The Burning Stone
Waves slap the side of the ship as they emerge from the sheltered fjord into the wind-chopped sound. Islands lie everywhere around them, some of them merely slabs of rock, some gently-rounded curves and green slopes. Goats scramble up from the beach, startled by their silent approach. The sky lies clear above, absolutely blue; the distance bleeds to a whitish haze as if the horizon is fading into the light. Sunlight glitters on the waves together with the scalloping ripples of the wind.
The sails go up, and wind fills their bellies. His standards flutter at the stem of each ship, a crest on the dragon-head which blazes their path through the seas.
Let others rest. Let others believe that Rikin will fester in disorder, hopelessly weakened by the collapse of Bloodheart’s hegemony. Any of his brothers, had they won, would have wasted their chance in a frenzy of bloodletting and useless petty revenges.
He stands at the stern, shading his eyes against the sun, and counts his ships. Out of what remained to him, he mustered fourteen. In their wake, other movements eddy. A slick back surfaces, and dives.
* * *
The rose, seen everywhere in this ancient ruin, was drawn in the stylized manner the Dariyans had used: seven rounded petals around a circular center. He pulled on the thong around his neck and pulled out the pouch, opened it. Although he reached in carefully, he still pricked his finger on a sharp thorn as he freed the rose from its leather hiding place and drew it out so he could look at it. It gleamed, and the blood welling up on his thumb was no darker than its petals.
The shadows passed. It was only Rage, looming over him to lick his face. He spluttered, sat back as he wiped saliva from his face, and looked around. Long shadows drew the print of ruined walls far across the clearing. Everyone else had left. He had no idea how long he had knelt here alone. He put the rose back in the pouch.
When he stood, two servants ventured cautiously forward, keeping well away from Sorrow and Rage. “My lord Alain, the count told us to escort you back.”
He nodded, still dizzy. They brought the horses, and he had to shake cobwebs out of his mind before he could remember how to mount. Where had Tallia gone? Had she just deserted him? Anger still burned, dull but nagging. Why did she have to be so stubborn? Why couldn’t she just love him?
No. There was no other way but to coax her to do what was right, to change her mind. But that task was proving far harder than he had ever imagined it could be.
He and the servingmen reached Lavas Holding at sunset, and as they passed through the gates a lone rider came up behind them.