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  Simultaneously.

  Fourteen thousand men screamed in unison.

  And the sky was full of blood.

  Chapter 19

  "The last of the skymen."

  --Sir Ukarres

  IF the palace at Ramo was the most luxurious dwelling place for men in the world, then the royal breeding aeries nearby were the eagles' equivalent. Aurolron had spared no expense or trouble to build and equip and staff them. In spite of his cynicism and his lack of interest, the duke of Foan had been impressed. Even had he truly been expected to inspect, comment, and improve, he could have added nothing to what had already been done and was being done. His banishment had been for other reasons entirely, and he knew that he could do nothing but submit. Rage would be useless.

  So the duke threw the breeder out of his luxurious quarters and moved in. He ordered a large supply of good wine, hired three or four limber girls, and proceeded to spend most of his time in bed, drunk or wenching or brooding.

  On the first day he received a brief note from the marchioness: The king was very pleased with Elosa, but she was fatigued after her long journey and the doctors had suggested a few days' bed rest. The duke burned the note and called for the next girl.

  Days dragged. He had no friends at court, had not shared in the gossip, had been a pariah, his very face evidence of treason. Only loneliness had been his companion since he had left Ninar Foan, and only his surroundings had changed now. Were it not for his rank he would be in the dungeons, and at least his present quarters were better than that.

  He endured. Mostly he mulled over his own mistakes, and there seemed to have been many.

  Firstly, of course, he should have married Mayala--a passion like that comes but once in a life, and never in most. But dukes and princesses required royal permission to marry. Aurolron had refused it and summoned her. Foan could have resisted, but that would have placed him between rebels on one side and an outraged liege on the other--it would have been rebellion itself, with the state already threatened. So he had submitted. Had that been loyalty or cowardice?

  He had made possible the truce between the king and Karaman. He had always believed that truce to have been a triumph. Now he suspected that it had been a second error.

  He should never have married Fannimola. She was a link which had brought him lands, but little lust and less love. At that point in his dirge he usually called for a girl.

  Elosa? In his darker spells, he counted four when he got to Elosa. A diamond shines most brightly on black velvet; even a hard man needs a soft place, a gentleness, somewhere in his life. He had lost it in Mayala. He had not found it in Fannimola or on the bleak and rocky uplands of his fief. He had made Elosa the tenderness at the core of his being, pandered to every whim--and somehow he had taken all the softness away from her, removing the black velvet and leaving only another diamond, hard and sharp and cold. Elosa, my fledgling!

  Another bottle.

  And Hiando Keep? More than an error--a madness. But she had sworn that she was pregnant, and the child had been born at the right time. When the proclamation of the heir had reached Ninar Foan, he had done his calculations and then worried no more, remembering only those few hours they had spent together as being the zenith of his mortal passage. Oh, Mayala!

  But then Fannimola had gone visiting at court. She had always been a grim-faced bitch, but that was nothing compared to what she was like when she had returned. Put the heir apparent next to the scullery brat Rorin, she had said, and only the age difference would let you tell them apart. Explain that to the king and to the people, Your Grace.

  Traffic between Ninar Foan and Ramo had become very rare thereafter.

  How many errors was that? Five? Usually he was too drunk or drained to count by then.

  Vindax's visit? That had been a disastrous error, but not his.

  He had withheld the king's letter from Vindax before the hunt and the accident. In hindsight that had been an error but also an honest attempt to do a kindness. It probably would not have made any difference. He could ignore that one.

  Five, then, until the sixth. A man should learn and grow and do better, but his mistakes seemed to have become progressively worse.

  His sixth error had been his decision in the aerie, when the upstart serf Shadow had called on him to choose between Vindax and Jarkadon. He had been defending Elosa, true. He had ignored Aurolron's verdict, true. But what man of honor could move to place his own by-blow on another man's throne? That had been his reason, had it not? Honor?

  Another bottle or another girl, whichever was closer to hand and mouth.

  That sixth error had been the worst--ten minutes with Jarkadon had shown him that. As premier noble, having the senior prince alive again, Foan could have turned the wind and put Vindax on the throne. Instead he had abandoned the kingdom to a sadistic despot, an obviously unstable juvenile who dispensed floggings at random and cavorted with underage girls.

  Jarkadon probably thought he could seduce Elosa, but her father was certain she would refuse him. The king would be disappointed there.

  After ten days or so of frustration and debauchery, the duke sobered and checked the date. He humbled himself to pen a groveling letter to the king, begging that he might visit the palace for his daughter's coming of age. The reply came again from the marchioness: The king was planning a surprise party for Elosa's birthday; it would be an intimate little affair, reserved for a few friends of about her own age. He was not invited.

  He was pleased to hear that she was making friends. He sent her his best wishes by letter but received no reply.

  The next day he discovered two things. First, that there were guards at the doors, refusing him both passage and explanation; second, that the aeries were rapidly filling with new birds. His apartment had a good view, and he watched them streaming in at all hours.

  It was not hard to guess what was happening, although there had not been a general muster of the skymen in many reigns. He waited hopefully for a summons to help--anything would be better than inaction--but it did not come, and he went back to the girls and the bottles in despair.

  He awakened in the middle of the third watch when something passed between his window and the sun. He looked out and saw the eagles rising like smoke--the smoke of a funeral pyre?

  The rebels were coming then, certainly. Vindax maybe. Unsure which side he wanted to cheer for, the duke went back to bed with two bottles and no girl.

  When he awoke, there was a strange silence. He could see only a handful of birds in the aeries, and the roads were empty. The guards had gone from his door. He shaved and washed and dressed and found some food for himself--there were no servants, even.

  Then he walked to the nearest of the aeries. He had a choice of birds--ancient or gravid types, not fit for battle--but finding a saddle and helmet took much longer than did his ensuing flight to the palace.

  He was challenged, of course, but when he showed that he was unarmed, he was waved through. He could see only five guards over the whole palace, so evidently Jarkadon believed in betting everything on one roll.

  The duke flew in to perch on the lowest level of the great aerie.

  He made it with two minutes to spare.

  There were no grooms in sight. While he was hooding his bird to undress it, he saw the great transformation take place. He saw the guards' eagles snap their bindings and dive. He saw the guards die. He saw the birds land on the grass below and bite off the harnesses.

  He had known the truth about the eagles long before Schagarn, ever since Ukarres had escaped over Dead Man's Pass with news of the rebellion and the plight of the nobles trapped in the palace in Allaban. He knew that the birds' communication was almost instantaneous, and he guessed the truth at once.

  What he had just seen happen to five guards had certainly just happened also to the royal army. The rebels had won without losing a man or a bird--Karaman's rapport with the eagles would have been enough, with that trick.

  But
it would have taken a skyman to think of that one, an unusually alert skyman.

  When he had fired that arrow at Shadow, he had missed. That had been the seventh error, and the worst of all.

  He went in search of Elosa and could not find her. The palace was rapidly degenerating into madness. There might have been a dozen eagles around when he left the aerie; very soon after, there were a hundred. In another hour, the sky was black with them.

  The whole maze of balconies, terraces, gardens, and courtyards was open to the air and now open to the birds. The siege was solid; no man could reach a gate alive. The few covered passages and hallways could hardly contain the frenzied crowds milling through them. The troopers had all gone to battle. The duke knew that none would return.

  So there were no guards, no fighters. Many of the enclosed rooms and halls had huge, high windows leading from the courts outside; a few ravening monsters came straight through glass and woodwork, snapping gigantic beaks like scissors. Those died on swords eventually, and the other uncounted thousands outside seemed content to wait before trying such suicidal attacks. Men and women fled to cellars and cupboards and servants' quarters, while the vengeance of the ages descended on the palace of Ramo.

  Rocks fell.

  The roofs had been built to withstand nothing heavier than sunlight. Some shots went through floors as well, to the levels below. The cannonade echoed continuously, rattling the whole palace complex. More death. More terror.

  And the projectiles were not merely rocks. Anything an eagle could find and could lift was used: benches and wheelbarrows and grindstones, small statues from the gardens, chimney pots and butter churns, all falling from an incredible height; even a few headless bodies, which were the worst of all, exploding on impact, but those soon stopped coming, as though an order had been given.

  He had to fight his way through service passages and cellars, but eventually he found the government: an ice-white boy cowering at a desk in a big egg-shaped room, surrounded by a dozen or so old men, all shaking and most looking ready to die of fear. From the smell of them, several had lost control of their bodily functions. The lord chancellor, the archbishop, the lord chamberlain, supreme air marshal, ministers of this and that...

  Foan pushed through them and walked around to stand beside Jarkadon. He folded his arms and waited, and no one spoke.

  So he said, "God save King Vindax."

  They mumbled it back at him.

  He took hold of Jarkadon's hair and twisted his head around. "How were you told to surrender?"

  The mad-wide blue eyes stared up at him, and Jarkadon started to scream obscenities. The duke silenced him with a slap.

  "I am quite prepared to torture it out of you myself," he said. "What is the signal?"

  "We all saw the letters," King Shadow said, and told him.

  The duke of Foan found his way through cellars and shattered hallways to the aerie. He climbed up three levels before he found any birds. There were six--and six men of Allaban also, with drawn bows aimed at him as he reached the top of the stairs.

  "Want something?" their leader asked. He sounded young, he sounded like a peasant, and his tone was contemptuous. Both he and his men were indistinct against the light shining through the bars behind them, but they were slouching, and their arms trembled as they held the bowstrings. They must be exhausted if they had come from Ninar Foan in eleven days or so.

  "I came to release the eagles, as King Vindax commanded."

  "You're too late." The man spat at the floor.

  It had come to this? "I wish to surrender the palace."

  "Who are you?" the man asked, but then he did order his men to lower their weapons.

  Foan told him who he was.

  "Right!" the peasant said. He raised his hands and signaled to the birds watching on their perch. A few moments passed, then the noise of destruction died away. The rocks had stopped.

  "The boss'll be here shortly," the peasant said to the duke. "Go and wait in the courtyard. Move!"

  The single throne on a dais at one end of the Great Courtyard faced a vast emptiness; the walls were encrusted with balconies where in happier times the lesser folk would have gathered to watch the important ceremonies below. Here there had been no bombardment or invasion, and that was an awesome tribute to the control that someone held over this horde of wildlife.

  The duke walked out and stood in front of the throne and waited, feeling very conscious of the crowded sky above him and his own vulnerability. He had to wait a long time, but then a single bronze circled down and settled on the lip of a balcony at the far end. It lifted one foot and turned to face him. One of his own silvers swooped over and perched on the top of the wall nearby, higher up.

  He knew the bronze, and he knew the small male figure sitting in the sling it carried. He thought he would give up everything he had ever owned to have his bow in hand--but he would not have dared to use it.

  He started to walk forward.

  Shadow stayed in his sling, feet dangling over a long drop.

  As soon as Foan was within earshot, Shadow called, "Not you."

  The duke shrugged and turned to go, then stopped. In spite of the war and the siege and the death, his own mind was full of thoughts of Elosa--and the kid up there was human, too.

  "Shadow? Jarkadon did release your parents. I checked when I arrived."

  Shadow looked down at him for a while without expression. He was very pale, as though exhausted or in shock. "I had thought my father would have been in the army."

  "I don't know what may have happened recently," Foan said, "because I've been kept away, but when I checked, they were at home under house arrest. So perhaps not."

  Shadow nodded. "I flew by Hiando Keep, and their eagles told me they were there. It's too late to make friends, Keeper."

  The duke spun on his heel and walked away. He eventually found the lord chamberlain. He dragged him back to the court and then along it until they stood together at the end, staring up at the kid high above them. Shadow had moved from the sling to a bench on the balcony and gone to sleep--they had to shout to waken him.

  "I have a proclamation here, from the king," Shadow called down to them. "You can fill in whatever name you want; it grants power of regency until the king arrives. Probably tomorrow."

  He tossed down a roll. The duke picked it up and held it while the lord chamberlain and he read it together.

  Proclaim Vindax VII as King of Rantorra.

  Proclaimtemporary regent.

  No one to leave the palace.

  The following to be held in chains, awaiting the

  king's pleasure:

  the usurper Jarkadon,

  the duke of Foan,

  Elosa, his daughter.

  Shadow climbed over the wall as the bronze took hold of his sling once more. "Got any questions?" he called down.

  "No," the lord chamberlain said.

  "I have!" the duke of Foan shouted. "How do you feel?"

  The big bird launched, flapped wildly to gain altitude as it flew the length of the courtyard, and narrowly cleared the far wall beside the high mirror. Then it was gone. IceFire followed.

  But the question remained behind, unanswered.

  Chapter 20

  "Birds of a feather flock together."

  --Very old proverb

  So it would end where it had begun. Shadow stood at the side of the throne and stared out at the assembled courtiers of Rantorra. One by one the senior nobles were coming forward to kneel and do homage to Vindax.

  They had managed very well, those courtiers. The palace was a devastation, its interiors littered with fallen beams and smashed artwork, with plaster, with fragments of plows and cartwheels and chunks of rock. Throughout the grounds bodies still lay in heaps, especially near the gates. Yet somehow the nobility had rounded up its servants and its finery and dressed itself again in grandeur. The coiffures glittered with jewels, and the brocades and silks and laces shone in a thousand hues from doublets a
nd plumes and sashes. They had painted the face of a corpse.

  The balconies were deserted. High in the vault of the sky floated the eagle army, faint as gnats, waiting with endless patience. A single bird sat on the far wall, behind the courtiers: IceFire. She was chatting with the watchers overhead and once in a while would pass a message to Shadow.

  Sweat trickled down his ribs and face. His legs trembled with the effort of standing, and he wanted to crawl off to bed for a hectoday. Even NailBiter had been exhausted by that journey, that great sweep along the Rand, flying three watches out of three, with Shadow sleeping in the air, grabbing food when he got the chance as towns and castles fell and the eagles flocked to his banner. His plan had worked, worked too well: Jarkadon had fallen into the trap and emptied his aeries.

  The inside of Shadow's head was ringing like a tolling bell in an empty church, echoing back and forth, and the peals were the words of Karaman:Do you know what you're letting loose, lad?

  No, he had not known.

  Where it had begun...yet it was not the same. Two hectodays ago that nervous Sald Harl had worried about his coat of arms, how he looked, how to behave. Now Shadow still wore his battered flying suit with its cumbersome sling--his getaway suit, he called it to himself, grimly aware that he might need a fast getaway very soon. In the vertical blaze of sunlight around the throne he sweltered, and certainly he stank. He had not been out of that garment since he had left Allaban, and he had unfastened the front of it as far as he decently could. He did not care. Nor, seemingly, did the courtiers. No eye met his. They were not admitting his existence--long might that last.

  There was a new archbishop, holding out the sacred text as each noble repeated the words of the oath.

  The portly duke of Aginna, Sald's old neighbor from the robing room, came stumping forward to do homage. Like all those who had preceded him, he looked at Shadow not at all, and very little at the human wreckage now occupying the proud throne of Rantorra.