barrick Eddon fell. He could sense Saqri beside him, a white, winged shape diving beside him as though falling out of the clouds at the end of a long journey. The dark lands rose up and then rushed past as they skimmed over them, acres of silent forest and silvery meadows threaded with shining black streams. He led her as best he could, but it was not easy-her freedom returned and her crippled mortal body left behind, Saqri wanted to soar.

It was only as he realized he had reached the valley again that Barrick remembered he dared not look at Qinnitan, that like the Orphan, his eyes upon her would break the spell, and the black lands would claim her forever. He shut his eyes tightly, or dreamed that he did, but now he had to go blindly through a land far bigger than any earthly country. How could he find her? He reached outward, thinking that surely in this cold world she must be the only warm thing, the only thing that lived and cared . . .

I am here. The voice was faint as a cricket in a thunderstorm. The voice was faint as a cricket in a thunderstorm. I am waiting. I am waiting.

He turned toward her, letting the darkness shape itself as it would. He could only follow. He could only trust.

When he found her, he kissed her, his tight-shut eyes hot with tears. "Saqri!" he called. "She is here! Qinnitan . . . the one who also carries some of Crooked's blood!"

The great shape dropped out of the sky like a white storm, wings cracking.

"Has he asked you, womanchild? Has he warned you what it will mean if you take the Fireflower?" Saqri asked in a voice like solemn music. "Will you take this terrible burden onto yourself?"

"Yes." In that moment Qinnitan seemed to know all that she needed to know. "I will."

"She still cannot return, Barrick Eddon, even with the Fireflower," Saqri warned him. "In your world she will still sleep, even as I once did. She may never wake."

"I will find a way to wake her." He reached out to find his Qinnitan. He could feel the ripple and blaze of the Fireflower all around them, as if Saqri breathed cold fire. "If it takes me a lifetime, still I will do it. Do you hear me? I will wake you."

Qinnitan lifted his hand to her lips. "I wait for no man to save me-even you, beloved. I will find a way to wake myself."

Saqri laughed. "Well said, child-you may be a worthy successor after all. Take the Fireflower, Qinnitan, daughter of Cheshret and Tusiya. You and Barrick will hold all that remains of my family's long, painful legacy. May the Book record a new future for both our kinds."

And then it was done and Saqri was gone.

Barrick awoke slowly, as weak and sore as if he had been beaten. All around him the Qar were in active mourning, singing as they prepared Saqri's body. He crawled to where Qinnitan lay ignored beside her and rested his head on the girl's delicate chest to hear the slow but rea.s.suring sound of her heartbeat. As he sat up he saw a faint silvery glimmer above her brow and the Fireflower inside him vibrated in sympathy like a plucked string. When he dragged himself to his feet, he was so unsteady that even the calmest of the attendants looked at him worriedly. "Fit a wagon to carry Queen Saqri's body," he said. "We will take her back to Qul-na-Qar so that she can lie with her ancestors, and so that her remaining subjects can mourn her as she deserves."

"And the other?" asked one of the healers. "The girl?"

"Dress her in bridal raiment," he said. "She is alive, although she sleeps. She, too, will go to Qul-na-Qar. See how the Fireflower glows in her? She is what remains of Saqri and all her grandmothers. Take care of her. Make her . . . make her comfortable." For a moment he could barely speak. "She is my love."

49.

Two Boats "Filled with despair, the G.o.ddess went to her father Perin and her uncle Erivor and begged them to intervene . . . But the other two brothers agreed that the Earthlord was within his rights, and that the Orphan could not live again because Zoria had failed to bring him out."

-from "A Child's Book of the Orphan, and His Life and Death and Reward in Heaven"

THIS HAS BECOME A CITY of broken stone and silk tents-beauty amid the ruins. And what beauty . . . ! Ferras Vansen did not particularly like the new and unfamiliar, but he had already fallen out of the world he knew. There was no turning back-the impossible had become his lifeblood, and it seemed to froth inside him like sea foam. Ferras Vansen did not particularly like the new and unfamiliar, but he had already fallen out of the world he knew. There was no turning back-the impossible had become his lifeblood, and it seemed to froth inside him like sea foam. Did she mean what she said? Of course she did, you foolish man, and showed you with her lips and arms that she meant it! Did she mean what she said? Of course she did, you foolish man, and showed you with her lips and arms that she meant it! But would it make any difference when set against the hard facts of the world? But would it make any difference when set against the hard facts of the world?

"Perin's Hammer, Dab, why are there no archers on the walls?" His good mood blew away in a moment, chased by fear. The responsibility of protecting Briony seemed almost impossibly large. "What do you expect the men up there to do if the Xixians play some trick? Spit on them? This is the life of the king's only daughter in our hands!"

"The archers are on the way, Captain Vansen," Dawley a.s.sured him. "Ten Kertishmen, good shots every one. They will be there as you ordered."

"I would have been even happier if you'd said 'ten Dalesmen.'" Vansen mopped his brow. He was terrified that something might go wrong, just when a happiness he had never believed possible was in his hands. "Tell me when these bowmen are in place." Vansen looked around. The pavilion that had been built covered much of the spit of land in front of the Basilisk Gate; the road up the rocky slope was all that remained of the near end of the mainland causeway. Vansen didn't really believe the Xixians planned any treachery, not with their own new monarch accompanying them, but Ferras Vansen didn't trust the Xixians not to do something arrogantly stupid. As Donal Murroy had always told him, it was better to be ready than to be sorry.

The day had turned out fine and sunny, with a fresh warm wind off the bay, and the attendants began rolling back the curtains of the pavilion as Briony arrived with the rest of her guards and Prince Eneas, who had brought a small company of his own men-"the Temple Dogs," as he called them. Ferras Vansen thought it a showy name for what was only another group of soldiers, after all. He had never held with the Syannese custom of self-glorying nicknames.

He approached Princess Briony, bowed, and said, "The guards are all in place, Highness. You will be as safe here as men can make you."

To his alarm, she laughed. He looked up, terrified he would see mockery, but the look on her face seemed to be a fond one. "Captain Vansen, we will have to return to the subject of your promotion soon. If you remain with the royal guard, you will drain the resources of the kingdom protecting me. I think I see three pentecounts of soldiers here!"

He felt himself flushing and cursed silently. "Your Highness is the heart of Southmarch. You have come through too much for us to risk losing you now."

"He is right, Princess," said Eneas in his soft midlander accent.

Vansen was doing his best not to hate the man. From everything he had heard, the Syannese prince was not only an honorable man and an admirable soldier but had been a gentleman and true friend to Briony as well; if Vansen had not feared him so much, he would have wished the chance to know him better. But Eneas had every right to marry Briony, while Ferras Vansen, however she might feel about him, had none. Even now, with his heart more firmly hers than ever before, Vansen felt certain she would do the politic thing-in truth, the only sensible thing-and marry the prince of Syan.

And then I will have to leave this place I love, as well as the only woman I desire. He did his best to push away self-pity. He did his best to push away self-pity. But what can be done, after all? I am a soldier, she is my queen-the heights are not meant for such as me. At least I have the sun and the wind back again. . . . But what can be done, after all? I am a soldier, she is my queen-the heights are not meant for such as me. At least I have the sun and the wind back again. . . .

How long had he spent entombed in deathly twilight or under a terrible reach of stone? He had gone so long without open sky and bright sun in the year past that he had forgotten the simple goodness of its warmth on his skin, as well as the bewitching tang of sea air which to a boy of the distant hills still seemed a kind of magic, the stuff of his father's stories.

He must have missed it, Vansen thought. Vansen thought. Must have missed the sea when he left it and his home behind. Must have missed the sea when he left it and his home behind. A thought was in his head now, and he had to dig at it carefully to find its true shape. A thought was in his head now, and he had to dig at it carefully to find its true shape. Even more, he must have loved my mother very much to give it up. Even more, he must have loved my mother very much to give it up.

"'Ware the ship!" shouted someone from the wall. Vansen turned to see a small, covered boat bobbing toward them over the swells, the oars on each side moving like the legs of a water beetle. It was painted and gilded in the full glory of the Xixian colors, a huge carving of a spread-winged falcon perched on its prow as if trying to lift the entire craft from the water and fly away with it.

A fitting symbol, Vansen thought with a twinge of satisfaction. Vansen thought with a twinge of satisfaction. They thought they had the strength to take what they wanted here, but they underestimated the will of the Marchmen . . . especially the courage of the Funderlings. And now they come to us as humble as you please. They thought they had the strength to take what they wanted here, but they underestimated the will of the Marchmen . . . especially the courage of the Funderlings. And now they come to us as humble as you please.

When the boat had been drawn up to the makeshift dock, built from the last stones that remained of the causeway, a group of Xixian soldiers in leopard-spotted cloaks filed off it and lined up on either side of the causeway, followed by a slow-moving figure in an elaborate ceremonial robe. As this lean old fellow made his way forward, propped on the arm of a youthful servant, the soldiers still on the boat began to lift out a large, covered litter.

The old man reached the front of the pavilion where Briony sat with Eneas standing protectively beside her. The prince of Syan looked so much the handsome royal husband already that Vansen could have happily seen him shot with an arrow. The Xixian made an elaborate bow that did not quite cross over into actual humility. Then the youthful servant made a shrill announcement that his stumbling words suggested he had been forced to memorize, "I pa.r.s.ent His Revered Seff . . . Revered Self Self, the Wise Elder, Paramount Mis . . . Minister Pinimmon Vash."

"You are safe in our company, Minister Vash," Briony told the old man. "And so are all who travel with you."

The paramount minister pressed his hands together and bowed to her again. "Your Highness is too kind. Before we begin our formal discussion, may I take this moment to extend my deepest sorrows on the death of your father? I came to know him well in the last months-almost we were friends, I would say ..."

"Friends?" Briony's voice had lost its smooth strength. "Your master killed my father, Minister Vash. Is this not hypocritical, to feign sorrow?"

"It is not feigned, Highness," he said with the ease of a veteran courtier. "And it is about my late . . . master that we wish to speak."

"We?"

"My present monarch . . . and myself. But I must beg your indulgence. Autarch Prusus has certain frailties that make it difficult for him to speak clearly. We hope you will indulge us and let me a.s.sist him."

"How do we know you will not simply say what you wish-that you are not the true ruler of Xis now?" demanded Eneas.

"Oh, my master can speak your tongue," the old man a.s.sured him. "He is a scholar. But it is difficult for him." At this, Vash turned and clapped his hands. The litter was carried forward and set down in front of the pavilion. When the curtains were drawn back even Briony had a difficult time hiding her surprise.

The new autarch was a simpleton, or so it appeared, his head lolling, a sheen of drool on his chin. Even his legs and arms seemed unwilling to be led by such a creature and seemed to be struggling clumsily to remove themselves from his trunk.

"Forgive me, but what is this?" demanded Prince Eneas. "Is this a jest or a trick, Xixian?"

"Please, Highness," Briony said. "Do not be hasty. Autarch Prusus, do you understand me?"

The man in the litter nodded, a complicated affair of wags and hitches.

"And do you truly speak our tongue?"

The autarch made a long series of stammering noises. Vansen actually heard a word he understood. " . . . Dignity Dignity."

"He says he does, and he apologizes," Vash said. "The Golden One says the G.o.ds gave him more wit than dignity."

Briony smiled a hard smile. "Then he would be an ill fit in most courts, where it is generally the other way around-but come into our tent and we will speak. There is no forgiveness in my heart for Xis, but I want no more fighting if it can be avoided."

"Please, Princess Briony," said ancient Vash, "it was your father's own scheme that brought Prusus and I together-he alone saw through the scotarch's outer seeming and made me aware as well. That is why at the last I found a few sympathetic men to help me carry the scotarch and we escaped. That is why we did not die in the caverns beneath your castle. It was your father's cleverness that saved us."

"Do not think to flatter me with what my father did while he struggled for his life-a life your master eventually took from him." Vansen could see that Briony was fighting to stay calm. He longed more than anything to be able to put his hand upon her, to let her know she was not alone-but of course he couldn't. "From what I have been told about your people, it is scarcely worth our while to negotiate. As soon as you return to Xis, this man ..." she gestured to the new autarch, who was being helped to drink watered wine by a servant, "will be replaced by another member of your mad royal family. So why should I not simply leave you all to make your way across Eion by land and let things fall out as they will?" Her smile this time was even harder. "I do not think you would have a happy time leading your survivors through Syan and Hierosol."

Vash nodded, but it was plain he too was nettled. "Yes, and more innocents would be killed. I do not speak of our soldiers here, Highness. We invaded you . . . or rather, the previous autarch forced us to invade. And ordinarily you would be correct-Prusus would have only a short time to rule before a successor was chosen. But he and I think we have a better plan. There is an old law among our people that the scotarch will rule until a successor has been chosen. However, if the autarch is not dead but simply gone, the successor cannot be chosen until five years have pa.s.sed." Vash smiled. For all his age he had the confident smile of a younger man. "We will be able to do much in five years, I think, to change that which we like least about our country. For one, if you let us take pa.s.sage from here, we will withdraw our army from Hierosol as well."

"Truly?" said Eneas. His skepticism was plain. "Why should you do that?"

Prusus abruptly spoke up. Vansen could make out an occasional word now, but much of it still sounded like animal noises.

"He says, 'Because conquest is expensive, and maintaining it is more so,'" the old man explained. "Xis has overstretched its boundaries and resources. We have enough to do taking care of our empire in Xand. All of the adventuring here in the north was the obsession of Sulepis, all bent toward what he thought to do here, in Southmarch." Vash bowed. "But Prusus says that he, who is scarcely a man, has no illusions that he is fit to be a G.o.d. He thinks he can be a goodly autarch, however, for as long as the G.o.ds give him to rule."

"You promise this?" Briony said, looking not at Vash now but at Prusus. "If we let you and your men take ship-and you Xixians will pay for those ships and pay for everything that goes upon them-then you promise you will withdraw your armies from the rest of Eion?"

Prusus' head wagged several times before he could get out the words. They were hard to understand, but not impossible.

"Yiy ... I ... do. I ... puh ... rah ... misss."

"You and Minister Vash may return to your camp in the hills. My counselors, Prince Eneas, and I must talk together."

"I am disposed to trust them, not because I believe everything they say-Vash, it is clear to me, is a man who has long acquaintance with the manipulation of truth-but because I see no choice." In the privacy of the tent she had taken off her headpiece. A sheen of sweat flecked her brow. Vansen realized he was staring.

"I do not like it, Briony," said Prince Eneas. "Don't do it. I think it is a mistake."

She gave him enough of a nettled look to make Ferras Vansen happier than he had been in hours. "I'm grateful for your advice, Eneas, but please remember, this is Southmarch soil, and although I will never be able to repay all you have done for me and my people, I am still the mistress here, even if I have not yet been crowned."