A sudden chill spread through the pit of his stomach as he reminded himself that most of his life he had been ignorant of his true identity. The anger in his childhood, the odd feelings that night in the Narrows when he’d sensed something of his unusual nature. That led him to reflect on the past, and he remembered Donte.
His memories of Donte showed no sign of departing. There were funny memories, like trying to steal sausages with a tree branch, and reassuring ones, like the many times when they were very young that Donte had chased off the bullies. But there were also the images of Donte hanging by chains in that crimson grotto. He desperately tried not to think of those, but he could not push them away. He took a deep breath, calming himself as he accepted that Donte’s loss would always haunt him. The best he could do was accept that and keep living.
Early the following morning, Hatu found himself leaving Beran’s Hill, with Declan driving the team of horses. When asked about this, Declan’s answer had been: “I can drive a team and Ratigan is short of drivers.”
Hatu was amused. “So he’s not hauling your and my freight, he’s renting you a wagon?”
That realization put Declan in a darker mood, for not only was Ratigan getting paid to deliver a load of weapons to the baron and bring back the wagon with whatever goods Hatu purchased, he didn’t have to drive it himself or pay a driver. Declan snapped back, “You’re paying the fee for the return trip.”
Hatu struggled not to laugh at that moment and changed the topic. “So, what do you think about those two men Molly and Hava saw on the road three days ago?”
“I think I need to talk to the baron about it, or his man Balven. What do you think?”
Hatu shrugged. “I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, I understand why you’d warn the baron about armed men from some army skulking around but . . . I have no idea who they could be.”
“You’ve traveled, seen things. You must have some thoughts,” suggested Declan.
Hatu had ensured the two men under suspicion were still abed, their horses—a sorrel gelding and an off-grey mare, according to Hava—still over at Jacob’s barn, before leaving. Both men had returned in the evening after having spent a futile afternoon asking around the caravanserai about the redheaded children. Hatu had bid them both good night. Passing Jacob’s barn, he saw that both their horses were there, so Hatu knew they couldn’t reach Marquenet without passing Hatu and Declan’s wagon. To do so unseen would require a large looping course beyond farms on both sides of the baron’s road, so they could not reach the city before the wagon.
In reply, Hatu said, “They rode in from the east, and rumors claim Sandura is making trouble for everyone.” He shrugged, then continued. “They were alone in a corner of the inn last night and barely spoke to either Hava or me yesterday, other than ordering food and ale.” He elected not to share the questions about redheaded youngsters passing through Beran’s Hill with fictitious parents. Declan apparently had enough cause to alert the baron to the strangers’ arrival in town without Hatu even remotely suggesting he might be part of their reason for being there. Others might bring it up should Declan speak to them of it, for if those two travelers were as indiscreet with others as they had been with Hatu and Hava, word would spread. It was also likely someone would bring up the rumors of the Firemane child.
Declan was by nature a man of few words, and Hatu had a tendency to guard his words, a trait drilled into him since childhood, so the two of them fell into a comfortable silence.
Hatu scanned the horizon as a matter of habit and was taken with the beauty of Marquensas, the rolling hills, distant orchards, and lush fields. The weather was kinder than any place he had visited before, warm and sunny with cooling breezes off the ocean in the late afternoon. If fate determined this would be his home from now on, he could embrace it with enthusiasm, he decided.
He glanced past Declan, then to the rear. Declan said, “Worried we’re being followed?”
Hatu feigned a dismissive chuckle. “Old habits are hard to break, I guess. Moving horses from market to market is risky.” He fixed his eyes on the road ahead. Still, he could not shake the feeling that they were being watched.
A small hut stood at the edge of a tiny clearing in the woods east of Beran’s Hill. It had once been occupied by charcoal burners but had long since been abandoned. Inside waited two figures crouching under heavy blankets, for they did not risk fires at night. A third figure had just dismounted a horse and entered the hut.
Catharian, wearing his disguise as a friar of the Order of Tathan, had once been worshipped as a god, but was now regarded as a “prophesying divine spirit” of the One. He looked at the young woman who sat across from her bodyguard and asked, “Anything?”
“Just flickers,” answered Sabella. “Even without training he’s managed to develop . . . a shielding of his presence. An instinct, perhaps.” She sighed. “I only get a hint of him being in the town two, three times a day.” With a shy smile, she added, “Mostly his guard lowers when he’s having sex with that girl.”
“His wife,” amended Catharian. He knelt. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m all right,” she answered.
Catharian glanced at the man—Denbe, a master of the martial order of the Flame Guard—then returned his gaze to Sabella for a moment and smiled. Despite the privation of this journey, Sabella looked better than she had at the Sanctuary. Getting out in the sunlight, breathing fresh air, and not sitting all day in a dark room using her gifts to search for the lost son of the line of Firemane seemed to be reviving her. For a passing moment he wondered how the other Far Seers were doing now that this hunt was over. He had little doubt that their leader, Elmish, had found plenty for them to do.
The Flame Guard had become complacent over generations with the rise of the Firemane line and had taken root in Ithra, the capital city of the kingdom of Ithrace. In so doing they had enabled their enemies to almost obliterate the order in one blow.
It was thought that all of those in the sacking of Ithra had perished where the former Hall of the Guardians had stood: what few knew was that some survivors had retreated to the original hall in the distant south, which had been abandoned centuries earlier, a hall within the ancient Sanctuary. Enough members of the Flame Guard had survived that the order had managed to endure. For nearly two decades they had hidden and slowly recruited adepts and willing soldiers, but people with the vision and capacity to serve a higher calling were rare. Now they were beginning to venture into the world again, despite being few in number, to ensure a balance was restored. Still a long way from the power they were twenty years ago, they were continuing to find recruits to their cause and were getting prepared for a battle they knew must eventually come.
Catharian sat down. They had spent almost a month identifying which young man in the town was the Firemane child. By process of elimination it had quickly become obvious that the lad from an unnamed eastern land who had purchased a burned-out inn and restored it, with his wife, was the missing heir. Many questions remained unanswered as to how he had survived until adulthood, how he’d come to somewhat conceal his powers without proper training, and whether he knew how much danger he was in, as well as the more mundane questions of how he had ended up an innkeeper in Marquensas. All this was piquing Catharian’s curiosity.
The false monk had become a familiar face to Hatushaly because of his acquaintance with Declan and Ratigan. Catharian was known as a mendicant friar, so when he passed through the town on his way to Port Colos, Copper Hills, or Marquenet, it raised no suspicions when he appeared at the Inn of the Three Stars. Hatu and Hava had even taken to providing him with a meal or food for the road, for they found his stories amusing.
Catharian had hinted he might be given the duty to raise a shrine to Tathan in Beran’s Hill. That had given him a reasonable excuse to be in town often, and should the need arise to have agents of the Flame Guard there constantly, they could start construction on the false shrine.
T
he earlier arrival of a newcomer had made him think that the latter option was now unlikely and that the three of them might have to act sooner rather than later, but the story that they were going to build a shrine gave him good reason to linger. He hoped it wasn’t too soon, as he would prefer to act when more agents of the Flame Guard had arrived and Sabella and Denbe were better rested.
“I think I recognized a man who arrived the day before yesterday,” said the false monk.
“Who?” asked Denbe, looking interested. The old soldier had no problem with taking rest when it came his way, but while weeks of traveling up to Beran’s Hill had kept him alert, a week of sitting in this hut had made him restless. The hint of a possible upcoming fight made him sit up and take notice.
“If he’s who I think he is, he’s an agent of the Church.”
Denbe nodded. No further clarification was needed: the Church of the One was now simply “the Church” to most people. “What’s his name?”
“They call him Piccolo,” said Catharian. “He’s Episkopos Bernardo’s man.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Denbe. “He’s a murderous swine. Very dangerous.”
“Odd name,” said Sabella. “He’s a musician?”
Denbe shook his head solemnly. “When he was a boy he killed another boy with a piccolo.”
“Oh,” said Sabella, taken aback.
“His brother,” added Denbe.
“Oh!” Sabella blinked rapidly for a moment, as if trying to erase an image from her mind.
Catharian motioned for Denbe to step outside the hut, and when they were out of earshot, he asked, “She seems to be doing well. Is she?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” said the older fighter. His sun-darkened skin made his face look as if it were sculpted from darkly tanned leather, but the brilliance of his smile lit up his face in a stark contrast to his usually stern countenance. “I often fretted over what we put those poor girls through.” Women were the only ones able to use the gift of long-distance seeing. Some men had the power, like the young man known as Hatushaly, and some were trained to hold that power, but the ability to channel and manipulate what was thought of as “magic” was the province of women alone.
Catharian put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “As have I. More than one poor girl has ended up . . .” He let the thought remain unfinished. Denbe knew as well as he that there had been brilliant youngsters who had ended up almost mindless, living under the Flame Guard’s care, youngsters left with little coherent thought, skipping from moment to moment in their days with no more than the desires of a child. They had vacant eyes, intense reactions of fear or joy, but they just existed until the day they died. If they were lucky, they passed early, but a few lingered on for decades.
“Just keep watch for a day or two longer. I think it’s time for me to announce we’re going to build a small shrine to Tathan in Beran’s Hill. When you arrive in the town, I can explain your presence easily then; you are going to be the protector of the shrine, and Sabella is my novice. So I’ll expect you . . . the day after tomorrow. Should we need to act sooner, I’ll ride back here.”
“What if someone else from the Church arrives, someone in an official capacity, not an agent for the episkopos?”
“I know enough about the bureaucracy of the Church to have them scurrying to send messages back and forth across a continent and an ocean before they decide we are not who we seem to be—ample time to depart safely. Baron Daylon has a far more tolerant attitude toward faith than most others these days and refuses to let the Church establish any sort of control in his barony. There are no members of the Church Adamant in Marquensas, at least not officially, so the burning of heretics as theater has not become a habit here.”
“Speaking of messages,” said Denbe. “Should we notify the others?”
“Not yet. We may need them but sending messages is problematic. One of us would have to ride back to Marquenet, as we have no pigeons.”
“Don’t like pigeons,” said the fighter. “Hawks eat them.”
“That’s why we send more than one,” replied Catharian. “If all goes according to plan, a boat should put in soon and pigeons will be arriving that can fly to our enclave outside Ithra. From there, if need be, they can send messages quickly back to the Sanctuary.” He paused as if considering something. “Let’s see what tomorrow brings. If this situation remains unchanged it could benefit us doubly. Establishing a presence here in Marquensas before trouble arrives would be of benefit.
“If we have to depart in a hurry, so be it, but if we can deal with our enemies in a calm and considered fashion, I would prefer that. Until then, we can keep an eye on young Hatushaly and, when the time is right, ensure that he finds his destiny.”
“Whether he wants it or not,” Denbe said dryly.
“’Tis ever thus,” returned Catharian. “Had his father lived and turned him over to us for his early training, as his brothers were, there would be no fear of him arising to full power without our guidance. By any reasonable measure, he should be dead a dozen times over, either from enemies or simply his inability to contain his fire.”
Denbe shook his head. “Nothing easy about this.”
“No . . .” Catharian said. “I think you’ve changed my mind.”
“I have?” said Denbe with a look of honest surprise.
“I thought locating the lad would be easy. It wasn’t. I thought scooping him up and carrying him off would be simple. It’s not. We do need pigeons who will home-fly here, so we need to find a breeder and arrange to have at least a dozen eggs sent to our safe house in Marquenet and another dozen here for our shrine. Once the squabs have matured we can swap them so they can fly messages. Getting messages to the Sanctuary quickly is important, but if we do actually become ensconced here, our brethren will need to get messages to us quickly as well.”
Denbe nodded his agreement.
“While I look for a pigeon breeder around Beran’s Hill, and sniff around to see what the boy has been up to since I last saw him, you take a quick trip down to Marquenet to send word to Elmish that we will take things into our own hands after your soldiers arrive.”
“Pigeons,” said Denbe. “As I said, I hate sending word by birds. So many things can go wrong.”
“And as I said, that’s why you send more than one. How many do we have down in Marquenet that can fly to the Ithra enclave?”
“We’re down to three.”
“Well, then, send all three. Inform Elmish of the situation here, in as few words as possible.”
Denbe scowled. “Another reason I don’t like pigeons. You can’t explain much on a tiny piece of paper.”
Catharian chuckled. “True.”
Denbe didn’t look amused. “I’ll leave now. You look for a pigeon breeder.”
Catharian nodded. “You take the horse to Marquenet. I’ll spend the night here, then Sabella and I will walk into town tomorrow morning, the poor friar and his apprentice.” He shook his head. “Piccolo, here. At least he’s never seen me, as I only saw him once from some distance in a large crowd when he was with Delnocio.” He forced a smile. “All will be well. Now you’d best leave.”
“Fare you well,” said Denbe.
“You as well,” replied Catharian.
They went back into the hut and Denbe gathered up his travel bag and took Catharian’s horse.
The false monk of Tathan sat down opposite Sabella and asked, “What do you know about the Order of Tathan?”
“Nothing,” said the young woman.
“Well,” said the older man, laughing, “let’s discuss theology over a meal. All right?”
She found that amusing.
Catharian realized that was the first time he had ever heard the young woman laugh aloud since she had come to the Sanctuary as a child.
Hava lingered in the market as the two men who were staying at her inn moved away. She had left the inn under the supervision of the girl Millie, unofficially Jusan’s betrothed. Apparent
ly everyone just took it for granted, including Millie and Jusan. She was a tiny bit of a thing, but she knew the inn, and she was under instruction if anything of consequence arose that she was to come straight to the market and find Hava.
Hava wandered over to the vendor who had just been speaking with the two men and looked at his wares, some heavy woolen shirts, trousers, scarves, and capes, some treated with extra lanolin to repel water, which were useful for work outdoors in foul weather and for travel.
“Hello,” said the merchant, a stout man who wore a rust-orange shirt and a wide leather belt, which was attempting to prevent his stomach from completely drooping by means of a big brass buckle; it hardly looked comfortable to Hava, but he seemed oblivious to it digging into his gut. His hair was a grey-shot thatch of light brown that was in desperate need of a comb, and he sported a few days’ beard stubble.
Hava smiled. “Hello. I’m Hava. My husband and I—”
The man laughed, his blue eyes sparkling in his sun-freckled face. “I know who you are. You and your man bought the Three Stars from Gwen.” He smiled as he added, “Beran’s Hill isn’t such a big town that we haven’t all seen you around the last few weeks. I’m Pavek. Now, what can I do for you?”
“My husband and I came from a place warmer than here in the winter, but even then we didn’t get this much rain. So we need better clothing.”
Pavek chuckled again. “Wait a few months until the real rainy season starts. The smart buyers get their gear now, so they’re not scrambling at the last minute. It will be cold!”
Hava nodded, realizing the man had just confessed that business was slow. “My husband doesn’t have a decent cloak. He works inside most of the time, but given that he’s traveling to Marquenet to stock up on some things we can’t secure here, he’ll be out in the open on a wagon, getting drenched, if the rain comes suddenly.”
Queen of Storms Page 7