were responsible for Rohan’s capture; thus the medallion left where someone would surely find it. Beliaev grinned at the thought of Lord Chaynal riding north at the head of the Desert armies to the plains outside Tiglath—right past Feruche where Rohan would be kept until Ianthe had done whatever it was she planned to do to him. For his own part, Beliaev would just as soon have carved the prince up into interesting shapes to be sent back to his Sunrunner witch of a wife, but Ianthe had forbidden it. She had assured him that the eventual outcome would be much more satisfying, and there had been a feral glow in her eyes that made doubt impossible.
Not that he trusted her, he mused as he leaned slightly back in his saddle, trying to ease the ache in his back. Lord Farid had gotten in a powerful kick while still on horseback, and it had been a real pleasure to shove his sword into the old man’s side. There were bruises elsewhere, too, that riding did nothing to soothe. Thirty more measures to Feruche, and then he would bask in the attentions of the princess’ women while Rohan was given over to Ianthe. Beliaev trusted her not at all, but any change in plan would not profit him at this time. Possibilities teased him about her plans for the prince, but ended in a shrug. She could keep Rohan for a pet or throw him from the cliffs for all Beliaev cared.
He stretched, unable to spare a hand from reins or lead rope to rub his spine, and thought about the speediest way to get word to his brothers in the north that preparations would have to be hastened. The attack on Tiglath—bold stroke, that—would have to begin earlier than planned. Ianthe and Roelstra had warned against it, but there would never be a better time for the obliteration of the city. The High Prince, in collusion with young Prince Jastri of Syr, would soon be conducting military maneuvers on the Syrene side of the Faolain River. It was Roelstra’s plan to use these armies to annihilate in one swift battle all the troops the Desert could muster. Thus he had ordered the Merida to make no move against Tiglath which would compel Lord Chaynal to split his forces to north and south. But Tiglath lay there ripe and waiting, and if the High Prince thought the Merida would pass up this chance, he was very much mistaken. If the horse-thieving Lord of Radzyn’s army divided to defend Tiglath as well as the Faolain border, too bad for Roelstra. Actually, Beliaev told himself, he’d be doing Roelstra a favor by taking care of half the Desert for him. And, too, with Tiglath in Merida hands, Roelstra would have no way to renege on his promise that the northern Desert would return to its rightful owners. Beliaev did not trust the High Prince, either.
He glanced down as Rohan’s fair head moved and a strangled groan escaped his throat. Sliding his foot from the stirrup, he delivered a careful kick just above Rohan’s ear. No further damage could be risked for fear of Ianthe’s wrath. The prince subsided back into senselessness. Feeble moonlight shone off the bloodstain on his shoulder, and Beliaev smiled. Rotten timing or no, he had Rohan secure and would deliver him as promised. By winter the Merida would rule from Stronghold once more.
This happy thought sustained him through the next few measures of winding mountain tails. At last the sun began to finger tentatively at the eastern sky, and Beliaev picked up the pace a little. He cursed the necessity of swinging wide around the Desert garrison below Feruche, for the back route added another ten measures to an already interminable journey. But it would all be for nothing if Rohan’s men spotted this strange party riding into Feruche.
The sun was summer-hot overhead all day, and by dusk was still brutal. At long last Beliaev led the group through the narrow back pass. Startled guards at lonely posts called down challenges he answered with a snarl. The castle spires rose beyond the rocks, tantalizing him for a full three measures before he finally reached the gates. Inside the courtyard he swung down off his horse, aching in every muscle, and seized the waterskin off the first servant who approached. After emptying it down his throat, he heaved a vast sigh and turned as Ianthe called imperiously from the staircase.