that?'
Vindax pulled a face. 'Never! I know what she'd do. She'd marry me fast as a stooping eagle--and then refuse to consummate the affair on grounds of consanguinity.'
Shadow thought that seemed likely. 'Let Jarkadon have her, then?'
Vindax did not seem to notice the lack of tact. 'Why not? She had the gall today to ask me what color his hair is.'
Shadow decided to change the subject. 'Let me warn you of something, Prince? When you tell a lie, your right ear twitches.'
'Oh, great!' Vindax said, scowling. 'Try not to stare at it, will you?' Then he smiled. 'Thanks. I appreciate knowing that. But I haven't been twitching too much today, have I?'
'You told Elosa she looked charming in that outrageous dress,' Shadow said. 'No, there's something else. When you asked the duke if he had ever met Karaman, he said no. But his ear twitched.'
'Yes,' Vindax said quite soberly. 'I think His Grace has been twitching the truth quite a lot lately.'
The hunt was to be restricted to a small party: the prince and the countess, the duke and Shadow, and four troopers as escort. When they assembled after breakfast, however, Lady Elosa was already supervising the dressings of Icefire. The duke frowned but did not intervene. Shadow almost exerted his unlimited authority to order her away, but relations were strained enough without making a scene over a badly spoiled brat.
Shadow dressed WindStriker himself, checking every scrap of harness twice. True, the story of a plot seemed to have been unfounded, but few things were easier to arrange than a hunting accident. NailBiter was sulking, not wanting to interrupt his dalliance with IceFire--they preened each other and nibbled combs by the hour, a parody of honeymooners.
Standing in the high aerie, overlooking the drab and pinkish countryside, the duke pointed out the local thermals and upturns, warned of downdrafts, and suggested a route to the higher, sun-bright locales with a good chance for goats, the most sporting of quarry.
Or perhaps, he suggested, the prince would like to try some archery against game birds, leaving the goats for later.
'No!' Shadow said firmly. The troopers must be armed, but he would not have unnecessary arrows flying around his ward.
The duke frowned in astonishment at such insolence; the prince merely smiled and agreed.
They mounted. The troopers launched and took up station. They were followed by the hunters: the duke, the countess, Shadow, the prince, and finally Elosa.
Shadow soared over the town, sparing a passing thought for the frozen poor in this bleak place, then turned into the updraft and began circling, watching as the prince settled in below him, as always. Upward they floated, and then he thought he heard a shout--and saw to his astonishment that Vindax was breaking out of the thermal, as though heading back.
Then WindStriker seemed to balk, beating her wings furiously, and in a moment had taken Shadow's air. What the hell was His Royal Crazy Highness up to?
Reluctantly he urged NailBiter upward, knowing that powered flight would soon exhaust the mounts. Still he could not reach the prince--indeed the gap was widening. An old relic like WindStriker outclimbing NailBiter? Then he knew.
WindStriker swayed and veered above him, and momentarily he had a clear view. Her blinkers were shut, and the prince's face was white below his goggles. He shouted, and Shadow heard the word he expected: 'Bat.'
A single mutebat would send an eagle into an hour or more of ecstatic intoxication, hunched down on its perch with its eyes closed, drooling and quivering, its comb blue and rigid. But batmeat took time to act--get a bird into the air before the effects appeared and it was a flying maniac. The drug produced visual hallucinations, so that blinkers had no effect, and the bird would fly where and how it liked, soaring in downdrafts, beating its wings, turning upside down. It was capable of flying straight into the ground. It was also capable of heading to heights or depths where human lungs could no longer cope--and Ninar Foan was already very high for men.
The castle aerie had been cleaned of mutebats; Shadow had noted that with approval. This was human doing--treachery--and there was no recourse. He could only try to follow and hope. WindStriker was old, and NailBiter young and unusually powerful, but NailBiter could not match the frenzy of a batted bird.
Even if he could approach, there would be nothing he could do. No bird could carry two men; there was no way to move the prince to Shadow's mount and no way to exchange mounts. The only help he could offer was to keep in view--and watch Vindax die.
WindStriker locked herself into a soaring mode and rode the thermal, higher and higher and higher. Shadow followed with his lungs heaving, his ears popping constantly, his nose starting to bleed. He was gradually closing, for NailBiter had the greater wingspread, but dark spots began to flow in front of his eyes.
He remembered what a guard was taught to do in the prince's predicament: 'Tie your reins, close your eyes, and pray loudly.'
The thermal was dying cut. Its curve had carded them over darkness, the lower slopes of the Rand, the mountains and chasms below showing only as wrinkled, indistinct patterns of shade. It would be deathly cold down there, where sunlight never shone.
Then the prince vanished into the cloudcap. Shadow felt his senses slipping and knew that he could do no more. Choking for air, he put NailBiter into a dive.
Vindax was gone.
Chapter 7
'Where there's shadow, there's light.'
THE castle commons was a vast, dim hall with a barrel ceiling darkened by the smoke of centuries. The tables were of stone, for lumber had never been plentiful near Ninar Foan, but the great ovens and hearths kept the place warm, and the smell of food made it cheerful. Shadow shuffled in across the worn stone flags. He collected a giant tankard of steaming coffee, a large black roll, and a bowl of stew, without looking to see who gave them to him. Then he limped to a convenient stool.
He gulped the coffee, burning his mouth and throat and feeling the lip of the tankard rasp on his unshaven face. His face, raw from the constant wind, burned also, and his eyes were so loaded with fatigue that he could hardly focus. His head throbbed like a drum. All around the room there were others in the same plight, humped by the tables, many being anxiously tended by wives or daughters and some already asleep, head and arms spread out among the dishes.
He laid down the tankard and blearily regarded the stew bowl. He ought to eat, he told himself firmly, but his gut rebelled at the thought.
He had never been so tired in his life.
A cool hand ran its fingers through his tangled hair, slid down the side of his face, and came to rest in the neck of his flying suit. He looked up with a sad smile and leaned his head back against softness.
'Anything I can do?' asked Feysa, one of the royal party.
He shook his head. 'It will be a long time before I can call on you,' he said. 'But thanks for a kind thought.'
'You are going to get some sleep, though, aren't you?'
'One more patrol,' he said.
