“And she loved life!” she flung at him wildly, “And died because of you and Carolin – ah, I hate you all, all you men and kings and your damned wars, none of them are worth a feather in her wing-tip-” and she dropped her head in her hands and broke into passionate crying.
Ruyven’s head was still flung back, his face glazed with intent effort; he sat unmoving until a dark form dropped from the clouds, sank down to his gloved hand.
‘Temperance,” Romilly whispered, with relief, “but where is Prudence-”
As if in answer from the clouds came a shrilling cry, answered by another; two dark forms burst through the layers of mist and rain, locked together, falling joined in battle; feathers fell, and the screaming and shrilling died. A small dark limp body dropped at their horses’ feet; another sped away, screaming in triumph.
“Don’t look! Ranald, hold her-” Ruyven began, but Romilly was off her horse, crying wildly, catching up the small blood-spattered form of Prudence, still limp and warm with recently-departed life. She clutched it against her breast, her face wet and furious. “Prudence! Ah, Prudence, love, not you too-” she cried, and the bird’s blood smeared her hands and her tunic. Ranald dismounted, came and gently took it from her.
“No use, Romilly; she is dead,” he said quietly, and his arms caught her to bun. “Poor little love, don’t cry. It can’t be helped; that is war.”
And that is supposed to be the excuse for all! Romilly felt fury surging within her. They play with the lives of the wild things and hold themselves harmless, saying it is war … I question not their right to kill themselves and one another, but what does an innocent bird know or care of one king over another?
Ruyven was gentling Temperance on his fist, sliding the hood over her restless head. He said, “Romilly, try to be calm, there is work to do. Ranald – you saw-”
“Aye, I saw,” Ranald said shortly, “Somewhere in Rakhal’s train there is clingfire and I know not where he means to use it, but Carolin must know at once! Time may be short, unless we want to burn beneath the stuff, and I for one want none used against me, or any of the lands hereabout.”
“Nor I. I saw what clingfire can do, in Tramontana,” said Ruyven, “Though not in war. Carolin has pledged he will not use it against folk who must live in his lands. But if it is used against us, I know not how he can fight it.”
Romilly, still standing silent, demanded, “What is clingfire?”
“The very breath of Zandru’s forges,” said Ranald, “Fire flung which burns and keeps on burning as long as there is anything to feed it, through skin and bone and into the very stone… fire made by wizardry and laran.”
I doubt it not. Folk who would kill an innocent bird for some king’s claim, why should they stop at killing people too?
“You must come with us.” Ranald gently urged her into her saddle. “Carolin must know of this and he will need all of his leronyn – Maura has sworn not to fight against Rakhal, but I do not think she will hesitate to stop the use of clingfire against her own people, no matter what she may still feel for Rakhal!”
But Romilly rode blind, tears still streaming from her eyes. She knew nor wished to know nothing of the weapons these men and their kings and their leroni used. Dimly she knew that Ranald rode away from her, but she reached out blindly for contact with Sunstar, feeling, in the reassuring strength of the great stallion, an endless warmth and closeness. He was in her and she was in him, and drawn into the present, with neither memory nor anticipation, without imagination or emotion save for the immediate stimuli; green grass, the road under foot, the weight of Carolin, already beloved, in the saddle. She rode unseeing because the best part of her was with Sunstar, loss and grief wiped out in the unending present-moment of timelessness.
At last, comforted somewhat, she came out of the submersion in the horse’s world, half aware that somewhere they spoke of her.