King of Swords (The Starfolk) (14 page)

Another landed just ahead, at the base of the swan’s neck. The swan twisted her head around and got that one.

“My lady, we are doomed!” the swanherd wailed. “Starborn Muphrid cannot possibly recall them now.”

Never slackening her barrage of fireballs, Alniyat said, “I am afraid you are right. And Izar was right, too. This cannot be Muphrid’s doing. Nor any starborn’s. A halfling must be behind it, and almost certainly Hadar.”

Izar howled in terror. Unable to reach anyone else, he snuggled up against Rigel, who perforce put an arm around him. “Who is Hadar?”

Alniyat was too busy shooting dragonflies, and a chalky-faced Albireo answered for her.

“One of Prince Vildiar’s retainers, reputed to be his chief assassin.”

“He’s a
horror!”
Izar screamed into Rigel’s chest. “He murders people.”

“But why would he try to kill us?”

“To pick Saiph off your corpse, halfling,” said a grim-faced Mira. “Or just to put it out of play so that it cannot be used against him.”

Although everyone else in the howdah seemed frantic with terror, to Rigel the action felt more like a staged melodrama, and his next speech was obvious. “Order the swan to land. I will take my chances with this Hadar.”

“We cannot land!” Albireo said. The ocean had vanished; there was nothing but jungle in all directions, and no safe landing spots for the swan.

“How long until we reach the highway?” Alniyat asked grimly.

“We cannot find the highway until we gain altitude.” Clearly the dragonflies were keeping the swan from doing exactly that.

One of the monsters landed about halfway down the swan’s neck. Even the swan wasn’t flexible enough to get at that one. Albireo couldn’t reach it with his dagger, and Alniyat couldn’t zap it without injuring the swan. The horrible thing began crawling forward, heading for Gienah’s eyes.

“Saiph!”
Rigel disentangled from Izar and moved across the howdah to kneel on the bench between Mira and the swanherd. Leaning out as far as he could, he swatted the dragonfly off in two pieces.

Two more promptly replaced it. He got one, but the other was beyond even his reach. He dismissed his sword and scrambled over the edge of the howdah, lowering himself cautiously to kneel on the swan’s neck. To his dismay, the plumage proved to be as slippery as ice, an oily, waterproof surface. Keeping a careful grip on to the howdah behind him, he was able to recall his sword and deal with the second dragonfly just before it progressed out of his reach, but clearly this location was not going to be close enough if the giant bugs landed any closer to the swan’s head.

He dismissed Saiph again, stretched out on his belly, and began to edge forward, arms and legs spread wide to give him as much balance as possible. Even getting enough of a grip with his fingers was difficult, and he was oppressed by the sight of the long drop on either side of him—there were
clouds
down there. He tried not to think of what would happen if Gienah decided that he was another dragonfly, only bigger. She could easily pick him up and spit him out.

Two more bugs landed ahead of him. He was within easy reach of the first. Bracing himself for the weight, he said,
“Saiph!”
He killed the rearmost dragonfly, and, with a few
more one-handed wriggles, managed to get the other one too. Since the swan was not taking offence, he squiggled even farther forward, to the point where her neck was narrow enough for his legs to straddle it like an oversized horse. He still couldn’t get a firm enough grip on her plumage with his left hand to risk batting the brutes right out of the air, but he was close enough to her head to defend it from direct attack.

Of course, the area behind him was completely undefended now. No sooner had he realized that than a fly landed directly on his back, claws raking against his bare skin. He didn’t dare look at it, for even his instinctive squirm of revulsion nearly sent him on a long one-way trip to the jungle. He buried his face in the swan’s musty-smelling plumage and waited as the giant insect crawled over him. Did dragonflies like all eyes or just swans’ eyes? It did not bite him, and the second it was clear of him, he killed it. Then something touched his thigh, and he knew he had another passenger to deal with.

Still they kept coming. He soon lost count. A dozen? Twenty? He was dimly aware of Alniyat still igniting the more distant flies, Izar cheering, and Albireo chanting directions or possibly comfort, to the swan.

“Hold tight, halfling,” he called. “We have reached the highway.”

Rigel spared a glance ahead and saw a strange flat wheel of white cloud, wider than a football field, slowly rotating—the top of a tornado, perhaps? The swan stopped beating her wings and began a long dive toward the center, gathering speed and leaving all the dragonflies behind at last. Soon the fuzzy edges of the mist were rising above them, blocking out the sky. It was cold and damp, even for Rigel, and he felt his ears pop. Abruptly sunlight returned and Gienah was soaring low over grassy hills, sending a huge herd of herbivores stampeding in
terror. There were no more dragonflies, and no lingering trace of clouds in the sky far above them. Everyone joined in Izar’s cheers. Even Gienah trumpeted.

Rigel banished his sword. He had won the battle, all except the hardest part, which was going to be wriggling backward along the swan’s neck wearing only a loincloth. It was unthinkable. Very gingerly he began the dangerous maneuver of turning around, ignoring his companions’ cries of alarm. The worst part came when he had turned halfway, head hanging down on one side, feet dangling on the other, and nothing to grip except slippery down. If he started to slide he was done for. If he pulled out feathers and hurt Gienah, would Albireo be able to prevent her from shaking her head and sending her rescuer tumbling a thousand meters into the grassland?

But he did get himself pointed in the right direction, and a few minutes later willing hands hauled him back into the howdah.

G
ienah flew on at an easier pace, climbing gently toward the next highway.

“Go to Dziban,” Alniyat told Albireo. “Kornephoros must hear about this attack immediately.” She was furious.

Albireo warbled something but the swan just continued beating its great slow wings. The effect was like riding a boat over a long and gentle swell.

“Dziban?” Rigel asked.

“The regent-heir’s domain. I was planning to go home to Spica, but I won’t abide people trying to murder me and my… and Izar.”

“Your son,” Izar said. “He knows.” He took up Rigel’s wrist so he could examine the writing on the bracelet. “The guys were saying that Saiph can make a man better than
four
ordinary swordsman! That’s if he’s strong and nimble. You’re ever so strong and nimble, aren’t you? Maybe you could beat
five!
If you had your back against a wall, no more than three can get at you at once.”

“There are other amulets,” his mother said.

“Not as good as Saiph, Mom! How many names?”

Rigel said, “More than a hundred, I think.”

“Doggy!”
the imp said, apparently a sign of approval. “Is the Minotaur’s name on there now?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read.”

Startled, Izar examined Rigel’s expression carefully for evidence of leg pulling, and then said,
“Schmoor!
I’ll teach you.”

“Thanks.”

“Can you sing?”

“No.”

“I can teach you that too!”

“Not now!” his mother said. “If you’re bored, why don’t you just put yourself to sleep?”

The imp shrugged, glanced out at the scenery, and surprisingly agreed. “Right. I’ll tell myself to wake me when we get to Dziban. But you behave! Remember, he’s a halfling.” He leaned his head against Rigel’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and immediately went limp.

“Is he faking?” Rigel asked Mira, who could see him better.

She was smiling, but saying nothing, playing the perfect servant. “Don’t think so. That’s the same trick you pulled in the Winnebago.”

“I swear I will strangle him,” Alniyat said through clenched teeth. “Filthy-minded little pest! Why don’t you throw him overboard, as a favor to me?”

“I could roll him up and tuck him under the bench,” Rigel said. With more room on the bench, he wouldn’t need to squeeze in so closely next to Alniyat, who didn’t appear to be enjoying the intimacy as much as he was. Had yesterday’s invitations in the Moon Garden been all a fake, or was she just putting it off until they were alone again?

“That seems a little unkind.”

Teasing was unkind too. He made more room on the bench by lifting the limp Izar onto his lap, wrapping an arm around him to keep him in place. Then he slid his other arm around Alniyat. She went rigid, and Albireo gaped in horror. Mira was intently studying the sky aft, her eyebrows set high.

Alniyat had her lips pressed tight, but she did not tell the presumptuous half-breed to take his arm away.

“That’s much better,” he said. It felt very good indeed, except that Izar weighed two tonnes. “How old is he?”

“Nineteen.”

End of conversation.

Albireo said, “He was born in the year of black butterflies. Understand, Rigel, that starfolk take about twice as long to mature as earthlings do. They have plenty of time.”

“And they never die? How does one recognize an
old
starborn?”

“You never see one. They just fade. You might say they die of boredom, because they’ve been everywhere and done everything.”

All the elves Rigel had seen so far had looked young and behaved like children or randy adolescents. “This morning a starborn was killed while trying to herd a chimera at Alrisha. Is that sort of suicidal behavior normal?”

The swanherd winced at such crudity. “I would not go so far as to call it suicidal. Daring… ostentatious…”

Gienah finished her long climb and dived into another great wheel of cloud. Rigel’s ears popped again. The swan emerged in salty wet mist, with breakers and rocks not far below. It seemed as though every link required a drop of about ten thousand feet, and he suspected that going in the reverse direction would do the same, because that would make as little sense as everything else in the Starlands.

“I understand that Queen Electra rarely appears in public. How old is she?”

“I am not sure.” Albireo’s manner implied that he did not wish to comment on that in present company.

“Nineteen centuries,” Alniyat said. “Give or take a generation. Prince Kornephoros is a bit over half that; he’s starting to plan the celebration of his first millennium. She named him regent-heir about three centuries ago. Prince Vildiar is just past his five-hundredth birthday. He has no real claim to the crown except ambition and the argument that Kornephoros is too old to inherit, which is absurd.”

“And the third claimant, Princess Talitha?”

“Count Talitha is out for the best of all possible reasons—she doesn’t want the job. She insists that her reign would not last long enough to boil an egg. I don’t suppose the old darling has ever boiled an egg in her life.”

“Good for her,” Rigel said. “But Electra must have been born while the Caesars ruled in Rome. If she’s so old, why does she only have three living descendants? A human ruler of that era would have thousands by this time.”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Alniyat seemed more relaxed now. She had either decided to overlook the offending arm over her shoulder or was enjoying it. “Electra has many descendants, although starfolk do not reproduce as fast as humankind and many of us die by misadventure, as you guessed. The qualification to rule is a special talent called
Naos
. Are you aware of the grades of magic, halfling?”

“I’m not aware of anything,” Rigel said except the warm pressure of the girl tucked into the crook of his arm, the sweetness of her scent, her silken softness, and the sheer never-let-this-end pleasure of being allowed to hold her. Nothing else
mattered. Someone had come within a hair’s breadth of murdering him and all he could think about was her.

“Magic comes partly from bloodlines, and partly from hard work. It develops in adolescence, like hair and eye color, and is graded by the six colors of the rainbow. Halflings can usually reach violet, rarely blue. You can perceive the names of the starborn so you already have a trace of talent, and with some training you may be able to strengthen it. Most starborn achieve green or even yellow. One does not ask, of course. Orange is rare and red extremely so, because it requires both innate talent and centuries of study. Your amulet must have been created by a red, and it has grown stronger as it aged.”

“So does a starborn’s hair and eye color indicate his or her grade of magic?”

“Oh no, except that they develop at about the same age.”

Another silence, and this time Albireo broke it. “There is another kind of power, called Naos, which crops up unpredictably, with little regard for bloodlines. It is named after the legendary founder of the Starlands, who must have lived sixty thousand years ago, if she lived at all. The only three starfolk who presently possess Naos are—

“By the way, those lakes down there are the Ascella Lakes. They have the most superb fly-fishing in the entire realm. I have even heard people say that there is no finer fishing anywhere in the continuum than the Ascella Lakes. Have you ever tried fly-fishing, Halfling Rigel?”

“No,” Rigel said. “But I know a lure when I see one. What were you saying about Naos?”

“I don’t remember.”

This time the pause was chilly and lasted long enough to be uncomfortable. The swan flew on with its gentle rocking
motion. Just as Rigel was about to comment on the mountains coming into sight ahead, Alniyat spoke up angrily.

“The halfling was about to tell you that Naos magic, which the monarch requires to hold the realm together, confers a distinctive ‘mark of Naos.’ At present Vildiar, Talitha, and Kornephoros are the only three Naos starfolk.”

Mira had been keeping a respectful silence, as befitted a slave, but now, surprisingly, she was smirking. “And does this mark of Naos have something to do with a starborn’s hair?”