Free The New World by Michael A. Stackpole Page A

glanced off into the distance. “I think I stopped a small flood from killing two children.”
    “By digging your hand into the coals?” She reached out and took his hand into hers. She brushed away the ashes. “Are you hurt?”
    He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt at all.”
    “You have to be careful.”
    “I’ll try.” He exhaled and weariness pounded him. “I don’t know if I imagined things or . . . ”
    “It doesn’t matter.” She kissed his palm gently, then released his hand. “No harm done.”
    A day later, as they followed the trace of the flooded stream, they came across the ruined bridge. They forded there, and following Keles’ instruction, found the house where the children lived. Their father happily guided the refugees to a nearby village, and from there riders were sent to a larger town to summon help.
    The refugees nearly outnumbered the villagers, but they did not seem concerned. They immediately put Princess Jasai up in the Headman’s home and began preparations for a celebration. The refugees were divided up into small groups to be housed in the village, where they chopped wood, hauled water, and otherwise traded sweat for hospitality.
    Yet as much as the villagers revered Princess Jasai, they stood in awe of her aunt. The Keru were legendary for their courage, and since they served Prince Cyron of Nalenyr, they’d not often been seen far from the court at Moriande. Tyressa constantly had a gaggle of young girls following her, spying on her from behind buildings or beneath wagons. Tyressa bore her semidivine status with good humor and even devoted an hour to drilling the girls in the fine art of marching.
    All was proceeding well, with food being prepared and tables gathered in the village square, when one of the riders returned from the trek to town. He reported that authorities would arrive in a day or two to help the refugees. He also reported that Prince Eiran had been slain.
    The news of her brother’s death crushed Jasai. Keles found her hugging a homespun blanket around herself, weeping quietly. What had been planned as a raucous celebration became a muted memorial.
    Keles sat with her, holding her hands while she told him about her brother. “I was so angry with him. He hadn’t the courage to stand up to Prince Pyrust. He let Pyrust take me away—and what made it worse was the look in his eyes. He wanted to act, but he couldn’t. He was too afraid, too unsure. In that one moment, he realized he’d been used by the Council of Ministers and, because of that, I had been put in jeopardy.”
    She sniffed. “I’d vowed I’d never forgive him but . . . ” She shrugged and Keles brushed a tear from her cheek. “In recent months, I had softened my stance. I wanted my child to have an uncle. Pyrust had killed his brother, so Eiran was my only choice.”
    Keles smiled weakly, happy his face was hidden in shadow. “I’d be happy to stand in as an uncle. My brother, too, I’m sure.”
    She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand. “Thank you. Please do me a favor?”
    “Anything.”
    “Stay here this evening. Just . . . sitting here. I don’t want to be alone.”
    “Of course, as you desire, Princess.”
    Help from the outside came faster than predicted. By the next noon a local militia battalion arrived. A few had arms and armor, but most had flails, pitchforks, and other tools. They asked the refugees to lay down their arms, and seeing the wisdom of that request, Jasai gave the order. What tension had been in the air evaporated, and the village again began preparations for a celebration.
    By midafternoon, a tall, well-muscled man in ministry robes wearing a sword rode up on a well-lathered horse. He dismounted and spoke to the militia’s leader. The captain gave orders and his men began to form up. The minister then approached Princess Jasai and bowed to her—but not too deeply and for none too long.
    Jasai regarded