Dust of Dreams

‘Who?’
    ‘Sergeant Trope, Highness, in Yedan’s company. Please, crawl no further, thewitches—there’re wards, all round, Highness. All round you. A moment, the witches are on their way.’
    ‘Help me up. Where’s my brother?’
    ‘He rode out, Highness. Some time ago. Before the fourth sun rose—and now we’re burning alive—’
    She took his proffered arm and pulled herself on to her feet. ‘Not suns, Sergeant.
Attacks
.’
    He was a scarred man, face bludgeoned by decades of hard living. ‘Highness?’
    ‘We are under attack—we need to leave here. We need to leave now!’
    ‘O Queen!’ Pully was dancing her way closer, evading the scored lines of the wards encircling the tent. ‘He’s coming back! Witchslayer! We must ready ourselves—drip drip drip some blood, Highness. We brought ya back, me an Skwish an we did. Leave off her, you oaf, let ’er stand!’
    But Yan Tovis held on to the sergeant’s wrist—solid as a rooted tree, and she needed that. She glared at Pully. ‘Drank deep, I see.’
    The witch flinched. ‘Careless, an us all, Queen. But see, the Watch comes—with spare horses, white horses!’
    Yan Tovis said to Trope, ‘Guide me out of these wards, Sergeant.’
And get this pretty witch out of my face.
    She could hear the horses drawing closer, and, from the road, the suffering of thousands of people swept over her in an inundating tide—she almost gagged beneath that deluge.
    ‘Clear, Highness—’
    She straightened. A fifth sun was flaring to life on the horizon. The iron fastenings of Trope’s armour were searing hot and she winced at their touch, but still would not let go of his arm. She felt her skin tightening—
We’re being roasted alive.
    Her brother, one arm bound in blood-soaked rags, reined in at the side of the road. Yan Tovis stared at the trailing horses. Liosan horses, yes. That clutch of lances, the sheathed long-knives and cluster of helms. Liosan.
    Skwish and Pully were suddenly there, on the very edge of the road. Pully cackled a laugh.
    Yan Tovis studied her brother’s face. ‘How soon?’ she asked.
    She watched his bearded jaw bunch as he chewed on his answer, before squinting and saying, ‘We have time, Queen.’
    ‘Good,’ she snapped. ‘Witches, attend to me. We begin—not in haste, but we begin.’
    Two young women, scampering and bobbing their heads like the hags they once were. New ambitions, yes, but old, old fears.
    Yan Tovis met Yedan’s eyes once more, and saw that he knew. And was prepared.
Witchslayer, mayhap you’re not done with that, before this is all over.

Chapter Eleven
    In the first five years of King Tehol the Only’s reign, there were no assassination attempts, no insurrections, no conspiracies of such magnitude as to endanger the crown; no conflicts with neighbouring realms or border tribes. The kingdom was wealthy, justice prevailed, the common people found prosperity and unprecedented mobility.
    That all of this was achieved with but a handful of modest proclamations and edicts makes the situation all the more remarkable.
    Needless to say, dissatisfaction haunted Lether. Misery spread like a plague. No one was happy, the list of complaints as heard on the crowded, bustling streets grew longer with each day that passed.
    Clearly, something had to be done . . .
    L IFE OF T EHOL
J ANATH

    C
learly,’ said King Tehol, ‘there’s nothing to be done.’ he held up the Akrynnai gift and peered at it for a time, and then sighed.
    ‘No suggestions, sire?’ Bugg asked.
    ‘I’m at a loss. I give up. I keep trying, but I must admit: it’s hopeless. Darling wife?’
    ‘Don’t ask me.’
    ‘Some help you are. Where’s Brys?’
    ‘With his legions, husband. Preparing to march.’
    ‘The man’s priorities are a mess. I remember how our mother despaired.’
    ‘Of Brys?’ Janath asked, surprised.
    ‘Well, no. Me, mostly. Never mind. The issue here is that we’re facing a disaster. One that could scar this nation for generations to come. I need help, and see how none of you here can manage a single useful suggestion. My advisors are even more pathetic than the man they purport to advise. The situation is intolerable.’ He paused, and then frowned over at Bugg. ‘What’s the protocol? Find me that diplomat so I can chase him out of here again—no, wait, send for the emissary.’
    ‘Are you sure, sire?’
    ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
    Bugg gestured at the gift in the King’s hands. ‘Because we’re