Throne of Dragons

For a moment, Lenore hung there, tumbling down, plunging toward the water as if she might dive into it headfirst. She held her breath automatically, even though she knew there was no way to swim clear of the torrent, no way to survive what was to come…

Then a hand caught hold of her ankle, grip as unyielding as steel, arresting her fall.

“No you don’t, girl,” Eoris’s voice said. Lenore kicked at his grip, trying to break free, but there was no give to him, no chance even to escape into death. More hands caught hold of her, and Syrelle’s voice joined his.

“You think you get to leave us that easily? Let’s get you back up.”

Lenore struggled, but it didn’t make any difference. They dragged her up, pulling her back over the railing of the bridge, depositing her on its boards the way they might have a sack. They hauled Lenore to her feet, and Syrelle stood there a moment before bringing her hand round in a stinging slap.

“Every time you try to break free, we will bring you back,” she said. “You will not be allowed to die, and you will be hurt each time you try. Do you understand?”

Through her tears, Lenore managed to nod.

They threw her over another horse, this time flung across the saddle rather than allowed to sit. Lenore couldn’t even get down now, with no chance to try to throw herself into the water once more.

When she couldn’t even die, what was there left? Lenore lay there and sobbed, knowing that she had no more choices, no more chances. She stared at the far bank and wondered if King Ravin was somewhere nearby, or if he would be waiting further back, ready for her to be dragged before him.

Lenore looked back toward the northern bank, thinking of home, thinking of all that she was about to lose. That was why she saw the band of soldiers charging down on horseback, weapons and armor shining in the sunlight.

In that moment, she saw one thing she had never thought that she would see: she saw Vars there at the head of the wedge of men, looking like an avenging angel as he led the charge forward. There, like that, he was every inch the noble knight, riding to the rescue, ready to fight for the safety of his half-sister and bring her back safely to the waiting arms of her family. It was the kind of thing that Lenore associated more with Rodry than with him, but even Vars’s presence was enough to make hope well up inside her.

He would come, and he would save her, and…

…and he was stopping, slowing his charge, bringing his knights to a halt. No, he couldn’t be doing that. He couldn’t just be standing there while the Quiet Men carried her away to a fate worse than death. No brother would do that, would they, even Vars?

Yet he was doing it, stopping short in the face of the enemies across the river. He was doing what Vars always did, backing away in the face of danger, and that meant…

…that meant that he wouldn’t interfere. They would drag Lenore away to King Ravin, and Vars would do nothing about it.

“No,” she sobbed. “No!”

CHAPTER NINE

Vars burst out into the space before the bridge, feeling the ecstasy that came from a whole unit of men charging in his wake, ready to follow his commands. He knew that, at a single order from him, they would fall on any enemy he chose and kill them without hesitation. That was power; and in that moment he thought he understood why Rodry enjoyed his knightly games so much.

Then he saw the bridge ahead, and the party already crossing it. Vars thought he could see Lenore there, making out his half-sister’s presence on one of the horses there. For a moment, he thought that he saw her looking back at him in hope, maybe even expectation…

The problem was that, even as Vars watched, they reached the far side of the bridge.

“Hold!” Vars commanded, and the men around him did as he ordered, even though it was obvious that they didn’t understand why. They milled about, lined up ready to charge, clearly eager to do it.

“Your highness,” the sergeant said. “They’re getting away. We need to—”

“I decide what we need to do,” Vars snapped, hating himself even as he said it. The truth was that a part of him longed to charge down there as much as any of the soldiers did. He wanted to be the one to save his sister, wanted to see his father’s gratitude at his bravery.

The problem was that he couldn’t.

Vars couldn’t bring himself to heel his horse forward, couldn’t bring himself to force it over that bridge, couldn’t set foot in the south like that. Here… here he was safe, but there… there could be soldiers waiting in the trees beyond, could be a whole army hidden just south of the river. To charge to the south was to invite disaster, to expose himself to dangers that seemed to swirl, impossible to know, in the back of his mind.

In a realm that was under his family’s control, Vars felt as though he could do anything. Did do anything, safe in the knowledge that nobody could touch him. There, though, past the bridge, there was nothing to protect him beyond the strength of his arm and the loyalty of his men. Just the thought of that made Vars feel sick with worry.

“Your highness…” the sergeant began again, but Vars cut him off.

“Be silent! Do you want to start a war? If we cross that bridge, that’s what it means: a war! And I… I am the second in line to the throne. What if they’re crossing in full view of us to lure me across? What if this is some kind of trap?”

It was an excuse rather than a reason, and Vars knew even as he said it that he hadn’t convinced his men. He could see their looks of disapproval, so similar to those he faced back in Royalsport whenever he wouldn’t hunt or fight. Someone would pay for those looks, but not now, not now…

At least they could do nothing about it. None of the men dared to disobey Vars, which meant that none of them could show him up. None of them could show his fear for what it was. All of them had to sit there, watching while the small group of enemies passed over the bridge, into the Southern Kingdom and down along the road.

They were just on the edge of sight when the unthinkable happened: a second set of horsemen approached from the north. Even then, it might have been all right; Vars might still have remained in control of the situation, except for one stupid, hateful thing…

Rodry was at their head.

***

Rodry charged, pushing his horse as hard as he could, only holding back at all because if he killed it before he caught up to his sister, he would find himself walking after her to save her. Beside him, his friends pushed their own horses, looking every inch the knights they sought to be, hair streaming in the wind, weapons shining in the sun.

Ahead, he saw a bridge to the south, saw the dot of the group beyond it just disappearing into the landscape beyond. Rodry breathed a sigh of relief at that, because it meant that he’d guessed right about the route they would have to take. If they’d taken one of the smaller crossings, he might never have found his sister, but the sight of her there was enough to spur him on to greater efforts.

Then Rodry saw Vars, saw him standing there with a whole troop of men, simply watching their sister be carried away. Anger burned in him at that, and that anger was enough that he didn’t just ride past Vars in contempt. He rode to him instead, stopping and gesturing over the bridge.

“What are you doing?” Rodry demanded. “Why aren’t you riding after Lenore?”

“If we cross the bridge, it’s war,” Vars replied, but Rodry could hear the tremor in his voice, guess the real reason for his reticence.

“It’s already war!” Rodry roared back at him. “And where were you when our sister was being captured?”

“I was… we took a wrong turn on the road.”

Rodry stared at him, unable to believe it. He didn’t believe it; Vars was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He could read a map, find his way. If he hadn’t caught up with Lenore, it was because he hadn’t wanted to.

“What was it?” Rodry demanded. “Did you get distracted by all the inns on the way, or did you just not think that our sister was worth your time to protect? Or were you too scared to play the part of a guard? That was it, wasn’t it, Vars? Cowardice, the same as always.”

“I’m no coward,” Vars insisted.

“Then prove it!” Rodry shouted back at him. “Charge over that bridge and get our sister back.”

“I…” Vars hesitated, and that was all that Rodry needed to know.

“Coward,” Rodry said. “Sitting here, trying to save your own skin.”

“I’m second in line to the throne!” Vars insisted. “You think I should risk myself for a sister who will never be—”

Rodry hit him then, hard enough to knock Vars sprawling from his saddle. His brother came up, hand going to the hilt of his sword, but one look at Rodry’s expression had him stepping back, then scrambling away.

Rodry looked back across the bridge. His sister and her captors were out of sight now; even in this Vars had found a way to make things more difficult. He had no way of knowing which way they would have taken her, where they might be. Even so, he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

“We need to ride,” he said to the others. “But I’ve no idea where.”