Restoration (Rai Kirah) by Carol Berg Page A

so often sours into vengeance. I wished he had not done it, and he knew it without my saying so.
    “It’s likely the only battle we’ll win this day. Pitiful, eh?”
    “The gods will have their say in that, my lord.”
    “Did you know that the last time it rained in Zhagad was the day of my birth?” Aleksander swung around, gazing bleakly into my eyes, seeking answers I could not give him. “My father said that to my uncle once, on a day when I was showing off my sword work for my father and accidentally killed my sparring partner. They’d had me stripped naked and beaten in front of them for my poor control. I heard Dmitri answer him, ‘I think the gods were weeping for the Empire on that day. Tell me, brother, do you think they were tears of grief or tears of joy?’ ”
    “And what did your father answer?”
    Aleksander turned his back to the window, leaving his face in shadow. “I was fifteen and angry. I didn’t listen to his answer.”

CHAPTER 6
    The battle was lost before it was begun. By the time Aleksander approached the Hamrasch stronghold, a massive fortress set atop a rocky bluff an hour’s ride from Zhagad, he had no more than three hundred fifty warriors, half of them the despised Thrid mercenaries. Some of the promised heged levies never appeared. Some melted away in the noonday heat—groups of five or ten, riding west or east instead of south toward the confrontation. Some laggards complained of tired horses or lack of water or insufficient time to prepare, and returned to Zhagad as soon as the main body of the troop moved on. Fortunately it was still spring, else the desert would have taken its own toll upon the rest.
    Aleksander had not come to lay siege to the fortress. He stopped well before the gates and sent his challenge to the heged lords, naming them guilty for the crime of regicide, offering no terms but death in combat or execution. To accept his challenge meant that only the warriors of the heged would fight and die—a mercy he was willing to offer because of the untimely death of their beloved daughter Nyamot. To refuse the Prince’s challenge was to admit Hamrasch guilt in the Emperor’s murder, leaving every member of the heged liable to his judgment—forfeiture of all property, execution or enslavement of every man, woman, and child. It was a prideful challenge for one whose army was outnumbered five to one.
    The messenger returned with a bundle of nyamot, tied with a red ribbon. The Prince wheeled his mount and returned to confer with his commanders and to wait patiently in the blazing sun for the sortie from the fortress.
     
    I did not ride with Aleksander. We had walked together from his apartments down to the bustling yards where the palace garrison was preparing to ride out, and he had pointed to a burly Manganar who was commanding a legion of scurrying armorers. “Fredovar can give you a sword. I’ll tell him to find one that pleases you. And you can have your pick of horses. Whatever nag you’re riding, I doubt it’s good enough for this.”
    “My lord.” I stopped on the last step, forcing the Prince to turn back to hear me. “I’ve been trying to tell you. I cannot go with you today. Anything else ...” I suspected what was going to happen with the levied troops, and he did, and I knew he would see my refusal as but the first betrayal of the day.
    Aleksander’s face burned scarlet. He had humbled himself to ask for my help, but hadn’t bothered to listen to my reply. “Ah yes. I forgot. Ezzarian Wardens fight no one but demons ... and you don’t even do that anymore. I misunderstood your offer.” The Prince strode toward a groom who was holding his prized horse, Musa.
    I could not let Aleksander go into battle believing I had deserted him. “My lord, please listen. I will be there.” Just not at his side.
    The Prince did not slow down or even turn his head. “You can write the story of it then.”
    Aleksander gave me no time to tell him of my