Land of War: Chapter Two
Land of War
Chapter Two: Hunted
Tristan Staghorn was in the tower workroom, knee-deep in a complicated magical working, when a sound outside the secluded room’s only window alerted him to the world around him. Frowning with displeasure, the mage laid down his scalpel-like wax-sculpting knife and went to the window. Someone was calling, strangely close to the top of the tall tower. Now more perplexed than annoyed, Tristan unbarred the wooden shutters and peered outside.
“Master Staghorn!” an urgent voice called.
“What is it, morning patrol?” asked the mage irritably.
The Stormwings circling not far from him glared, but did not object. His own master had curbed their willful independence effectively, it seemed, as their spokesman went on.
“Strangers sighted just outside the western pass, Master Staghorn, and headed in.”
“Strangers?” Tristan was rubbing his chin.
“Queen’s Riders,” interrupted another Stormwing, one with bright green eyes and a shrewd smile. “Roughly twenty.”
“I see,” said the mage. Lonely wanderers or hunters were one thing, but an armed and ready force for the Crown was a threat to his master’s plans. “Very well, the invaders will be dealt with. Return to your duties.”
“Yes, Master Staghorn,” replied the first Stormwing, nodding, but the mage had already shut his window, and did not hear.
“Yes, Master Staghorn,” echoed the other in a half-mocking, half-disgusted snort, “of course, Master Staghorn. Right away, Master Staghorn! You’d think he was our rightful king by the way you pander to him, Gallek.”
“Shut up, Moonsword,” hissed the Stormwing called Gallek.
“It’s as though you’ve forgotten the Divine Realms entirely. Quite a feat, considering Emperor Ozorne only had us ripped out of them last winter. Remember what it was like, Gallek? To be free?”
“Rikash,” said one of the other Stormwings quietly, flying closer to the offender. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked defiantly. “Speak my mind? Queen Barzha never had anything against us doing that!”
“Queen Barzha isn’t here,” remarked Gallek nastily.
“Don’t stir trouble,” replied the female Stormwing, ignoring Gallek.
“Trouble’s already here, Janitteh,” Rikash retorted. “I don’t like that Staghorn man, or the other ground-pounders here.”
“You don’t seem to mind their child,” said Gallek.
Rikash stiffened. “That is different,” he said with emphasis.
Gallek just shrugged and smiled, then flew away. Most of the others followed. Janitteh and Rikash remained, circling the tallest tower of Dunlath Castle.
“I don’t like it here, either,” said Janitteh to the unresponsive Rikash.
“But where Stone Tree Nation goes, so do we,” he said blandly.
“What else are you going to do?” Janitteh asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But something in this valley is afoul, or soon will be. I can almost smell it.”
***
The courtyard of Dunlath Castle was silent and empty, with only a half-moon and the cloud-wisps flitting over it awake to light it. Out the kitchen door, past the stables, past the kennels, a small figure moved hesitantly. The figure stopped at the door of a squat stone cottage, and knocked. There was no light in the shack’s only window, and yet the ancient door soon creaked open.
“Tait?” The voice that spoke was soft and wavering.
“Milady! What’re ye doin’ here?”
“Tait, can I please come in? It’s very cold out here.” The figure shivered.
“Ye shouldna be here, milady,” berated the hunter.
No answer came.
Tait sighed, then ushered the girl in from the cold. As he jabbed the dying fire to roaring life, Lady Maura of Dunlath removed her cloak and seated herself demurely on a straw-seated stool.
“You’re right, you know,” she said.
“Eh?” Tait was still stoking the fire.
“I shouldn’t be here,” said Maura firmly. “I should leave.”
“Aye, child. Go back t’yer own bed, d’not be wanderin’ alone in the night an’ cold.”
“No, Tait,” the girl said, mock-patient. “I need to leave Dunlath. Go to Corus to... well, I just need to.”
Tait sat up very straight, his eyes blazing. “Dare ye not dream of doin’ such a thing, child!”
Maura looked quite taken aback. “But...”
“Nay, Maura, d’not ever say such things!” repeated Tait fiercely. “I’ll not have ye on that road alone, unprotected, not for a day, nor an hour! What would yer mother say, milady? An’ yer nurse’s be sore worried, an’ Lord Rikash, too! What possessed ye, child, t’think o’ such a thing?”
“It’s my duty!” cried Maura.
“Leave duty t’the older an’ wiser, Lady Maura,” said the hunter gruffly.
“I can’t,” insisted the girl. “There isn’t anyone else to do it, but me.”
“Do what, child? Be off an’ killed on the road, or worse?”
The child fell silent, round face creased, brown eyes impassive.
“Well? Y’can’ answer, can ye? Wantin’ t’be a knight is all well an’ good, but y’can’ do it alone. Th’ lord an’ lady wish --“
“--I know quite well what the lord and lady wish!” snapped Maura. “And it has nothing to do with my being a knight or staying here and waiting to be married. It’s far worse than that. It’s terrible, and I’m the one who must stop it.”
Tait fell silent for a moment. “Are ye serious, girl?”
“Have you ever known me to joke of such matters?” demanded the girl.
He shook his head.
“It’s treason,” hissed Maura. “I’ll not be a part of it. You can’t make me.”
“Surely, runnin’ off t’Corus alone on the eve o’ winter is no answer,” replied Tait desperately. “There’s somethin’ else y’can do, somethin’ safe, surely.”
“I have to warn the king!”
“Send a letter!”
“It might not reach him on time!”
Tait chewed his lip. “Go t’sleep, milady - nay, hear me out. Go t’sleep, now. In the mornin’ I’ll speak t’milord. I’ll take ye away from here myself. We’ll ride a week to Fief Aili, ye’ll stay with yer mother’s cousin.”
“But if I do nothing to stop the traitors then I’m a traitor myself.”
“Who’s t’say ye knew?”
“I’ll know.” Maura’s voice was almost sullen.
“Ye can’ always be a daughter o’ the Goddess, child,” said Tait softly. “Sometimes ye do what’s right, an’ sometimes ye stay safe. That’s life.”
“That’s not good enough for me,” said the girl flatly, her voice high.
Tait sighed. “Can we try my way, at least?” he asked.
Reluctantly, Maura nodded.
“Then tell no one what ye said t’me. Not nurse, not Lord Rikash, no one.”
“Lord Rikash already knows,” Maura said bitterly.
The hunter muttered something under his breath.
She bristled. “I didn’t tell him!”
“Good!”
Scowling, the girl got up and wrapped her cloak around her. “You have until the end of the week, Tait,” she informed him. “Otherwise, I follow my own plan.”
“Just what I need,” said Tait to the fireplace after she left, “more problems.”
***
“I think the matter deserves due consideration.”
Yolane sighed. “Belden, don’t be vexatious. It’s no concern of mine. Let her go where she pleases. One more bothersome worry out of our hair.”
“I agree,” said Tristan, standing up. “The girl’s whereabouts are of no consequence.”
“You don’t find it the least bit suspicious?” asked Belden, pushing away his wineglass.
“Suspicious?” Tristan gave a slight laugh.
“Yes,” insisted Belden, his face flaming. “She’s never had the urge to visit relatives before, has she?”
“I really can’t recall,” drawled his wife.
“Be serious, Yolane!”
“About what?” The lady fluttered her lovely hand dismissively. “A child of ten? Be serious yourself, dear. What threat could she possibly be to our plan? Let her go, and good riddance.”
Tristan walked over to Yolane and wrapped one arm around her waist, stroking her auburn hair with his fingertips. “When you are queen, you need never see her again,” he promised.
Disgusted, Belden refilled his glass and ignored them. When he was king, he need never see his wife again.
***
The axe’s strike was perfectly decisive. A lump rolled away from it, covered in black cloth. There were no screams. There was hardly even blood. All in all, it was rather disappointing, decided Numair as he turned a silent back on Nobleman’s Courtyard and walked down the side of, and away from, Traitor’s Hill.
“Not much, was it? I could have told you that,” offered a friendly voice.
Numair turned. “Not much for a traitor,” he agreed.
“You wanted more.” Onua’s words were not a question.
“Not much for the man who added me to the long list of those who owe their lives to the Lioness,” he said rather bitterly, “against my will, might I add.”
“Lord Sinthya was a threat, and now he isn’t.” Onua shrugged. “That’s all there is to it. As for Alanna, what’s a little last minute healing between friends? And, don’t forget, I also played a part in that tale.”
“Yes, Onua,” said Numair obligingly, “thanks terribly for saving me from the clutches of my torturer and bringing me to possibly the only healer in Tortall short of Duke Baird who could have cleansed my blood.”
“You’re welcome,” retorted Onua sharply. “Can’t you put it behind you? You’d like to be presentable at tonight’s banquet, I’m sure, and brooding always tangles your hair, so.”
“You might be more sensitive to my anguish,” he suggested.
“Or not.”
“What’s this banquet all about, anyway?”
“Your favorite thing,” said Onua wickedly, “girls.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Lovely little royal maidens for our king to wed,” she elaborated. “There must be half a dozen visiting at the palace, and each one brings a trail of ten attendants.”
“So soon?” asked Numair.
She was more serious now. “It’s been over a year, Numair. Tortall needs a queen, and he knows it.”
“Still, it can’t be easy for him,” he replied, rubbing his chin.
“He doesn’t speak of it to me,” said Onua. “And it’s far from easy for all of us.”
Numair thought of Buri, of Alanna and George, of Cythera and Gary, of Baird. He knew he would attend the banquet that night. “No, it isn’t.”
***
In their palace apartments, the Tortallan Prime Minister and his wife were dressing for a banquet. Clad in pristine white linen, Lady Cythera was fixing her obstinate yellow curls with pins while her husband ignored the tunic she’d laid out for him and perused a sheaf of parchment he’d brought in from the study.
Cythera coughed delicately.
“Hmm?”
“Planning on getting dressed any time soon, dear?” she asked sweetly.
Gary blinked at her.
“It really wouldn’t do for us to be late.”
“I wasn’t planning on being late, Cyth,” said Gary, turning his attention back to the documents in his hands.
“Of course not,” sighed Cythera. Fixing the last pin, she got up and shook out her skirts. Then she resolutely walked up to her husband, plucked the sheaf out of his hands and dropped it on her dressing table. “Arms up,” she ordered, pulling off his day tunic and fetching the finer silk one that lay forgotten on their bed.
“I can dress myself!”
“Yet you choose not to. I wonder why.”
Shaking his head, Gary shoved his wife onto the bed and took the tunic from her. He made a face, but put on the garment. “There,” he said. “Happy, now?”
Cythera smiled. “You look lovely, dear.” When he reached for the papers, though, she grabbed his wrist.
“We have time,” said Gary.
“No we don’t. This is the last night. We should be there early. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be a bad omen for the announcement tomorrow.”
“What could go wrong?” asked Gary.
Cythera glared. “Simply anything,” she said. “Do we know who it’s going to be, yet? I need to make preparations.”
“It could be the Scanran, the warlord’s sister, or the Marenite; odds are open,” said Gary.
“We have the Marenite royalty’s coat of arms in storage, if that’s the case,” said Cythera thoughtfully. “Whatever we will do if the Scanrans agree to the terms, I don’t know. Those warlords have no heraldry at all. How are we to honor the king’s bride-to-be?”
He kissed her forehead. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
Still deep in thought, Cythera dragged her husband out of the chamber and down two flights of steps to the palace’s great banquet hall. The lesser nobles in attendance had taken their places, and now the old nobility were entering the hall. Gary and Cythera entered among the last, as members of one of the oldest duchies in Tortall, appointed king’s officials and part of His Majesty’s privileged inner circle.
They were seated, of course, at the king’s high table. Cythera scanned the crowded hall for possible points of conflict, but Master Oakbridge had created another diplomatically brilliant arrangement. Everything was ready, she thought with satisfaction. Everything was perfect. The great doors swung open, and the herald began to announce names.
King Jonathan entered last, his countenance proud and chilly. A lesser woman might have surrendered to the pinch in the heart Cythera felt now, as she remembered the queen who had instated her as royal hostess, saving her from the many boring hours she’d faced after her wedding. Yet here they were, looking to replace her.
She stubbornly shook these thoughts away. The king strode up to the high table and took his place on the single throne. Quietly the high nobility sat down. The hall shuffled with the movement of lesser nobility. Once everyone was seated, the banquet began.
Now was as good a time as any to acquaint herself with her possible future queens. Cythera chatted effortlessly with Lord Martin, but her attention went immediately to the table’s extremes.
The Marenite princess sat only two chairs down from her. She engaged herself in conversation with cool and un-endearing decorum. Maren was a long-time ally of Tortall, but the diplomatic link was weak and disused. Its proximity ought to ease the transition. The princess would adjust quickly to her role once she got to know all the important people in Corus. An easy match, decided Cythera.
The warlord’s sister was more complicated. She sat at the very end of the high table, and Cythera could barely see her. Diplomatic ventures into Scanra were a delicate matter because of that land’s fragmented nature. If they could cement this alliance with one of the stronger warlords, its military value could be beyond assessment. The Corus court would have a hard time adjusting to such foreign ways, but it would be a risk of high reward.
The banquet ended, and Cythera stood to lead the way into the neighboring hall, where bards waited for the dancing. Gary vanished with his father into what had to be an impromptu King’s Council meeting. She let him off, and accepted an offer to dance with one of the Scanran entourage, Raggard Kerussra.
“What do you think of our northern type of royalty?” Kerussra asked in flawless, though accented, Common.
“I think it is scarcely different than our own, certainly not enough to be a barrier,” answered Cythera.
Kerussra laughed. “That is so.”
“What do you think of our southern customs?” she asked.
“So much protocol,” said Kerussra with a sigh. “I long for our simpler ways, sometimes, despite the allure of this splendor.”
At that moment Gary arrived and, bowing to them both, asked politely, “Might I steal my wife’s attentions for a moment, Master Kerussra?”
“Of course,” said the other, stepping back.
Gary took Cythera’s hands and immediately she felt him tug for the lead. She allowed him to direct their dancing to the other side of the hall, until they stood by the curtains. Without a word Gary led her into a side chamber. Her father-in-law was there, along with Harailt of Aili and Imrah of Legann.
“What is it?” she asked nervously.
“An attempt has been made on Princess Gessyn’s life,” said Duke Gareth gravely.
“And on Numair’s,” added Gary.
She shook her head sharply. “Where are they? Are they alive? Have the assassins been caught? Who knows? Do the delegates know? Did you tell the king?”
“Duke Baird excused himself immediately, and the Lioness soon will, as well,” said the duke. “Guards were sent off after the assassins. We’ve tried to keep it as quiet as possible; right now the only known thing is that the princess felt faint and was taken to get some fresh air. Sir Myles and Baron Cooper are attempting to discover the identity of the assassins.”
“Will they live?” asked Cythera again.
“We don’t know,” answered the duke. “They were cut with poisoned daggers. Though they lost little blood, the poison is in their bodies, and there’s no way to tell if they absorbed a lethal dose.”
“And the king?”
“We’d like you to tell him,” said Gary.
She hesitated. “Like you told me?”
Gary shook his head. “He must never leave the hall. If he does, people will suspect the worst.”
“Can you do it?” the duke asked.
“Of course!” Cythera shook her head again, straightened her gown, and stepped out of the room.
“She can do it,” said Gary a moment later, his eyes locked on the draperies that still moved, disturbed by her passage.
***
Raggard Kerussra stood in the palace’s Healer’s Wing, along with half of Princess Gessyn’s retinue. Duke Gareth stood with him as a representative of the Tortallan Crown. They had been waiting since dawn, since the message had reached the Scanrans. Finally, Duke Baird stepped out of the room.
“The princess is dead,” he said. “I could not pull the poison out of her blood before it reached her heart.”
“King Jonathan sincerely apologizes to Lord Nothar for this failure to guard his royal sister’s safety,” said Duke Gareth. “He adds his hope that this unfortunate event will not succeed in sabotaging the diplomatic relations between Lord Nothar and himself, as its planners clearly intended it to do.”
“My lord Nothar certainly does not intend to dismiss the possible alliance with Tortall, once it is proven that the assassination attempt did not originate from the Tortallan throne itself,” said Kerussra, “as I am sure it will. Messages will be sent to him to inform him of this regrettable development. His orders to me will be forthcoming.”
Duke Gareth bowed. “Master Kerussra, I take my leave.”
“Your Grace,” replied Kerussra with a bow.
***
The late summer air was cooler under the heavy canopy of the forest than in the flagstone-paved courtyard of Castle Dunlath. The light was green, and the smell of leaves and dirt lingered everywhere. Tait kneeled to examine a print in the ground. Silently trailing after him, Lady Maura watched him work disconsolately.
Tait shook his head. “Still a couple wolves dennin’ in these mountains,” he said. “Their pack-leader must still be alive.”
“I thought that awful monster killed them all,” Maura piped in.
“As did I,” replied Tait.
“Yolane got her way, again,” said Maura bitterly. “Those awful mines of theirs are still working, and there’s less forest every day. The lake water used to be so clear and blue... now it’s dirty. I wish Dunlath could be like it was when my father was alive.”
“Hush,” said Tait, his hand on his crossbow. “Didna ye hear me say there are wolves in these woods still?”
Maura paid him no mind. “Papa used to take me swimming in the lake in the summers and we -- oh!”
“Halt! Who goes there?” called Tait, pointing the crossbow at a rustling movement in the bushes.
A whispery voice rose from among the prickly wild-berry bush branches. “Such a shame that my first encounter with humans after four hundred years should be so potentially violent.”
“Who goes there?” repeated Tait, and Maura noticed his voice was much more nervous.
The creature that stepped out of the undergrowth was certainly not human. It was tall and lithe, its grey hide covered in bead-like scales. Its dark eyes were frighteningly clever when it spoke again. “Please don’t shoot. I mean you no harm.”
“What are you?” asked Maura, her voice oddly thick.
“A basilisk,” said the thing.
“Don’ touch the girl,” warned Tait, his crossbow point still level. “Careful, Lady Maura. It could turn ye to stone.”
Maura looked awed. “Is that true?”
The basilisk nodded. “Basilisks can hunt and defend themselves by turning prey or attacker to stone,” he said.
“Will you do that to us?” asked Maura.
“Only if you attack me,” replied the basilisk reasonably.
Tait had slowly drawn Maura back by the arm until she stood behind him. “I wouldn’ be so sure,” he said.
The basilisk nodded again. “Indeed, caution can never be of harm.”
“He won’t hurt us,” whispered Maura to Tait. “You don’t have to shoot him. Please?”
Tait shook his head and kept the bow up.
The basilisk sniffed the air. “There is a Coldfang loose in these woods,” it said. “Someone in this valley has been hunting thieves.”
“My sister,” said Maura.
“Coldfangs are very dangerous,” it said, and Maura imagined that its face was stern, like her tutor berating her when she made a mistake in her calculations, or misread a word.
“Some thieves can’ be hunted by normal means,” replied Tait, looking disgruntled.
“Surely human mages do not require such an emphatic response,” said the basilisk, shaking its slender lizard’s head.
Maura shook her head, too. “Tait thinks it was the wolves.”
The basilisk’s grey eyes locked on hers, strangely expressionless.
“He says the wolves in the valley were getting as smart as humans, before the Coldfang killed them.”
“Lady Maura --“
“His dogs and traps couldn’t stop them, so my sister had Tristan get her that Coldfang, but Tait says the pack-leader is still alive, and he’s prob’ly the smartest one -- oh!”
Without warning, the basilisk had turned his tail on them and walked away, his long legs affording him very long strides.
Maura propped her fists on her hips. “That’s not very nice!”
“Leave the beast alone, Lady Maura,” said Tait. “I’d best take ye back to the castle, an’ not bring ye out to these woods again. Curst creatures here, ne’er as safe as it was before these accursed demon wolves, huge lizards and griffins and such...”
“Griffins? Where? In Dunlath? Can I see them, Tait, please?”
“No!”
***
Onua was the first to visit him, after he woke up. Then Alanna and George came, and finally the king, accompanied by Buri in full Rider garb.
“Numair,” said the king. “I know you’re awake.”
He was. He turned in his bed, and then sat up. “Majesty. Commander. Please excuse me if I fail to bow.”
“Let’s get straight to business,” said Buri briskly. “There were two assassins, both mercenary; both carrying poisoned daggers. Myles had the one we caught investigated. One of them was definitely targeting the warlord’s sister, since word got out that we were going to choose her for queen. The other...”
“Came for me?” said Numair quietly. “You can say it. I’ve been waiting for this day for years. He’s finally found me, hasn’t he?”
“Indications are that the emperor sent the assassins,” said Jonathan.
“Ozorne knows you’re here, Numair,” said Buri. “He very definitely wants you dead, too.”
“That’s not new,” Numair pointed out.
“This is,” said the king flatly. “You are to leave Corus at once, and not return to the palace until you have specific orders from me. The palace is not safe for you, and I can’t afford to lose you. Go into hiding. Go north into the mountains and stay away from the center of events for a while.”
“I could go back to my tower and stay there,” suggested Numair.
“No,” said the king. “If he could find you here, he can find you there. Try the City of the Gods. Surely you can make use of their libraries for some experiment.”
“Majesty,” said Buri. “What about Dunlath?”
“What about it?” asked Numair. “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“It’s a nice, quiet mountain fief,” said Buri. “Only lately it’s been noisy enough that one of my groups disappeared near there and was never heard from again.”
The king was quiet for a time, thinking. When he stirred, his eyes were certain. “I’m sending you on a mission to Dunlath,” he said to Numair. “Find out what happened to the missing Rider group and send your report back to me. Do not return to Corus; send your conclusions through the King’s Own. I believe Raoul took Third Company up that way recently.
“After that, go to Scanra to pay a visit to Warlord Nothar. An esteemed diplomatic envoy might help soften his feelings, after we managed to get his youngest sister killed.”
The king left. Buri remained.
“It’s safe for him?” asked Numair bitterly. “They got inside his banquet hall. They could kill him at any moment.”
“He’s guarded,” said Buri.
“He came here alone.”
“There was a unit of the Own outside the door,” replied Buri dryly, “ten of them. There’s no getting near him these days without them checking you over finger to toe.”
“How long will this last?” asked Numair of no one in particular.
“Until your emperor friend lets up?”
Numair sighed.
“Buck up, trainee,” said Buri with a smile. “It can’t be all bad if you get a free mountain vacation out of it.”
***
Autumn was creeping near. The winds were crisp, especially high in the air, and shadows of clouds danced and flitted across the ground of the valley while their airborne counterparts rolled along, graying the sky and hiding the sun. Yet a few rays escaped from between the quilts, glancing off of steel feathers.
“Does the glare bother you?” asked Rikash.
Maura shook her head emphatically, shading her eyes with her hand.
“Where should I fly?” he asked next.
“North!” called the girl over the shriek of the wind, “over the woods!”
She had forgotten what else lay in the northern reaches of Long Lake Valley. The woods were visibly reduced, and wide belts of naked ground surrounded them. The first belt was patchy with tree stumps and bits of undergrowth, land just recently cleared of trees. The second belt was filled with craters and mounds of dirt, among which worked tiny, faraway figures, ogre or human. The cleared land was so ugly, and the mine workers looked so unhappy, Maura hated to be there.
Life is filled with things you don’t like, her father used to say. You must never shirk your duty, just because you find it unpleasant. I hate it when you say that, Papa, she would tell him. But he would just smile at her, and she knew that was exactly what he meant.
“Do you want me to turn back, Lady Maura?” asked Rikash, interrupting her thoughts.
Maura was silent for a moment, and finally said, ”No.”
She imagined the look Rikash would have for her if they were eye-to-eye. Quizzical, her tutor called it. “No,” she said again, more firmly. “Could you land? Right here, near the mines?”
“Of course, Lady Maura,” he answered. “We must not stay long, though. Your nurse will be worried if we are away longer than usual.”
The sling she sat in bobbed up and down over the ground, no matter how hard Rikash tried to balance the movements of his four wings to allow her to climb down. Maura didn’t mind; she was used to it, and had never suffered from dizziness. At least, not since that first flight... She banished the thought as Rikash dropped the sling’s ropes and landed. Now that he could look her in the eye, she saw that she’d been wrong. The look he cast her was half-suspicious, half-wary.
“What trouble are you brewing now, Lady Maura?” he asked. “Why did you choose to land here?”
Maura held up her chin. “I want to see the mines.”
“You hate mines,” retorted Rikash.
“It is my responsibility to deal with things I dislike,” she replied loftily. “It won’t do to shirk my duties, just because I don’t find them enjoyable.”
Rikash rolled his eyes. “On another duty kick, are we?” he said, almost to himself. “Does your sister know the judgment you pass on her actions, in the name of duty and responsibility?”
“Not unless you told her,” retorted the girl, feeling nasty.
If he had arms, he would prop them on his hips, as Nurse did when she put her elbows on the table or spoke too loudly. “You. Are. A. Child. The affairs of Dunlath, the affairs of your elders, your sister’s affairs, are not yours to worry of.”
“You mean, like her affair with Master Tristan?” asked Maura, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. “The adulterous one? Or like the affair where she’s talking about being queen again?”
Rikash sighed. “Daughter, you are far too stubborn for your own health.”
Maura ignored him, and turned to the mines. Her eyes widened.
The Stormwing sighed again, and hopped up to stand next to her.
“They’re slaves?” she gasped.
His voice was grave. “I... did not want you to see this. I knew it would upset you.”
“As well it ought,” hissed the girl angrily. “Slaves. In the land of our fathers. You’ve gone too far this time, Yolane. I won’t stand for it.”
***
Rikash had been reserved, Janitteh willing, and Shenan reluctant, but she had convinced them all -- with Rikash’s help. It was just a small thing, she was not too blind with passion and righteousness to see that, but it was something. Her father’s spirit clamoring against the injustice done on his lands was, for once, overpowered by the spirit of her mother, who whispered that it was too awful to leave any creature to die, big or small.
Conquering her fear was easy. Squeamish as she knew herself to be, not even she could be afraid of an ogre beaten and bleeding, lying like dead in the brush. Convincing Rikash was not. She knew he would be unhappy with her choices even as he helped her achieve them, just as he had protested about flying her to the mines and slave barracks, even after having done it almost daily for two weeks. Once she knew he would do it, she didn’t care. He carried her sling while Shenan and Janitteh balanced the ogre’s between them.
Belden would be in his study, pretending to immerse himself in some dull book. Yolane would still be abed. Tristan would be either with her or with his mages, in that tower they had claimed for a workroom. Brewing untold awfulness, she didn’t doubt. Tait would be hunting. Who’s to see that she returned from her flight not alone, but with a wounded ogre slave? She would keep it in the stable, where it was warm and out of the wind.
Nurse would disapprove, her mouth forming a tight line of “miss ought be more ladylike” reprove. But Cook would help, and so would the stable hands. The ogre would get better; it had to. It would wake up and tell her its name, and she would find out if it was a boy or a girl, because she couldn’t really tell but didn’t want to admit it. When it was all better she would give it food and clothes for the road and send it out, at night, without anyone knowing. And it would take her message to Corus, and the king would send an army to bring back Belden and Yolane for justice.
And maybe, just maybe, Dunlath would survive, and her too.
When the third Stormwing took off and was a safe distance away, not looking back, two figures came out of the rim of the woods. Two figures who had been silently watching Lady Maura’s daring rescue. The tall figure’s eyes were calm, watching the retreating Stormwings unblinkingly. The second figure, a large, dark grey wolf with a heavily plumed tail, sniffed the ground where the Stormwings had been with interest.
I still do not understand what you think this means, said the wolf. Many two-leggers are still cutting the trees and digging in the ground. Just one less will not change anything.
The basilisk shook its head, still watching specks in the sky flying away. - You are wrong, Brokefang, he replied. The two-legger you saw here was an ogre slave. Human two-leggers and ogre two-leggers are not the same. -
I know that, said Brokefang impatiently.
- Your sister fought a mountain lion once, you told me. Imagine that your pack were to find a wounded mountain lion. Would you ignore it, or lick its wounds? -
Brokefang thought. Two-leggers and ogres hunt against each other, and now they hunt together?
Tkaa sounded pleased when he said, - Yes. The human child treats the ogre slave as an equal. This is a good thing happening in this valley. -
Will the tree cutting stop? Brokefang asked.
- Perhaps. - said Tkaa. - I would like to speak again with this girl-child and her guardian hunter. -
Brokefang had no interest in who else Tkaa spoke with, for the moment. He had only met the basilisk a short time ago, and would not have taken notice of him at all, had the basilisk not come to seek him out. Now, he and what was left of his pack were free of the thief-hunter who had tried to freeze them dead, free to hunt again. Alive and feeding, Brokefang could listen to Tkaa speak of the balance of the valley, and the interests of wolves and other creatures.
I would like to eat, said Brokefang. I will return to the lair, now. Tonight, the pack hunts.
- Good hunting, - said Tkaa, already heading in the direction the strangers had flown away in.
Good hunting, returned Brokefang, melting back into the woods.
***
“Halt! Who goes there?”
Numair scrambled up from his tailor’s seat, upsetting his travelling desk with all that was on it. Hounds paced in his direction, baring fangs and growling at him. With his back practically against the shallow cave’s stone wall, his options were limited. Nevertheless, he prepared a shield spell, knowing that each time he used his Gift he risked detection by any mage who might reside in this valley. Ordinarily, he would be quite happy to assume the locals to be low-grade hedge-wizards, but the scorched bones of soldiers he had found were evidence to the contrary.
“Stand back!” he called, trying to put strength behind his voice. “I am an agent on behalf of the Crown!” Too late he realized that statement might put him in more danger than before, and cursed his own folly.
“An agent for the Crown, eh?” asked the man with the crossbow, looking unconvinced.
“From Corus,” added Numair, a fraction before deciding that fact was embarrassingly obvious.
The man with the crossbow glared at him.
“Care to return the favour?” asked Numair, getting inadvisably angry. “Introduce yourself.”
“Tait Willowbow, Dunlath gamekeeper,” said the man. “Down, boys,” he called, and the dogs retreated with evident reluctance.
Numair let tiny flashes of black and white spark between his fingers. “Might you know anything about a group of the Queen’s Riders that was last heard of in this district, some six months ago?” he asked, scowling with what he hoped was menace, “or perhaps the soldiers that were not heard from since July, only two months ago?”
Tait’s eyes shadowed, looking not at Numair but through him. “Ye might fare better t’ask milord Belden or milady Yolane of that, stranger,” he said.
“I am travelling discreetly,” said Numair. “The nobility that hold these lands are not to know of my presence.”
“An’ should I to inform them such?” asked the hunter.
“You shall be held accountable to whatever they may be conspiring, and sentenced accordingly,” answered Numair coldly.
“I’d best take you to the castle,” said Tait, lowering his crossbow. “Lady Maura would scarce forgive me, if I let ye off wi’out her meetin’ ye.”
Lady Maura? That’s interesting, thought Numair. He mentioned other names earlier. Keeping an eye on the loaded crossbow, he kneeled down and gathered his writing implements, packing them into his travelling desk. He stowed the desk in his saddlebags, then followed the gamekeeper’s lead, taking Spots and Mangle both by the reins.
***
This was surely, decided Maura, the strangest gathering she had ever attended. Eyeing the tall man standing in the doorway doubtfully, she sat down on one of Tait’s rough wooden chairs, spreading her dark skirts around her with all the poise of an impeccably mannered noble-girl.
“Yes?” she said to the latest newcomer, the expected question to which the only answer was an introduction. She was disappointed when Tait made the stranger’s reply for him.
“I found ‘im in the woods, milady,” he said. “Says he’s here on behalf o’ the Crown.”
Maura narrowed her eyes in her best effort to impersonate her sister. “If you are indeed an envoy of the king, surely you carry a sigil of royal authority. Show it to me.”
The newcomer looked flustered.
Maura gave him the blackest scowl she could muster.
After a short hesitation, he made up his mind. “My name is Numair Salmalín. I am a black robe mage and royal delegate for King Jonathan IV of Tortall,” he said, back straight and dark eyes peculiarly grave.
Tait looked unimpressed, but Maura gaped.
“The Numair Salmalín?” she demanded, podgy face flushed. “What are you doing here, in Dunlath?”
“Milady,” said Tait, “perhaps it would be wiser t’seek proof of the stranger’s tale.”
The girl’s expression turned sedate, and she looked back at the newcomer.
The man spread out large hands. “I can prove I am a mage,” he said.
“That will not be necessary,” a whispery voice came from the shadows behind Maura and to her left. Tait started, and then glared.
“He sought me,” the child told him, unprompted.
“Ogres and basilisks in milady’s castle now, and what next?” The hunter threw up both hands in exasperation.
The whispery voice took advantage of the pause, ignoring Tait’s protests. “As I have said, no proof is necessary. Lady Maura, this human is of great power and training in the human Gift.”
Maura nodded. “Master Salmalín?”
He took a further step into the cottage, just as the owner of the whispery voice stepped toward him and into the light. The two regarded each other for a moment, and Maura was startled when she first noticed the man was dreadfully close to the basilisk in height. Her anxiety abated when several moments passed and neither party made a threatening motion towards the other. She turned to meet Tait’s furious eyes.
“He said to call him Tkaa,” she said, no hint of apology in her manner. “The basilisk, that is. The ogre’s name is Iakoju, and she’s a girl-ogre. She woke up yesterday while you were away, hunting. Oh, and Tkaa said he met the wolf you were hunting, in the woods. Well, the leader of the pack. His name is Brokefang, and he and his pack tried to stop Yolane from mining the valley, because they say it’s killing it.
“So, you see? I was right all along! It’s wrong, all of it. It’s wrong that Iakoju’s family are slaves, and that the woods are all being cut down, and what Yolane is doing behind Belden’s back and most especially the treason part!”
Before Tait could make his reply, a polite voice inquired, “Treason?”
Maura fell suddenly silent.
“You should tell him,” said Iakoju, tolerantly ignoring the stares she received from both men, as they noticed her for the first time.
Perhaps only Maura heard Tait’s very low whisper of, “Maiden Huntress, it’s awake!”
The girl bit her lip, but said quickly and breathlessly, “My sister wants to be queen!”
“That’s ridiculous!” said the tall wizard flatly, “Tortall has a -“
His silence was so abrupt and his face so set and unreadable that Maura was moved to wonder just how close to the throne this powerful stranger really was. To circumvent such useless ponderings, she said, “Let me tell you everything.”
She did. She told him about Yolane and Belden’s treachery, about the woods and the mines, about the ogre slaves, about the stranger mages and the tower room they locked themselves in, sometimes, never letting anyone in. She saw him frown as she mentioned Tristan Staghorn.
“He’s a very powerful war-mage,” he said by way of an explanation. “We used to be... acquainted.”
“What now?” asked Maura anxiously.
Numair pondered. “Clearly, we need to remove your sister, your brother-in-law and the foreign mages from the equation. They pose the greatest threat. Once we negate them, however, there still remain the mine-workers, the men-at-arms and the various hostile immortals that may be loyal to Yolane and Tristan.”
“Rikash say, men keep hurroks slaves,” said Iakoju suddenly. “Hurroks will fight men, if they can.”
“What keeps them from --“ started Numair, and interrupted himself. “Who is Rikash?”
Maura sighed. “I’d hoped I was done explaining, but it looks like there is still some left.”
“Lord Rikash Moonsword came to this valley with your mage, Staghorn,” said Tait. “Him and his ilk, they came with the hurroks. Unnatural, if you ask me.”
“All beings act according to their nature, as it was willed by the gods,” said Numair distractedly. “Just what ilk is he of, exactly?”
“Stormwing,” said Maura quietly, watching Numair flinch. “He’s my friend.”
“Well,” said Numair.
“If he said the hurroks will fight Tristan and the others, given the chance, I believe him,” she said further. “As to what keeps them from disobeying now, I don’t know. I’ll be sure to ask him that, as soon as I can.”
“There are other things we need to know,” said Numair.
She shoved a sheet of parchment across the table at him. “Make me a list.”
***
“They might escape,” suggested Belden quietly, glancing at his glass and judging it too empty.
“Escape?” asked Tristan slowly.
“Belden, they’re only ogres, they’re no threat,” drawled Yolane.
She was picking up his speech patterns, noticed Belden, a fraction after he decided his beautiful wife’s lust for the crown would make her declare Raoul of Goldenlake no threat if he stepped up to her with a drawn blade and bade her proffer her neck. He directed his next words at the mage, focusing a gaze that was clear despite drink on those hateful hazel eyes.
“Ogres are brutes, are they not?” he said in measured tones, “not very sophisticated, but strong and fierce, especially in great numbers. Only a few dozen are working the opal mines, and yet, look and see, what a stir they’ve caused the moment it occurred to them to fight their whip-drivers. What if they leave, and return bringing more of their kind?”
“What, indeed?” said Tristan to himself, and Belden noted with satisfaction that his weighed words had penetrated the man’s thick, insufferable skull.
“If the king’s men have word of immortals attacking in Long Lake, they will swarm about us like angry wasps at a thieving bear. If they do not, which is unlikely, we might not manage the beasts on our own.”
The mage’s eyes caught his and held them. “You’ve an idea of how to prevent this, I presume?” he said with appalling mockery.
You presume much, thought Belden, but bit back the words. “Prevent them from leaving,” he said instead. “I know you can.”
A cocky smile spread over Tristan’s face. “Of course I can.”
***
The dark of the stables at midnight was not ideal for the sort of precision work he was doing, and neither was his company. Numair tried hard to keep his fingers from trembling as they brushed the poorly groomed coat of the hurrok, near his neck.
“He says he can smell your fear, and it reeks, so keep it down,” said the Stormwing who perched in the neighboring stall.
As opposed to what, thought Numair, but did not say as much. Both hurrok and Stormwing smelled awful to his human nose, and yet both seemed like the wrong sort to insult, especially when he was sneaking about an enemy fort in the dead of night, needing their cooperation. He continued to examine the belt of beaten bronze that ringed the immortal’s neck.
“This can be removed,” he said finally.
“Without the key?” asked the Stormwing, who obviously knew that control spells required a focus, or key, in the hands of the slave-owner.
“Even without the key, if you know the right spells,” he answered, frowning. “You know Lady Maura; how strong is her Gift?”
The Stormwing shrugged, an odd movement for a creature with steel-feathered wings for arms. “She speaks as though it is very small, and she’s been sparely trained.”
Numair frowned.
“If you’re wondering if she can cast this lock-breaking spell of yours, I’d say, possibly, but it would take great practice.”
“It won’t do if she’s not well-versed in the basics,” said Numair. “We’ll need the key, or some other mage.”
Rikash smirked. “You’ll find few human mages of your capacity in Dunlath, Master Salmalín,” he said.
“And I cannot call any of my own people to the valley because of that accursed barrier,” said the man bitterly, slipping down to sit of the stable floor, “another of Tristan’s sympathetic spells. They were always his favorites, although everyone just thought he liked an excuse to wear as many expensive amulets as possible.”
“Stumped?” asked the Stormwing amiably. “Mortal magic is so very limiting, with its spells and ingredients.”
“I suppose immortals don’t have that problem,” said Numair. “Spells of the Divine Realms are so simple, you will something to happen and it...” He got up slowly and turned to meet the immortal’s green eyes.
Rikash’s smirk widened. “I was wondering when you’d catch on.”
***
Maura stood alone in her bedchamber, trembling uncontrollably. The events of the past week would have seemed unthinkable to her right now if she were not too preoccupied with thinking about the events of the past morning.
At breakfast a boy had entered the dining hall to deliver a message to Master Staghorn, who had proceeded to storm out in a rush without a word. Yolane had forsaken her meal and retired sulkily to her parlor. Belden had seemed almost pleased, and had eaten heartily before heading for the stables, declaring that it was a lovely day for a ride and patting her head in that horrible way of his.
She had followed meekly when her nurse came to lead her to her lessons, but her tutor had scolded her for fidgeting. At midday her lessons ended and she was left without even that poor distraction to ease her anxiety. She pricked herself with the cross-stitch needle as she watched the courtyard for any signs, good or ill. It was little use.
Rikash, she knew, had left at dawn with patrols as his excuse. Master Salmalín was waiting for Master Staghorn near the opal mines, and Iakoju was nearby, spurring her kin’s violent uprising. Maura cringed when she thought of it, and then berated herself; she ought not to feel guilty when she’d been told this violence was necessary.
Her mind buzzed, and she recited the odd mage’s instructions softly under her breath as her fingers worked half-stitches in green thread around the rim of a griffin’s outspread wings. Not being scared of her task was more than she could manage, so she turned her thought to pretending she wasn’t. On his first day at Dunlath, Tristan Staghorn had told her what he would do to her if she entered his tower workroom. Even knowing that the most powerful mage in Tortall was waiting to arrest him could not shake the memory of that threat, or the nightmares it had given her.
A knocking noise came from her door.
“Enter,” said Maura, her voice breaking on the simple word.
Tait walked in, followed by his familiar hounds and two strange ones. “Stand clear o’ these wolves, Lady Maura,” were his first words.
“Never mind that,” she almost snapped, “tell me what’s happening.”
He did not even hesitate. “Lord Belden has just returned from his ride, an’ Lady Yolane is still in her rooms --“
“Not that, Tait!” cried Maura impatiently.
The hunter narrowed his eyes. “Tkaa came from the woods this dawn with two wolves at his side, sayin’ they want t’help. He said the mages an’ the men-at-arms are bein’ kept busy, an’ we were to arrest the lord and lady.”
Maura crossed chubby arms over her sensible grey bodice. “What about me?”
“Ye’re not to go up into that tower wi’out me, that’s what!” replied Tait fiercely. “Once the lord an’ lady are dealt with, ye come with me and undo that man’s witchcraft, so the king’s soldiers can come in and take these traitors t’justice.”
Despite his grim tones, hearing Tait speak against her sister was a great reassurance to Maura. She nodded, as though she were approving the plan rather than just hearing it.
“Are you going now?”
Tait nodded. “The basilisk is waitin’ outside the gate, in case o’ trouble.”
“Be careful, Tait,” said Maura anxiously.
His face softened. “Stay here, child. I’ll be back soon.”
***
When a knock came on her parlor door, Lady Yolane was loath to answer it, desiring to preserve her solitude for the moment. “Leave me!” she commanded, her usually delicate voice swelling to be heard through the oaken door.
“Milady?” The voice was muffled, but definitely male.
Yolane stood, delicately shaking out the skirts of her day gown till they draped elegantly over her hips and thighs, and walked across the room to open the door. To her disappointment, the man in the doorway was neither Tristan nor Belden, sick with worry and inquiring after her well-being.
“What is it, Tait?” she asked, more fractious than graceful.
“Milady,” said the hunter, bowed and then straightened, “I am empowered by the throne of Tortall to place ye under arrest fer high treason. Please d’not resist.”
For a moment, the lady’s sculpted mouth gaped at him. Then, “How dare you!” she shrieked, harpy-like. “I am the gods-named heiress of my father, Lady of Dunlath as approved by court and crown! You presume to judge me, to arrest me, you lowly servant, you serf? You think your position allows for you to question the conduct of your betters? You honestly believe -- Ah!”
As he advanced on her, she stumbled backward through the parlor, dodging furniture to slip through the second door into her bedchamber. With a heavy sigh, Tait followed her, his hounds and the two uncanny wolves following.
“Milady, it’s at an end!” called Tait into the bedchamber, stepping in cautiously. He had known Yolane to keep a lady’s knife under her pillow. “Yer mages knew it, an’ they’re tryin’ t’flee. Yer husband knew it; he took his own life. Turn yerself in, milady, an’ spare yer noble blood more shame.”
The chamber was empty. The dressing chamber and privy were empty, too, but the mirror near the lady’s bed was askew.
“Boys?” asked the hunter, and a hound dutifully stepped out of the pack to sniff at the feet of the mirror. When he barked, Tait nodded to himself and gripped both edges of the expensive furnishing, lifting it off the wall to place it cautiously upon the bed. Behind it was a narrow stone doorway leading down into narrow, spiraling stone steps.
The steps went on for a long time, with only the occasional torch to light them. Slivers of crimson silk and white lace marked where the lady had passed, now and then. He was ground level, he judged, when the steps ended. In the murk he searched the close walls for a crack and when he found one, he followed it down to find a latch. The door creaked open and Tait blinked at the sunlight.
Just as he was getting his bearings and the dogs were eagerly sniffing out the lady’s trail, he heard a familiar screech and then a deep, rumbling noise. Against his better judgment, Tait followed his ears to the source of both sounds and motioned the pack to follow him.
“Greetings, Tait Willowbow, Packmaster Brokefang, Packmistress Frolic.”
“Greetin’s, Tkaa,” said Tait. Perhaps the wolves greeted the basilisk, too; not used to being greeted in the same breath as a pair of wild animals, he could not begin to guess.
The hunter regarded the slender immortal, who was regarding a statue of grey stone that Tait was quite sure had not stood in Dunlath’s Castle’s courtyard yesterday.
“The lady Yolane, I p’sume?” he asked.
“I presume, as well, having never met her,” answered Tkaa.
Tait approached the statue and after examining her carven face nodded. “Maiden Huntress,” he swore under his breath.
“Who is this Maiden Huntress you speak of so often?” inquired the basilisk lightly.
Tait gave his head a short but firm shake. “Goddess,” he said.
“I have never heard her name,” replied Tkaa thoughtfully, paused, and added, “Oh.”
“What?” asked Tait.
“The wolves know of her,” said Tkaa, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “She is a great hunter who consorts with Old White, the first Packmaster. Among them she is known as the Girl Who Is Pack.”
“Lovely,” croaked the hunter.
“Shall I inquire after our allies, and discover the progress of their efforts?” asked Tkaa.
“You do that,” said Tait dryly. “Me an’ the boys’ll stay here, if ye please.”
***
A very ashen-faced Numair Salmalín was sitting in a lovely mountain glade, under an equally lovely apple tree and enjoying the autumn sunshine, when Rikash landed not ten feet from him, and hopped the rest of the way to the tree on his awkward steel legs.
“Greetings, Lord Moonsword,” said Numair.
“Greetings, Master Salmalín,” said Rikash. “Where, tell, is Master Tristan Staghorn?”
Numair laughed; a hollow, tired sound. “Like my tree?” he asked.
Rikash glanced at the tree sidelong. “Alas, poor Tristan.”
“I never knew a Stormwing to be so compassionate,” remarked the mage.
“I had promised him that I would one day braid his bones into my hair,” said Rikash.
Numair raised an eyebrow.
“As war trophies,” clarified the Stormwing, shaking his braided hair to punctuate.
“Ah.”
Rikash grinned.
“How goes the war effort, then?” asked Numair.
“Iakoju’s ogres are keeping most of the humans spectacularly occupied, the hurroks are giving your mages bloody hell -- literally -- and Tkaa reports that the lord and lady of the valley are permanently indisposed.”
Numair frowned. “Now, tell me the bad news.”
“Mortals are so dismal,” drawled Rikash. “The barrier’s not broken, yet, as I’m sure you can see, and the hurroks misplaced one of the mages. One Tolon Gardiner, I believe.”
“He escaped?” asked Numair.
Before Rikash could answer, the mage jumped onto his feet, yelping. His eyes were looking south east, towards Dunlath Castle, from which a fine column of smoke was now rising.
“I thought you said Yolane and Belden were dealt with?” he demanded of the Stormwing.
Rikash scowled. “They are,” he said sharply.
“Why the smoke, then?”
“Could it have something to do with the destruction of the barrier?” asked Rikash nonchalantly.
Numair looked up, and saw that the sky was now a deep, sharp autumnal blue devoid of any hint or sparkle of magic. “Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith,” he swore, “you always have to pull one last prank, don’t you, Tristan? If you’re at all concerned about your Lady Maura,” he said to Rikash, “follow me.” With that and a snap of black fire, he shifted into a large, black hawk and took flight, making straight for Dunlath Castle.
Tight-lipped, Rikash followed.
***
Three days later, Numair was sitting at the high table in the castle’s great hall, to the left of a pale and bandaged, but very much alive Lady Maura. The huntsman Tait sat to her right, and, assorted to either side of them, were Rikash, Tkaa, Iakoju and Brokefang. Before them stood Sir Raoul of Goldenlake, flanked by two sergeants in Own blue and silver.
“Without milady’s staunch loyalty, months might have passed before the Crown had word of this rebellion and quashed it,” said the knight, “and for this milady has the Crown’s gratitude. As reward for Dunlath’s fidelity, the fief is pardoned of charges of high treason against the throne, and such sentence shall rest only upon the heads of the deceased Lord Belden and Lady Yolane of Dunlath.
“In gratitude, as well as acknowledgement of the bonds of kinship between Dunlath and the Crown, the Crown grants mandate over Fief Dunlath to Lady Maura of Dunlath, pending and termed by her reaching the legal age of seventeen years. Until such time as the lady is of age to manage her estates, there shall reside in Dunlath a Crown-appointed guardian to shield and safeguard Fief Dunlath on behalf of the lady.
“Such is the proclamation of His Majesty, King Jonathan IV of Tortall.”
The knight’s last words rang oddly hollow through the hall, as he rolled up the official scroll he’d been reading from.
Before the echo had quite cleared, Lady Maura stood up. “On behalf of my ancestors, the noble line of Dunlath, I swear my fealty to the crown of Tortall, to protect all of Dunlath’s residents, large and small.”
Sir Raoul nodded, apparently ready to ignore the lady’s youth, her bandages and the way her voice cracked when she spoke. “Your royal guardian should arrive before the first snows, Lady Maura, or shortly after,” he said. “The Crown wishes you the best of fortunes and an easy winter.”
“You depart now?” asked the lady.
“Yes, milady,” replied the knight.
“Will Master Salmalín be leaving with you?”
The knight’s dark eyes flickered. “Master Salmalín has received his orders from the king,” he said.
Maura said nothing, and Numair could not help but remember that she was only ten. Just then, Tait Willowbow stood up, his stocky form much more impressive than the plain, pale child beside him.
“If ye’ll be leavin’ now, sir, we’ve got our fair work cut out, fixin’ Dunlath up,” he said, half-bowing to the knight.
Raoul nodded, shot a brief glance at Numair, gestured to his sergeants, and the three of them left.
Maura sat down heavily. “We do have our work cut out for us, don’t we?” she said with a sigh. “We need to rebuild the fallen tower, find laborers to reopen the opal mines, take down those horrible barracks and find farms for the ogres. Always ignoring, of course, a dozen or so angry, vicious and uncontrollable hurroks and untold other immortals that Tristan and his fellows might have brought to the valley.”
“Ye’ll not be facin’ work alone, Lady Maura,” said Tait firmly, and Maura smiled at him, her ordinarily pale face brightening.
“Well, if the hurroks are what worries you,” drawled Rikash, “I should be able to keep them in line or drive them off. Most of my nation has fled back to Carthak, but Janitteh and Shenan are still around, and I’m certainly not going anywhere.”
“If you find farms, ogres stay,” said Iakoju. “I stay to help.”
Brokefang panted, tongue lolling between sharp fangs.
Maura looked to Numair, but he only sighed.
“You heard Sir Raoul,” he said, “I’ve orders from the king. No one was to know I’m in the mountains, as it is, but now that Gardiner has escaped, it seems that just those people who we tried to keep that knowledge from will find out almost instantly. I cannot stay in Dunlath, Lady Maura. It’s simply not safe.”
Maura hung her head. “It was selfish to hope, I know,” she said, voice small. “I know you have greater worries than me, and heavier responsibilities. I’d just hoped...”
He sighed again. “I know. I wish I could stay, too.”
“You should go immediately, then,” said Maura.
He started to shake his head.
“No, listen,” she said impatiently. “I’m not being vindictive, or anything. You said whoever it is will know you’re here almost instantly. That means you’re in danger, maybe even right now. The sooner you leave the better.”
Rather than speak, he gathered his cloak. Just as he was standing at the door, Tait’s rough voice caught him. “Gods be with ye, man.”
He half-smiled. “And you.”
Previous || Next
Chapter Two: Hunted
Tristan Staghorn was in the tower workroom, knee-deep in a complicated magical working, when a sound outside the secluded room’s only window alerted him to the world around him. Frowning with displeasure, the mage laid down his scalpel-like wax-sculpting knife and went to the window. Someone was calling, strangely close to the top of the tall tower. Now more perplexed than annoyed, Tristan unbarred the wooden shutters and peered outside.
“Master Staghorn!” an urgent voice called.
“What is it, morning patrol?” asked the mage irritably.
The Stormwings circling not far from him glared, but did not object. His own master had curbed their willful independence effectively, it seemed, as their spokesman went on.
“Strangers sighted just outside the western pass, Master Staghorn, and headed in.”
“Strangers?” Tristan was rubbing his chin.
“Queen’s Riders,” interrupted another Stormwing, one with bright green eyes and a shrewd smile. “Roughly twenty.”
“I see,” said the mage. Lonely wanderers or hunters were one thing, but an armed and ready force for the Crown was a threat to his master’s plans. “Very well, the invaders will be dealt with. Return to your duties.”
“Yes, Master Staghorn,” replied the first Stormwing, nodding, but the mage had already shut his window, and did not hear.
“Yes, Master Staghorn,” echoed the other in a half-mocking, half-disgusted snort, “of course, Master Staghorn. Right away, Master Staghorn! You’d think he was our rightful king by the way you pander to him, Gallek.”
“Shut up, Moonsword,” hissed the Stormwing called Gallek.
“It’s as though you’ve forgotten the Divine Realms entirely. Quite a feat, considering Emperor Ozorne only had us ripped out of them last winter. Remember what it was like, Gallek? To be free?”
“Rikash,” said one of the other Stormwings quietly, flying closer to the offender. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked defiantly. “Speak my mind? Queen Barzha never had anything against us doing that!”
“Queen Barzha isn’t here,” remarked Gallek nastily.
“Don’t stir trouble,” replied the female Stormwing, ignoring Gallek.
“Trouble’s already here, Janitteh,” Rikash retorted. “I don’t like that Staghorn man, or the other ground-pounders here.”
“You don’t seem to mind their child,” said Gallek.
Rikash stiffened. “That is different,” he said with emphasis.
Gallek just shrugged and smiled, then flew away. Most of the others followed. Janitteh and Rikash remained, circling the tallest tower of Dunlath Castle.
“I don’t like it here, either,” said Janitteh to the unresponsive Rikash.
“But where Stone Tree Nation goes, so do we,” he said blandly.
“What else are you going to do?” Janitteh asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But something in this valley is afoul, or soon will be. I can almost smell it.”
***
The courtyard of Dunlath Castle was silent and empty, with only a half-moon and the cloud-wisps flitting over it awake to light it. Out the kitchen door, past the stables, past the kennels, a small figure moved hesitantly. The figure stopped at the door of a squat stone cottage, and knocked. There was no light in the shack’s only window, and yet the ancient door soon creaked open.
“Tait?” The voice that spoke was soft and wavering.
“Milady! What’re ye doin’ here?”
“Tait, can I please come in? It’s very cold out here.” The figure shivered.
“Ye shouldna be here, milady,” berated the hunter.
No answer came.
Tait sighed, then ushered the girl in from the cold. As he jabbed the dying fire to roaring life, Lady Maura of Dunlath removed her cloak and seated herself demurely on a straw-seated stool.
“You’re right, you know,” she said.
“Eh?” Tait was still stoking the fire.
“I shouldn’t be here,” said Maura firmly. “I should leave.”
“Aye, child. Go back t’yer own bed, d’not be wanderin’ alone in the night an’ cold.”
“No, Tait,” the girl said, mock-patient. “I need to leave Dunlath. Go to Corus to... well, I just need to.”
Tait sat up very straight, his eyes blazing. “Dare ye not dream of doin’ such a thing, child!”
Maura looked quite taken aback. “But...”
“Nay, Maura, d’not ever say such things!” repeated Tait fiercely. “I’ll not have ye on that road alone, unprotected, not for a day, nor an hour! What would yer mother say, milady? An’ yer nurse’s be sore worried, an’ Lord Rikash, too! What possessed ye, child, t’think o’ such a thing?”
“It’s my duty!” cried Maura.
“Leave duty t’the older an’ wiser, Lady Maura,” said the hunter gruffly.
“I can’t,” insisted the girl. “There isn’t anyone else to do it, but me.”
“Do what, child? Be off an’ killed on the road, or worse?”
The child fell silent, round face creased, brown eyes impassive.
“Well? Y’can’ answer, can ye? Wantin’ t’be a knight is all well an’ good, but y’can’ do it alone. Th’ lord an’ lady wish --“
“--I know quite well what the lord and lady wish!” snapped Maura. “And it has nothing to do with my being a knight or staying here and waiting to be married. It’s far worse than that. It’s terrible, and I’m the one who must stop it.”
Tait fell silent for a moment. “Are ye serious, girl?”
“Have you ever known me to joke of such matters?” demanded the girl.
He shook his head.
“It’s treason,” hissed Maura. “I’ll not be a part of it. You can’t make me.”
“Surely, runnin’ off t’Corus alone on the eve o’ winter is no answer,” replied Tait desperately. “There’s somethin’ else y’can do, somethin’ safe, surely.”
“I have to warn the king!”
“Send a letter!”
“It might not reach him on time!”
Tait chewed his lip. “Go t’sleep, milady - nay, hear me out. Go t’sleep, now. In the mornin’ I’ll speak t’milord. I’ll take ye away from here myself. We’ll ride a week to Fief Aili, ye’ll stay with yer mother’s cousin.”
“But if I do nothing to stop the traitors then I’m a traitor myself.”
“Who’s t’say ye knew?”
“I’ll know.” Maura’s voice was almost sullen.
“Ye can’ always be a daughter o’ the Goddess, child,” said Tait softly. “Sometimes ye do what’s right, an’ sometimes ye stay safe. That’s life.”
“That’s not good enough for me,” said the girl flatly, her voice high.
Tait sighed. “Can we try my way, at least?” he asked.
Reluctantly, Maura nodded.
“Then tell no one what ye said t’me. Not nurse, not Lord Rikash, no one.”
“Lord Rikash already knows,” Maura said bitterly.
The hunter muttered something under his breath.
She bristled. “I didn’t tell him!”
“Good!”
Scowling, the girl got up and wrapped her cloak around her. “You have until the end of the week, Tait,” she informed him. “Otherwise, I follow my own plan.”
“Just what I need,” said Tait to the fireplace after she left, “more problems.”
***
“I think the matter deserves due consideration.”
Yolane sighed. “Belden, don’t be vexatious. It’s no concern of mine. Let her go where she pleases. One more bothersome worry out of our hair.”
“I agree,” said Tristan, standing up. “The girl’s whereabouts are of no consequence.”
“You don’t find it the least bit suspicious?” asked Belden, pushing away his wineglass.
“Suspicious?” Tristan gave a slight laugh.
“Yes,” insisted Belden, his face flaming. “She’s never had the urge to visit relatives before, has she?”
“I really can’t recall,” drawled his wife.
“Be serious, Yolane!”
“About what?” The lady fluttered her lovely hand dismissively. “A child of ten? Be serious yourself, dear. What threat could she possibly be to our plan? Let her go, and good riddance.”
Tristan walked over to Yolane and wrapped one arm around her waist, stroking her auburn hair with his fingertips. “When you are queen, you need never see her again,” he promised.
Disgusted, Belden refilled his glass and ignored them. When he was king, he need never see his wife again.
***
The axe’s strike was perfectly decisive. A lump rolled away from it, covered in black cloth. There were no screams. There was hardly even blood. All in all, it was rather disappointing, decided Numair as he turned a silent back on Nobleman’s Courtyard and walked down the side of, and away from, Traitor’s Hill.
“Not much, was it? I could have told you that,” offered a friendly voice.
Numair turned. “Not much for a traitor,” he agreed.
“You wanted more.” Onua’s words were not a question.
“Not much for the man who added me to the long list of those who owe their lives to the Lioness,” he said rather bitterly, “against my will, might I add.”
“Lord Sinthya was a threat, and now he isn’t.” Onua shrugged. “That’s all there is to it. As for Alanna, what’s a little last minute healing between friends? And, don’t forget, I also played a part in that tale.”
“Yes, Onua,” said Numair obligingly, “thanks terribly for saving me from the clutches of my torturer and bringing me to possibly the only healer in Tortall short of Duke Baird who could have cleansed my blood.”
“You’re welcome,” retorted Onua sharply. “Can’t you put it behind you? You’d like to be presentable at tonight’s banquet, I’m sure, and brooding always tangles your hair, so.”
“You might be more sensitive to my anguish,” he suggested.
“Or not.”
“What’s this banquet all about, anyway?”
“Your favorite thing,” said Onua wickedly, “girls.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Lovely little royal maidens for our king to wed,” she elaborated. “There must be half a dozen visiting at the palace, and each one brings a trail of ten attendants.”
“So soon?” asked Numair.
She was more serious now. “It’s been over a year, Numair. Tortall needs a queen, and he knows it.”
“Still, it can’t be easy for him,” he replied, rubbing his chin.
“He doesn’t speak of it to me,” said Onua. “And it’s far from easy for all of us.”
Numair thought of Buri, of Alanna and George, of Cythera and Gary, of Baird. He knew he would attend the banquet that night. “No, it isn’t.”
***
In their palace apartments, the Tortallan Prime Minister and his wife were dressing for a banquet. Clad in pristine white linen, Lady Cythera was fixing her obstinate yellow curls with pins while her husband ignored the tunic she’d laid out for him and perused a sheaf of parchment he’d brought in from the study.
Cythera coughed delicately.
“Hmm?”
“Planning on getting dressed any time soon, dear?” she asked sweetly.
Gary blinked at her.
“It really wouldn’t do for us to be late.”
“I wasn’t planning on being late, Cyth,” said Gary, turning his attention back to the documents in his hands.
“Of course not,” sighed Cythera. Fixing the last pin, she got up and shook out her skirts. Then she resolutely walked up to her husband, plucked the sheaf out of his hands and dropped it on her dressing table. “Arms up,” she ordered, pulling off his day tunic and fetching the finer silk one that lay forgotten on their bed.
“I can dress myself!”
“Yet you choose not to. I wonder why.”
Shaking his head, Gary shoved his wife onto the bed and took the tunic from her. He made a face, but put on the garment. “There,” he said. “Happy, now?”
Cythera smiled. “You look lovely, dear.” When he reached for the papers, though, she grabbed his wrist.
“We have time,” said Gary.
“No we don’t. This is the last night. We should be there early. If anything goes wrong, it’ll be a bad omen for the announcement tomorrow.”
“What could go wrong?” asked Gary.
Cythera glared. “Simply anything,” she said. “Do we know who it’s going to be, yet? I need to make preparations.”
“It could be the Scanran, the warlord’s sister, or the Marenite; odds are open,” said Gary.
“We have the Marenite royalty’s coat of arms in storage, if that’s the case,” said Cythera thoughtfully. “Whatever we will do if the Scanrans agree to the terms, I don’t know. Those warlords have no heraldry at all. How are we to honor the king’s bride-to-be?”
He kissed her forehead. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
Still deep in thought, Cythera dragged her husband out of the chamber and down two flights of steps to the palace’s great banquet hall. The lesser nobles in attendance had taken their places, and now the old nobility were entering the hall. Gary and Cythera entered among the last, as members of one of the oldest duchies in Tortall, appointed king’s officials and part of His Majesty’s privileged inner circle.
They were seated, of course, at the king’s high table. Cythera scanned the crowded hall for possible points of conflict, but Master Oakbridge had created another diplomatically brilliant arrangement. Everything was ready, she thought with satisfaction. Everything was perfect. The great doors swung open, and the herald began to announce names.
King Jonathan entered last, his countenance proud and chilly. A lesser woman might have surrendered to the pinch in the heart Cythera felt now, as she remembered the queen who had instated her as royal hostess, saving her from the many boring hours she’d faced after her wedding. Yet here they were, looking to replace her.
She stubbornly shook these thoughts away. The king strode up to the high table and took his place on the single throne. Quietly the high nobility sat down. The hall shuffled with the movement of lesser nobility. Once everyone was seated, the banquet began.
Now was as good a time as any to acquaint herself with her possible future queens. Cythera chatted effortlessly with Lord Martin, but her attention went immediately to the table’s extremes.
The Marenite princess sat only two chairs down from her. She engaged herself in conversation with cool and un-endearing decorum. Maren was a long-time ally of Tortall, but the diplomatic link was weak and disused. Its proximity ought to ease the transition. The princess would adjust quickly to her role once she got to know all the important people in Corus. An easy match, decided Cythera.
The warlord’s sister was more complicated. She sat at the very end of the high table, and Cythera could barely see her. Diplomatic ventures into Scanra were a delicate matter because of that land’s fragmented nature. If they could cement this alliance with one of the stronger warlords, its military value could be beyond assessment. The Corus court would have a hard time adjusting to such foreign ways, but it would be a risk of high reward.
The banquet ended, and Cythera stood to lead the way into the neighboring hall, where bards waited for the dancing. Gary vanished with his father into what had to be an impromptu King’s Council meeting. She let him off, and accepted an offer to dance with one of the Scanran entourage, Raggard Kerussra.
“What do you think of our northern type of royalty?” Kerussra asked in flawless, though accented, Common.
“I think it is scarcely different than our own, certainly not enough to be a barrier,” answered Cythera.
Kerussra laughed. “That is so.”
“What do you think of our southern customs?” she asked.
“So much protocol,” said Kerussra with a sigh. “I long for our simpler ways, sometimes, despite the allure of this splendor.”
At that moment Gary arrived and, bowing to them both, asked politely, “Might I steal my wife’s attentions for a moment, Master Kerussra?”
“Of course,” said the other, stepping back.
Gary took Cythera’s hands and immediately she felt him tug for the lead. She allowed him to direct their dancing to the other side of the hall, until they stood by the curtains. Without a word Gary led her into a side chamber. Her father-in-law was there, along with Harailt of Aili and Imrah of Legann.
“What is it?” she asked nervously.
“An attempt has been made on Princess Gessyn’s life,” said Duke Gareth gravely.
“And on Numair’s,” added Gary.
She shook her head sharply. “Where are they? Are they alive? Have the assassins been caught? Who knows? Do the delegates know? Did you tell the king?”
“Duke Baird excused himself immediately, and the Lioness soon will, as well,” said the duke. “Guards were sent off after the assassins. We’ve tried to keep it as quiet as possible; right now the only known thing is that the princess felt faint and was taken to get some fresh air. Sir Myles and Baron Cooper are attempting to discover the identity of the assassins.”
“Will they live?” asked Cythera again.
“We don’t know,” answered the duke. “They were cut with poisoned daggers. Though they lost little blood, the poison is in their bodies, and there’s no way to tell if they absorbed a lethal dose.”
“And the king?”
“We’d like you to tell him,” said Gary.
She hesitated. “Like you told me?”
Gary shook his head. “He must never leave the hall. If he does, people will suspect the worst.”
“Can you do it?” the duke asked.
“Of course!” Cythera shook her head again, straightened her gown, and stepped out of the room.
“She can do it,” said Gary a moment later, his eyes locked on the draperies that still moved, disturbed by her passage.
***
Raggard Kerussra stood in the palace’s Healer’s Wing, along with half of Princess Gessyn’s retinue. Duke Gareth stood with him as a representative of the Tortallan Crown. They had been waiting since dawn, since the message had reached the Scanrans. Finally, Duke Baird stepped out of the room.
“The princess is dead,” he said. “I could not pull the poison out of her blood before it reached her heart.”
“King Jonathan sincerely apologizes to Lord Nothar for this failure to guard his royal sister’s safety,” said Duke Gareth. “He adds his hope that this unfortunate event will not succeed in sabotaging the diplomatic relations between Lord Nothar and himself, as its planners clearly intended it to do.”
“My lord Nothar certainly does not intend to dismiss the possible alliance with Tortall, once it is proven that the assassination attempt did not originate from the Tortallan throne itself,” said Kerussra, “as I am sure it will. Messages will be sent to him to inform him of this regrettable development. His orders to me will be forthcoming.”
Duke Gareth bowed. “Master Kerussra, I take my leave.”
“Your Grace,” replied Kerussra with a bow.
***
The late summer air was cooler under the heavy canopy of the forest than in the flagstone-paved courtyard of Castle Dunlath. The light was green, and the smell of leaves and dirt lingered everywhere. Tait kneeled to examine a print in the ground. Silently trailing after him, Lady Maura watched him work disconsolately.
Tait shook his head. “Still a couple wolves dennin’ in these mountains,” he said. “Their pack-leader must still be alive.”
“I thought that awful monster killed them all,” Maura piped in.
“As did I,” replied Tait.
“Yolane got her way, again,” said Maura bitterly. “Those awful mines of theirs are still working, and there’s less forest every day. The lake water used to be so clear and blue... now it’s dirty. I wish Dunlath could be like it was when my father was alive.”
“Hush,” said Tait, his hand on his crossbow. “Didna ye hear me say there are wolves in these woods still?”
Maura paid him no mind. “Papa used to take me swimming in the lake in the summers and we -- oh!”
“Halt! Who goes there?” called Tait, pointing the crossbow at a rustling movement in the bushes.
A whispery voice rose from among the prickly wild-berry bush branches. “Such a shame that my first encounter with humans after four hundred years should be so potentially violent.”
“Who goes there?” repeated Tait, and Maura noticed his voice was much more nervous.
The creature that stepped out of the undergrowth was certainly not human. It was tall and lithe, its grey hide covered in bead-like scales. Its dark eyes were frighteningly clever when it spoke again. “Please don’t shoot. I mean you no harm.”
“What are you?” asked Maura, her voice oddly thick.
“A basilisk,” said the thing.
“Don’ touch the girl,” warned Tait, his crossbow point still level. “Careful, Lady Maura. It could turn ye to stone.”
Maura looked awed. “Is that true?”
The basilisk nodded. “Basilisks can hunt and defend themselves by turning prey or attacker to stone,” he said.
“Will you do that to us?” asked Maura.
“Only if you attack me,” replied the basilisk reasonably.
Tait had slowly drawn Maura back by the arm until she stood behind him. “I wouldn’ be so sure,” he said.
The basilisk nodded again. “Indeed, caution can never be of harm.”
“He won’t hurt us,” whispered Maura to Tait. “You don’t have to shoot him. Please?”
Tait shook his head and kept the bow up.
The basilisk sniffed the air. “There is a Coldfang loose in these woods,” it said. “Someone in this valley has been hunting thieves.”
“My sister,” said Maura.
“Coldfangs are very dangerous,” it said, and Maura imagined that its face was stern, like her tutor berating her when she made a mistake in her calculations, or misread a word.
“Some thieves can’ be hunted by normal means,” replied Tait, looking disgruntled.
“Surely human mages do not require such an emphatic response,” said the basilisk, shaking its slender lizard’s head.
Maura shook her head, too. “Tait thinks it was the wolves.”
The basilisk’s grey eyes locked on hers, strangely expressionless.
“He says the wolves in the valley were getting as smart as humans, before the Coldfang killed them.”
“Lady Maura --“
“His dogs and traps couldn’t stop them, so my sister had Tristan get her that Coldfang, but Tait says the pack-leader is still alive, and he’s prob’ly the smartest one -- oh!”
Without warning, the basilisk had turned his tail on them and walked away, his long legs affording him very long strides.
Maura propped her fists on her hips. “That’s not very nice!”
“Leave the beast alone, Lady Maura,” said Tait. “I’d best take ye back to the castle, an’ not bring ye out to these woods again. Curst creatures here, ne’er as safe as it was before these accursed demon wolves, huge lizards and griffins and such...”
“Griffins? Where? In Dunlath? Can I see them, Tait, please?”
“No!”
***
Onua was the first to visit him, after he woke up. Then Alanna and George came, and finally the king, accompanied by Buri in full Rider garb.
“Numair,” said the king. “I know you’re awake.”
He was. He turned in his bed, and then sat up. “Majesty. Commander. Please excuse me if I fail to bow.”
“Let’s get straight to business,” said Buri briskly. “There were two assassins, both mercenary; both carrying poisoned daggers. Myles had the one we caught investigated. One of them was definitely targeting the warlord’s sister, since word got out that we were going to choose her for queen. The other...”
“Came for me?” said Numair quietly. “You can say it. I’ve been waiting for this day for years. He’s finally found me, hasn’t he?”
“Indications are that the emperor sent the assassins,” said Jonathan.
“Ozorne knows you’re here, Numair,” said Buri. “He very definitely wants you dead, too.”
“That’s not new,” Numair pointed out.
“This is,” said the king flatly. “You are to leave Corus at once, and not return to the palace until you have specific orders from me. The palace is not safe for you, and I can’t afford to lose you. Go into hiding. Go north into the mountains and stay away from the center of events for a while.”
“I could go back to my tower and stay there,” suggested Numair.
“No,” said the king. “If he could find you here, he can find you there. Try the City of the Gods. Surely you can make use of their libraries for some experiment.”
“Majesty,” said Buri. “What about Dunlath?”
“What about it?” asked Numair. “I’ve never heard of the place.”
“It’s a nice, quiet mountain fief,” said Buri. “Only lately it’s been noisy enough that one of my groups disappeared near there and was never heard from again.”
The king was quiet for a time, thinking. When he stirred, his eyes were certain. “I’m sending you on a mission to Dunlath,” he said to Numair. “Find out what happened to the missing Rider group and send your report back to me. Do not return to Corus; send your conclusions through the King’s Own. I believe Raoul took Third Company up that way recently.
“After that, go to Scanra to pay a visit to Warlord Nothar. An esteemed diplomatic envoy might help soften his feelings, after we managed to get his youngest sister killed.”
The king left. Buri remained.
“It’s safe for him?” asked Numair bitterly. “They got inside his banquet hall. They could kill him at any moment.”
“He’s guarded,” said Buri.
“He came here alone.”
“There was a unit of the Own outside the door,” replied Buri dryly, “ten of them. There’s no getting near him these days without them checking you over finger to toe.”
“How long will this last?” asked Numair of no one in particular.
“Until your emperor friend lets up?”
Numair sighed.
“Buck up, trainee,” said Buri with a smile. “It can’t be all bad if you get a free mountain vacation out of it.”
***
Autumn was creeping near. The winds were crisp, especially high in the air, and shadows of clouds danced and flitted across the ground of the valley while their airborne counterparts rolled along, graying the sky and hiding the sun. Yet a few rays escaped from between the quilts, glancing off of steel feathers.
“Does the glare bother you?” asked Rikash.
Maura shook her head emphatically, shading her eyes with her hand.
“Where should I fly?” he asked next.
“North!” called the girl over the shriek of the wind, “over the woods!”
She had forgotten what else lay in the northern reaches of Long Lake Valley. The woods were visibly reduced, and wide belts of naked ground surrounded them. The first belt was patchy with tree stumps and bits of undergrowth, land just recently cleared of trees. The second belt was filled with craters and mounds of dirt, among which worked tiny, faraway figures, ogre or human. The cleared land was so ugly, and the mine workers looked so unhappy, Maura hated to be there.
Life is filled with things you don’t like, her father used to say. You must never shirk your duty, just because you find it unpleasant. I hate it when you say that, Papa, she would tell him. But he would just smile at her, and she knew that was exactly what he meant.
“Do you want me to turn back, Lady Maura?” asked Rikash, interrupting her thoughts.
Maura was silent for a moment, and finally said, ”No.”
She imagined the look Rikash would have for her if they were eye-to-eye. Quizzical, her tutor called it. “No,” she said again, more firmly. “Could you land? Right here, near the mines?”
“Of course, Lady Maura,” he answered. “We must not stay long, though. Your nurse will be worried if we are away longer than usual.”
The sling she sat in bobbed up and down over the ground, no matter how hard Rikash tried to balance the movements of his four wings to allow her to climb down. Maura didn’t mind; she was used to it, and had never suffered from dizziness. At least, not since that first flight... She banished the thought as Rikash dropped the sling’s ropes and landed. Now that he could look her in the eye, she saw that she’d been wrong. The look he cast her was half-suspicious, half-wary.
“What trouble are you brewing now, Lady Maura?” he asked. “Why did you choose to land here?”
Maura held up her chin. “I want to see the mines.”
“You hate mines,” retorted Rikash.
“It is my responsibility to deal with things I dislike,” she replied loftily. “It won’t do to shirk my duties, just because I don’t find them enjoyable.”
Rikash rolled his eyes. “On another duty kick, are we?” he said, almost to himself. “Does your sister know the judgment you pass on her actions, in the name of duty and responsibility?”
“Not unless you told her,” retorted the girl, feeling nasty.
If he had arms, he would prop them on his hips, as Nurse did when she put her elbows on the table or spoke too loudly. “You. Are. A. Child. The affairs of Dunlath, the affairs of your elders, your sister’s affairs, are not yours to worry of.”
“You mean, like her affair with Master Tristan?” asked Maura, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. “The adulterous one? Or like the affair where she’s talking about being queen again?”
Rikash sighed. “Daughter, you are far too stubborn for your own health.”
Maura ignored him, and turned to the mines. Her eyes widened.
The Stormwing sighed again, and hopped up to stand next to her.
“They’re slaves?” she gasped.
His voice was grave. “I... did not want you to see this. I knew it would upset you.”
“As well it ought,” hissed the girl angrily. “Slaves. In the land of our fathers. You’ve gone too far this time, Yolane. I won’t stand for it.”
***
Rikash had been reserved, Janitteh willing, and Shenan reluctant, but she had convinced them all -- with Rikash’s help. It was just a small thing, she was not too blind with passion and righteousness to see that, but it was something. Her father’s spirit clamoring against the injustice done on his lands was, for once, overpowered by the spirit of her mother, who whispered that it was too awful to leave any creature to die, big or small.
Conquering her fear was easy. Squeamish as she knew herself to be, not even she could be afraid of an ogre beaten and bleeding, lying like dead in the brush. Convincing Rikash was not. She knew he would be unhappy with her choices even as he helped her achieve them, just as he had protested about flying her to the mines and slave barracks, even after having done it almost daily for two weeks. Once she knew he would do it, she didn’t care. He carried her sling while Shenan and Janitteh balanced the ogre’s between them.
Belden would be in his study, pretending to immerse himself in some dull book. Yolane would still be abed. Tristan would be either with her or with his mages, in that tower they had claimed for a workroom. Brewing untold awfulness, she didn’t doubt. Tait would be hunting. Who’s to see that she returned from her flight not alone, but with a wounded ogre slave? She would keep it in the stable, where it was warm and out of the wind.
Nurse would disapprove, her mouth forming a tight line of “miss ought be more ladylike” reprove. But Cook would help, and so would the stable hands. The ogre would get better; it had to. It would wake up and tell her its name, and she would find out if it was a boy or a girl, because she couldn’t really tell but didn’t want to admit it. When it was all better she would give it food and clothes for the road and send it out, at night, without anyone knowing. And it would take her message to Corus, and the king would send an army to bring back Belden and Yolane for justice.
And maybe, just maybe, Dunlath would survive, and her too.
When the third Stormwing took off and was a safe distance away, not looking back, two figures came out of the rim of the woods. Two figures who had been silently watching Lady Maura’s daring rescue. The tall figure’s eyes were calm, watching the retreating Stormwings unblinkingly. The second figure, a large, dark grey wolf with a heavily plumed tail, sniffed the ground where the Stormwings had been with interest.
I still do not understand what you think this means, said the wolf. Many two-leggers are still cutting the trees and digging in the ground. Just one less will not change anything.
The basilisk shook its head, still watching specks in the sky flying away. - You are wrong, Brokefang, he replied. The two-legger you saw here was an ogre slave. Human two-leggers and ogre two-leggers are not the same. -
I know that, said Brokefang impatiently.
- Your sister fought a mountain lion once, you told me. Imagine that your pack were to find a wounded mountain lion. Would you ignore it, or lick its wounds? -
Brokefang thought. Two-leggers and ogres hunt against each other, and now they hunt together?
Tkaa sounded pleased when he said, - Yes. The human child treats the ogre slave as an equal. This is a good thing happening in this valley. -
Will the tree cutting stop? Brokefang asked.
- Perhaps. - said Tkaa. - I would like to speak again with this girl-child and her guardian hunter. -
Brokefang had no interest in who else Tkaa spoke with, for the moment. He had only met the basilisk a short time ago, and would not have taken notice of him at all, had the basilisk not come to seek him out. Now, he and what was left of his pack were free of the thief-hunter who had tried to freeze them dead, free to hunt again. Alive and feeding, Brokefang could listen to Tkaa speak of the balance of the valley, and the interests of wolves and other creatures.
I would like to eat, said Brokefang. I will return to the lair, now. Tonight, the pack hunts.
- Good hunting, - said Tkaa, already heading in the direction the strangers had flown away in.
Good hunting, returned Brokefang, melting back into the woods.
***
“Halt! Who goes there?”
Numair scrambled up from his tailor’s seat, upsetting his travelling desk with all that was on it. Hounds paced in his direction, baring fangs and growling at him. With his back practically against the shallow cave’s stone wall, his options were limited. Nevertheless, he prepared a shield spell, knowing that each time he used his Gift he risked detection by any mage who might reside in this valley. Ordinarily, he would be quite happy to assume the locals to be low-grade hedge-wizards, but the scorched bones of soldiers he had found were evidence to the contrary.
“Stand back!” he called, trying to put strength behind his voice. “I am an agent on behalf of the Crown!” Too late he realized that statement might put him in more danger than before, and cursed his own folly.
“An agent for the Crown, eh?” asked the man with the crossbow, looking unconvinced.
“From Corus,” added Numair, a fraction before deciding that fact was embarrassingly obvious.
The man with the crossbow glared at him.
“Care to return the favour?” asked Numair, getting inadvisably angry. “Introduce yourself.”
“Tait Willowbow, Dunlath gamekeeper,” said the man. “Down, boys,” he called, and the dogs retreated with evident reluctance.
Numair let tiny flashes of black and white spark between his fingers. “Might you know anything about a group of the Queen’s Riders that was last heard of in this district, some six months ago?” he asked, scowling with what he hoped was menace, “or perhaps the soldiers that were not heard from since July, only two months ago?”
Tait’s eyes shadowed, looking not at Numair but through him. “Ye might fare better t’ask milord Belden or milady Yolane of that, stranger,” he said.
“I am travelling discreetly,” said Numair. “The nobility that hold these lands are not to know of my presence.”
“An’ should I to inform them such?” asked the hunter.
“You shall be held accountable to whatever they may be conspiring, and sentenced accordingly,” answered Numair coldly.
“I’d best take you to the castle,” said Tait, lowering his crossbow. “Lady Maura would scarce forgive me, if I let ye off wi’out her meetin’ ye.”
Lady Maura? That’s interesting, thought Numair. He mentioned other names earlier. Keeping an eye on the loaded crossbow, he kneeled down and gathered his writing implements, packing them into his travelling desk. He stowed the desk in his saddlebags, then followed the gamekeeper’s lead, taking Spots and Mangle both by the reins.
***
This was surely, decided Maura, the strangest gathering she had ever attended. Eyeing the tall man standing in the doorway doubtfully, she sat down on one of Tait’s rough wooden chairs, spreading her dark skirts around her with all the poise of an impeccably mannered noble-girl.
“Yes?” she said to the latest newcomer, the expected question to which the only answer was an introduction. She was disappointed when Tait made the stranger’s reply for him.
“I found ‘im in the woods, milady,” he said. “Says he’s here on behalf o’ the Crown.”
Maura narrowed her eyes in her best effort to impersonate her sister. “If you are indeed an envoy of the king, surely you carry a sigil of royal authority. Show it to me.”
The newcomer looked flustered.
Maura gave him the blackest scowl she could muster.
After a short hesitation, he made up his mind. “My name is Numair Salmalín. I am a black robe mage and royal delegate for King Jonathan IV of Tortall,” he said, back straight and dark eyes peculiarly grave.
Tait looked unimpressed, but Maura gaped.
“The Numair Salmalín?” she demanded, podgy face flushed. “What are you doing here, in Dunlath?”
“Milady,” said Tait, “perhaps it would be wiser t’seek proof of the stranger’s tale.”
The girl’s expression turned sedate, and she looked back at the newcomer.
The man spread out large hands. “I can prove I am a mage,” he said.
“That will not be necessary,” a whispery voice came from the shadows behind Maura and to her left. Tait started, and then glared.
“He sought me,” the child told him, unprompted.
“Ogres and basilisks in milady’s castle now, and what next?” The hunter threw up both hands in exasperation.
The whispery voice took advantage of the pause, ignoring Tait’s protests. “As I have said, no proof is necessary. Lady Maura, this human is of great power and training in the human Gift.”
Maura nodded. “Master Salmalín?”
He took a further step into the cottage, just as the owner of the whispery voice stepped toward him and into the light. The two regarded each other for a moment, and Maura was startled when she first noticed the man was dreadfully close to the basilisk in height. Her anxiety abated when several moments passed and neither party made a threatening motion towards the other. She turned to meet Tait’s furious eyes.
“He said to call him Tkaa,” she said, no hint of apology in her manner. “The basilisk, that is. The ogre’s name is Iakoju, and she’s a girl-ogre. She woke up yesterday while you were away, hunting. Oh, and Tkaa said he met the wolf you were hunting, in the woods. Well, the leader of the pack. His name is Brokefang, and he and his pack tried to stop Yolane from mining the valley, because they say it’s killing it.
“So, you see? I was right all along! It’s wrong, all of it. It’s wrong that Iakoju’s family are slaves, and that the woods are all being cut down, and what Yolane is doing behind Belden’s back and most especially the treason part!”
Before Tait could make his reply, a polite voice inquired, “Treason?”
Maura fell suddenly silent.
“You should tell him,” said Iakoju, tolerantly ignoring the stares she received from both men, as they noticed her for the first time.
Perhaps only Maura heard Tait’s very low whisper of, “Maiden Huntress, it’s awake!”
The girl bit her lip, but said quickly and breathlessly, “My sister wants to be queen!”
“That’s ridiculous!” said the tall wizard flatly, “Tortall has a -“
His silence was so abrupt and his face so set and unreadable that Maura was moved to wonder just how close to the throne this powerful stranger really was. To circumvent such useless ponderings, she said, “Let me tell you everything.”
She did. She told him about Yolane and Belden’s treachery, about the woods and the mines, about the ogre slaves, about the stranger mages and the tower room they locked themselves in, sometimes, never letting anyone in. She saw him frown as she mentioned Tristan Staghorn.
“He’s a very powerful war-mage,” he said by way of an explanation. “We used to be... acquainted.”
“What now?” asked Maura anxiously.
Numair pondered. “Clearly, we need to remove your sister, your brother-in-law and the foreign mages from the equation. They pose the greatest threat. Once we negate them, however, there still remain the mine-workers, the men-at-arms and the various hostile immortals that may be loyal to Yolane and Tristan.”
“Rikash say, men keep hurroks slaves,” said Iakoju suddenly. “Hurroks will fight men, if they can.”
“What keeps them from --“ started Numair, and interrupted himself. “Who is Rikash?”
Maura sighed. “I’d hoped I was done explaining, but it looks like there is still some left.”
“Lord Rikash Moonsword came to this valley with your mage, Staghorn,” said Tait. “Him and his ilk, they came with the hurroks. Unnatural, if you ask me.”
“All beings act according to their nature, as it was willed by the gods,” said Numair distractedly. “Just what ilk is he of, exactly?”
“Stormwing,” said Maura quietly, watching Numair flinch. “He’s my friend.”
“Well,” said Numair.
“If he said the hurroks will fight Tristan and the others, given the chance, I believe him,” she said further. “As to what keeps them from disobeying now, I don’t know. I’ll be sure to ask him that, as soon as I can.”
“There are other things we need to know,” said Numair.
She shoved a sheet of parchment across the table at him. “Make me a list.”
***
“They might escape,” suggested Belden quietly, glancing at his glass and judging it too empty.
“Escape?” asked Tristan slowly.
“Belden, they’re only ogres, they’re no threat,” drawled Yolane.
She was picking up his speech patterns, noticed Belden, a fraction after he decided his beautiful wife’s lust for the crown would make her declare Raoul of Goldenlake no threat if he stepped up to her with a drawn blade and bade her proffer her neck. He directed his next words at the mage, focusing a gaze that was clear despite drink on those hateful hazel eyes.
“Ogres are brutes, are they not?” he said in measured tones, “not very sophisticated, but strong and fierce, especially in great numbers. Only a few dozen are working the opal mines, and yet, look and see, what a stir they’ve caused the moment it occurred to them to fight their whip-drivers. What if they leave, and return bringing more of their kind?”
“What, indeed?” said Tristan to himself, and Belden noted with satisfaction that his weighed words had penetrated the man’s thick, insufferable skull.
“If the king’s men have word of immortals attacking in Long Lake, they will swarm about us like angry wasps at a thieving bear. If they do not, which is unlikely, we might not manage the beasts on our own.”
The mage’s eyes caught his and held them. “You’ve an idea of how to prevent this, I presume?” he said with appalling mockery.
You presume much, thought Belden, but bit back the words. “Prevent them from leaving,” he said instead. “I know you can.”
A cocky smile spread over Tristan’s face. “Of course I can.”
***
The dark of the stables at midnight was not ideal for the sort of precision work he was doing, and neither was his company. Numair tried hard to keep his fingers from trembling as they brushed the poorly groomed coat of the hurrok, near his neck.
“He says he can smell your fear, and it reeks, so keep it down,” said the Stormwing who perched in the neighboring stall.
As opposed to what, thought Numair, but did not say as much. Both hurrok and Stormwing smelled awful to his human nose, and yet both seemed like the wrong sort to insult, especially when he was sneaking about an enemy fort in the dead of night, needing their cooperation. He continued to examine the belt of beaten bronze that ringed the immortal’s neck.
“This can be removed,” he said finally.
“Without the key?” asked the Stormwing, who obviously knew that control spells required a focus, or key, in the hands of the slave-owner.
“Even without the key, if you know the right spells,” he answered, frowning. “You know Lady Maura; how strong is her Gift?”
The Stormwing shrugged, an odd movement for a creature with steel-feathered wings for arms. “She speaks as though it is very small, and she’s been sparely trained.”
Numair frowned.
“If you’re wondering if she can cast this lock-breaking spell of yours, I’d say, possibly, but it would take great practice.”
“It won’t do if she’s not well-versed in the basics,” said Numair. “We’ll need the key, or some other mage.”
Rikash smirked. “You’ll find few human mages of your capacity in Dunlath, Master Salmalín,” he said.
“And I cannot call any of my own people to the valley because of that accursed barrier,” said the man bitterly, slipping down to sit of the stable floor, “another of Tristan’s sympathetic spells. They were always his favorites, although everyone just thought he liked an excuse to wear as many expensive amulets as possible.”
“Stumped?” asked the Stormwing amiably. “Mortal magic is so very limiting, with its spells and ingredients.”
“I suppose immortals don’t have that problem,” said Numair. “Spells of the Divine Realms are so simple, you will something to happen and it...” He got up slowly and turned to meet the immortal’s green eyes.
Rikash’s smirk widened. “I was wondering when you’d catch on.”
***
Maura stood alone in her bedchamber, trembling uncontrollably. The events of the past week would have seemed unthinkable to her right now if she were not too preoccupied with thinking about the events of the past morning.
At breakfast a boy had entered the dining hall to deliver a message to Master Staghorn, who had proceeded to storm out in a rush without a word. Yolane had forsaken her meal and retired sulkily to her parlor. Belden had seemed almost pleased, and had eaten heartily before heading for the stables, declaring that it was a lovely day for a ride and patting her head in that horrible way of his.
She had followed meekly when her nurse came to lead her to her lessons, but her tutor had scolded her for fidgeting. At midday her lessons ended and she was left without even that poor distraction to ease her anxiety. She pricked herself with the cross-stitch needle as she watched the courtyard for any signs, good or ill. It was little use.
Rikash, she knew, had left at dawn with patrols as his excuse. Master Salmalín was waiting for Master Staghorn near the opal mines, and Iakoju was nearby, spurring her kin’s violent uprising. Maura cringed when she thought of it, and then berated herself; she ought not to feel guilty when she’d been told this violence was necessary.
Her mind buzzed, and she recited the odd mage’s instructions softly under her breath as her fingers worked half-stitches in green thread around the rim of a griffin’s outspread wings. Not being scared of her task was more than she could manage, so she turned her thought to pretending she wasn’t. On his first day at Dunlath, Tristan Staghorn had told her what he would do to her if she entered his tower workroom. Even knowing that the most powerful mage in Tortall was waiting to arrest him could not shake the memory of that threat, or the nightmares it had given her.
A knocking noise came from her door.
“Enter,” said Maura, her voice breaking on the simple word.
Tait walked in, followed by his familiar hounds and two strange ones. “Stand clear o’ these wolves, Lady Maura,” were his first words.
“Never mind that,” she almost snapped, “tell me what’s happening.”
He did not even hesitate. “Lord Belden has just returned from his ride, an’ Lady Yolane is still in her rooms --“
“Not that, Tait!” cried Maura impatiently.
The hunter narrowed his eyes. “Tkaa came from the woods this dawn with two wolves at his side, sayin’ they want t’help. He said the mages an’ the men-at-arms are bein’ kept busy, an’ we were to arrest the lord and lady.”
Maura crossed chubby arms over her sensible grey bodice. “What about me?”
“Ye’re not to go up into that tower wi’out me, that’s what!” replied Tait fiercely. “Once the lord an’ lady are dealt with, ye come with me and undo that man’s witchcraft, so the king’s soldiers can come in and take these traitors t’justice.”
Despite his grim tones, hearing Tait speak against her sister was a great reassurance to Maura. She nodded, as though she were approving the plan rather than just hearing it.
“Are you going now?”
Tait nodded. “The basilisk is waitin’ outside the gate, in case o’ trouble.”
“Be careful, Tait,” said Maura anxiously.
His face softened. “Stay here, child. I’ll be back soon.”
***
When a knock came on her parlor door, Lady Yolane was loath to answer it, desiring to preserve her solitude for the moment. “Leave me!” she commanded, her usually delicate voice swelling to be heard through the oaken door.
“Milady?” The voice was muffled, but definitely male.
Yolane stood, delicately shaking out the skirts of her day gown till they draped elegantly over her hips and thighs, and walked across the room to open the door. To her disappointment, the man in the doorway was neither Tristan nor Belden, sick with worry and inquiring after her well-being.
“What is it, Tait?” she asked, more fractious than graceful.
“Milady,” said the hunter, bowed and then straightened, “I am empowered by the throne of Tortall to place ye under arrest fer high treason. Please d’not resist.”
For a moment, the lady’s sculpted mouth gaped at him. Then, “How dare you!” she shrieked, harpy-like. “I am the gods-named heiress of my father, Lady of Dunlath as approved by court and crown! You presume to judge me, to arrest me, you lowly servant, you serf? You think your position allows for you to question the conduct of your betters? You honestly believe -- Ah!”
As he advanced on her, she stumbled backward through the parlor, dodging furniture to slip through the second door into her bedchamber. With a heavy sigh, Tait followed her, his hounds and the two uncanny wolves following.
“Milady, it’s at an end!” called Tait into the bedchamber, stepping in cautiously. He had known Yolane to keep a lady’s knife under her pillow. “Yer mages knew it, an’ they’re tryin’ t’flee. Yer husband knew it; he took his own life. Turn yerself in, milady, an’ spare yer noble blood more shame.”
The chamber was empty. The dressing chamber and privy were empty, too, but the mirror near the lady’s bed was askew.
“Boys?” asked the hunter, and a hound dutifully stepped out of the pack to sniff at the feet of the mirror. When he barked, Tait nodded to himself and gripped both edges of the expensive furnishing, lifting it off the wall to place it cautiously upon the bed. Behind it was a narrow stone doorway leading down into narrow, spiraling stone steps.
The steps went on for a long time, with only the occasional torch to light them. Slivers of crimson silk and white lace marked where the lady had passed, now and then. He was ground level, he judged, when the steps ended. In the murk he searched the close walls for a crack and when he found one, he followed it down to find a latch. The door creaked open and Tait blinked at the sunlight.
Just as he was getting his bearings and the dogs were eagerly sniffing out the lady’s trail, he heard a familiar screech and then a deep, rumbling noise. Against his better judgment, Tait followed his ears to the source of both sounds and motioned the pack to follow him.
“Greetings, Tait Willowbow, Packmaster Brokefang, Packmistress Frolic.”
“Greetin’s, Tkaa,” said Tait. Perhaps the wolves greeted the basilisk, too; not used to being greeted in the same breath as a pair of wild animals, he could not begin to guess.
The hunter regarded the slender immortal, who was regarding a statue of grey stone that Tait was quite sure had not stood in Dunlath’s Castle’s courtyard yesterday.
“The lady Yolane, I p’sume?” he asked.
“I presume, as well, having never met her,” answered Tkaa.
Tait approached the statue and after examining her carven face nodded. “Maiden Huntress,” he swore under his breath.
“Who is this Maiden Huntress you speak of so often?” inquired the basilisk lightly.
Tait gave his head a short but firm shake. “Goddess,” he said.
“I have never heard her name,” replied Tkaa thoughtfully, paused, and added, “Oh.”
“What?” asked Tait.
“The wolves know of her,” said Tkaa, as though this were the most natural thing in the world. “She is a great hunter who consorts with Old White, the first Packmaster. Among them she is known as the Girl Who Is Pack.”
“Lovely,” croaked the hunter.
“Shall I inquire after our allies, and discover the progress of their efforts?” asked Tkaa.
“You do that,” said Tait dryly. “Me an’ the boys’ll stay here, if ye please.”
***
A very ashen-faced Numair Salmalín was sitting in a lovely mountain glade, under an equally lovely apple tree and enjoying the autumn sunshine, when Rikash landed not ten feet from him, and hopped the rest of the way to the tree on his awkward steel legs.
“Greetings, Lord Moonsword,” said Numair.
“Greetings, Master Salmalín,” said Rikash. “Where, tell, is Master Tristan Staghorn?”
Numair laughed; a hollow, tired sound. “Like my tree?” he asked.
Rikash glanced at the tree sidelong. “Alas, poor Tristan.”
“I never knew a Stormwing to be so compassionate,” remarked the mage.
“I had promised him that I would one day braid his bones into my hair,” said Rikash.
Numair raised an eyebrow.
“As war trophies,” clarified the Stormwing, shaking his braided hair to punctuate.
“Ah.”
Rikash grinned.
“How goes the war effort, then?” asked Numair.
“Iakoju’s ogres are keeping most of the humans spectacularly occupied, the hurroks are giving your mages bloody hell -- literally -- and Tkaa reports that the lord and lady of the valley are permanently indisposed.”
Numair frowned. “Now, tell me the bad news.”
“Mortals are so dismal,” drawled Rikash. “The barrier’s not broken, yet, as I’m sure you can see, and the hurroks misplaced one of the mages. One Tolon Gardiner, I believe.”
“He escaped?” asked Numair.
Before Rikash could answer, the mage jumped onto his feet, yelping. His eyes were looking south east, towards Dunlath Castle, from which a fine column of smoke was now rising.
“I thought you said Yolane and Belden were dealt with?” he demanded of the Stormwing.
Rikash scowled. “They are,” he said sharply.
“Why the smoke, then?”
“Could it have something to do with the destruction of the barrier?” asked Rikash nonchalantly.
Numair looked up, and saw that the sky was now a deep, sharp autumnal blue devoid of any hint or sparkle of magic. “Mithros, Mynoss and Shakith,” he swore, “you always have to pull one last prank, don’t you, Tristan? If you’re at all concerned about your Lady Maura,” he said to Rikash, “follow me.” With that and a snap of black fire, he shifted into a large, black hawk and took flight, making straight for Dunlath Castle.
Tight-lipped, Rikash followed.
***
Three days later, Numair was sitting at the high table in the castle’s great hall, to the left of a pale and bandaged, but very much alive Lady Maura. The huntsman Tait sat to her right, and, assorted to either side of them, were Rikash, Tkaa, Iakoju and Brokefang. Before them stood Sir Raoul of Goldenlake, flanked by two sergeants in Own blue and silver.
“Without milady’s staunch loyalty, months might have passed before the Crown had word of this rebellion and quashed it,” said the knight, “and for this milady has the Crown’s gratitude. As reward for Dunlath’s fidelity, the fief is pardoned of charges of high treason against the throne, and such sentence shall rest only upon the heads of the deceased Lord Belden and Lady Yolane of Dunlath.
“In gratitude, as well as acknowledgement of the bonds of kinship between Dunlath and the Crown, the Crown grants mandate over Fief Dunlath to Lady Maura of Dunlath, pending and termed by her reaching the legal age of seventeen years. Until such time as the lady is of age to manage her estates, there shall reside in Dunlath a Crown-appointed guardian to shield and safeguard Fief Dunlath on behalf of the lady.
“Such is the proclamation of His Majesty, King Jonathan IV of Tortall.”
The knight’s last words rang oddly hollow through the hall, as he rolled up the official scroll he’d been reading from.
Before the echo had quite cleared, Lady Maura stood up. “On behalf of my ancestors, the noble line of Dunlath, I swear my fealty to the crown of Tortall, to protect all of Dunlath’s residents, large and small.”
Sir Raoul nodded, apparently ready to ignore the lady’s youth, her bandages and the way her voice cracked when she spoke. “Your royal guardian should arrive before the first snows, Lady Maura, or shortly after,” he said. “The Crown wishes you the best of fortunes and an easy winter.”
“You depart now?” asked the lady.
“Yes, milady,” replied the knight.
“Will Master Salmalín be leaving with you?”
The knight’s dark eyes flickered. “Master Salmalín has received his orders from the king,” he said.
Maura said nothing, and Numair could not help but remember that she was only ten. Just then, Tait Willowbow stood up, his stocky form much more impressive than the plain, pale child beside him.
“If ye’ll be leavin’ now, sir, we’ve got our fair work cut out, fixin’ Dunlath up,” he said, half-bowing to the knight.
Raoul nodded, shot a brief glance at Numair, gestured to his sergeants, and the three of them left.
Maura sat down heavily. “We do have our work cut out for us, don’t we?” she said with a sigh. “We need to rebuild the fallen tower, find laborers to reopen the opal mines, take down those horrible barracks and find farms for the ogres. Always ignoring, of course, a dozen or so angry, vicious and uncontrollable hurroks and untold other immortals that Tristan and his fellows might have brought to the valley.”
“Ye’ll not be facin’ work alone, Lady Maura,” said Tait firmly, and Maura smiled at him, her ordinarily pale face brightening.
“Well, if the hurroks are what worries you,” drawled Rikash, “I should be able to keep them in line or drive them off. Most of my nation has fled back to Carthak, but Janitteh and Shenan are still around, and I’m certainly not going anywhere.”
“If you find farms, ogres stay,” said Iakoju. “I stay to help.”
Brokefang panted, tongue lolling between sharp fangs.
Maura looked to Numair, but he only sighed.
“You heard Sir Raoul,” he said, “I’ve orders from the king. No one was to know I’m in the mountains, as it is, but now that Gardiner has escaped, it seems that just those people who we tried to keep that knowledge from will find out almost instantly. I cannot stay in Dunlath, Lady Maura. It’s simply not safe.”
Maura hung her head. “It was selfish to hope, I know,” she said, voice small. “I know you have greater worries than me, and heavier responsibilities. I’d just hoped...”
He sighed again. “I know. I wish I could stay, too.”
“You should go immediately, then,” said Maura.
He started to shake his head.
“No, listen,” she said impatiently. “I’m not being vindictive, or anything. You said whoever it is will know you’re here almost instantly. That means you’re in danger, maybe even right now. The sooner you leave the better.”
Rather than speak, he gathered his cloak. Just as he was standing at the door, Tait’s rough voice caught him. “Gods be with ye, man.”
He half-smiled. “And you.”
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