Queen of Storms

by Raymond E. Feist

  “Put him under guard in one of the smaller rooms and see that he’s fed. And if he smells as rank as I do, get him a bath and clean clothing. I need to speak to my wife and daughters and prepare the defense of the city, so I want you to question him for me.

  “And before you eat, get word to the lookout tower at the north headlands. I need to know if that fleet is arriving any time soon.”

  “Done,” said Balven, and he turned to instruct the guards where to take Donte, then hurried off across the marshaling yard to send a pigeon to the north headlands tower, more than a day’s ride away. Daylon knew his brother would also dispatch a galloper in case the pigeon failed to reach the post.

  For a brief moment the baron weighed taking a bath before talking to his wife and daughters. Linnet had coped with him being in need of a bath on more than one occasion, he decided, and tried to gather his strength. His wife was prone to histrionics, and being sent away with the girls would frighten her more than staying close to him, even if there was a battle approaching. But Daylon knew that he had to make sure his family was far from here so that he could focus on defending his city.

  He signaled for his most senior sergeant.

  The man hurried over. “Yes, my lord?”

  “As soon as the troops arrive I want them fed and rested. The garrison, except for the castellans, will remain at the harbor and castle gates, but anyone else in the city is to be pulled back here. Understood?”

  The sergeant nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and send word for those coming back to make note of how many people have already fled. I need to know.”

  “Sir,” said the sergeant, then turned to carry out the baron’s instructions.

  Daylon Dumarch, Baron of Marquensas, took one long look around the marshaling yard as his castellans were unsaddling their mounts, helped by lackeys who would brush and water the horses. These were the premier soldiers of Marquensas. They would need to go to their barracks and eat and rest, but would it be enough? he wondered.

  As he moved toward the entrance to the main keep, it occurred to him that he needed to have a serious talk with Wilton, who might be Baron of Marquensas far sooner than either he or his father would have expected. Such thoughts were probably the result of exhaustion, but still he couldn’t push away the dread.

  Hatu still felt sore and his mood bordered on rage, barely kept in check. He couldn’t see the shore behind them, but from the angle of the sun he assumed they were heading on a south-by-west course, though without the aid of familiar stars in the sky he had no idea of where they were sailing.

  Catharian stood at the stern but kept looking around. He motioned Williem aside and took the wheel. To the boy he said, “Get the others and grab what there is to eat for today. We’ll be on this course for a while.” He glanced at Hatu and said, “And we have someone who can trim the sails if need be.” His tone was light, as if inviting Hatu into a better humor, but all he got for his troubles was a furrowed brow and a deeper frown.

  At last Hatu asked, “Are you worried we might be followed? You keep looking astern.”

  Catharian nodded. “We got away from the coast as quickly as possible. The raid on Beran’s Hill was part of a large assault and there were hostile ships everywhere. We were fortunate that this is a small ship and that it was night when we passed the invaders’ fleet, since their attention was shoreward. I reckon some of them will be leaving on a similar course to ours, heading in the same general direction, but with luck we have enough of a head start that we can stay out of sight. The trouble is many of those ships will be much faster than us. If we see no sails astern by tomorrow, we should be safely away.”

  “Wonderful,” said Hatu dryly. “I get abducted for whatever bizarre notion you have and may get killed at sea by people I don’t even know, just because I’m on a boat that’s completely unsuited for the high seas!” He was on the verge of yelling with frustration.

  To find his way back to Hava, he would have to somehow overpower both Denbe and Catharian, decide what to do with Sabella, and convince the three lads that turning around and sailing back to their destroyed village—possibly into the teeth of a fleet that meant them harm—was a good idea.

  Hatu realized that he was at the mercy of circumstances, so there was no point in losing his temper. He would have to put aside his ire in order to concentrate on opportunities for escape and return. Students from Coaltachin were taught one thing, which had become almost a reflex by Hatu’s age: survive, escape, return.

  Catharian had answered a few of his questions the day before but had appeared unwilling to elaborate on his earlier claim that magic would die with Hatu, saying only that there were those better able to inform him when they got to their destination. Switching topics in the hope of more information, Hatu said, “So who are these raiders who may be following us?”

  Catharian looked at the young man for a moment, then said, “I’m not sure. There are . . . complexities in all this I know only part of, for despite being one who travels through many nations—much like your comrades and your masters—the less I know, the less I can betray.”

  Hatu nodded. He was familiar with the concept. Master Bodai called it “compartmentalization,” a word that had at first confused then amused Hatu as a child. He remembered when he realized that it had to do with compartments, which was a considerable time later. Sometimes he felt quite stupid.

  “What can you tell me?”

  “Only that there are forces out there, both human and not, which are moving toward ends I certainly don’t understand. All I know, and this has to do with what I told you about magic being at risk, is that we stand in opposition to those forces, and we are small and they are great.”

  “Wonderful,” said Hatu mockingly. He let out an exasperated sound and then asked, “How long?”

  Catharian looked at him. “How long what?”

  “Until we get where we’re going?”

  “As long as it takes, depending on the wind. Then we’ll get on another ship.”

  “To where?”

  “That we will discuss later.”

  Hatu rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  “Patience, my friend,” said Catharian. “Anger and frustration will not get us where we are headed one moment faster.”

  As loath as he was to admit Catharian was right, Hatu knew that he was. One of the hardest lessons for him to learn, from childhood to the present, had been to let go of things over which he had no control. There was a part of his nature that longed for the power to simply wish for things to make them so. It was a childish desire, he knew, but it was part of who he was.

  “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “If this is where fate leads me, I’ll come quietly.”

  Catharian laughed out loud. “Why do I think that will never be the case with you, Hatushaly?”

  Declan watched both sides of the road, as if expecting an attack at any moment, yet he knew his vigilance was not rooted in the moment but was a mix of sorrow at having been unable to protect Gwen and the others with unease about what might come next. He moved his arm testily inside the sling that confined it, for the umpteenth time being reminded it was there to stop him from pulling at the stitches in his shoulder. Which was why Bogartis had made him wear it, rather than for support.

  Declan still felt little emotion, just a hollow space of cold alternating with a gnawing need to be doing something, even if he couldn’t put a name to it, or at least any name beyond punishing whoever had taken his wife and friends from him. But what others might have called a desire for revenge was also muted. He had felt this way—dulled and displaced from himself—since awakening in Beran’s Hill. He was almost exhausted just waiting for the pain of his sorrow and his rage to manifest themselves and had almost resigned himself to the idea that he might never feel anything again.

  The closest he could remember feeling this way was while in battle, when that almost silent calm rose in him while everything around him slowed. He knew exactly w
hat to do when facing an enemy. There was a sense of control, of complete certainty, and in a way he found it welcome.

  But the feeling he had now was as if he had been rendered unconscious during the fight, and when he awoke, that calm and distanced stillness remained. Declan was not an introspective man by nature, but he admitted to himself that he might never truly understand himself, and about that he also felt indifferent.

  One thing he did understand was that it would be foolish to think that alone he could avoid any desire the baron might have for another master smith in his service. By taking Bogartis’s offer, he might still find himself pressed into serving the baron, but if the old mercenary captain’s instincts were correct, it was the safer choice.

  “How much farther?” Declan asked the driver, more a signal that conversation was welcome than out of any great need for information; Declan had driven this road enough times with Ratigan, Hatu, and alone to know the answer.

  The driver was a man named Timmons, who was an affable, older ex-soldier. He had explained to Declan that he knew nothing but fighting along the borders of the Wild Lands and in the Northern Islands east of Sandura, but when he became too old to fight he had driven wagons for whichever army would hire him. Timmons glanced around. “We’ll be in the city before sundown.”

  “Fine by me. Sleeping under the wagon with this aching shoulder is not restful.”

  Timmons nodded, though sleeping under the wagon was his usual billet.

  Declan fell silent again. He was looking forward to finding better lodgings in the city. Then he remembered he had no coin of any sort. Whatever had been in his lockbox at the smithy was surely gone, either destroyed in the fire or pillaged by looters. He’d have to rely on Bogartis, which might once again leave him sleeping under a wagon.

  Bogartis rode toward Declan’s wagon, making a leisurely inspection of the caravan. His routine was now familiar to Declan. The old mercenary rode in the van for a while, then turned and rode slowly to the drag, then slowly back again. He had been seriously cautious at first, placing flankers on either side some distance out and a trailbreaker ahead—though Declan thought that unnecessary with the entirety of the baron’s army marching less than a couple of hours ahead of them. He seemed far more relaxed now that they were close to the city.

  Bogartis reined in and turned his mount to walk alongside the wagon. “We’ll be in the city before nightfall.”

  Declan smiled slightly at the consensus.

  “Have you decided?”

  Declan looked at Bogartis for a long moment, then said, “A year, you say?”

  “In service?”

  Declan nodded.

  “At least, or until you’re dead, or I throw you out of the company.” Then he smiled. “You can leave any time freely after a year.”

  Declan said, “Then I’ll join.”

  “I thought you would,” said his new captain. “I’ll see to it that we sharpen up your weapons training. We’re going to need to use weapons soon, so when your shoulder is healed, that’s your first duty.”

  “I expected that.”

  “Good. Another week or so should do it, if you don’t get stupid and tear those stitches again.” He shook his head slightly. “I understand your impatience, but you must appreciate that wounds need to be cared for. I’ve seen more men die from festering wounds and the fever than I have killed outright by a blade or arrow. Remember that.”

  Declan nodded. “I will.” He recalled those who had suffered in Oncon. The practice of brining the wound, of heating blades to cut out hooks and deep splinters—all was done for the reason that those who were treated without salt water or heated steel were more likely to sicken and die.

  “Good.” Bogartis put heels to the barrel of his mount and moved toward the head of the caravan.

  Declan suddenly felt far more tired than he had before. As they crested a hill and he could see the distant smudge on the horizon that would grow into the city of Marquenet, he realized that making a life-changing decision after all the madness of the last week was exhausting.

  Hatu signaled to Williem and shouted, “Sheet in!” The eldest of the three boys, Williem had naturally fallen into place as their leader and was the one most likely to speak on behalf of the boys. The last few days especially had become difficult for them as the enormity of what had befallen their families and the changes in their lives had begun to finally sink in.

  Having witnessed enough of the destruction to have a sense of their loss, Hatu was more patient with their failings than he otherwise might have been, given his own upbringing and harsh tutelage. He nodded his approval when the sail was adjusted as he wished.

  He had been away from Coaltachin a long time, but although he’d been in Beran’s Hill for only a relatively short period, he had come to appreciate that even if people seemed fragile and vulnerable, they had lives that were much harsher than anything he had endured. He’d been trained to be hard. He had discovered over the last few days that these boys and others like them were resilient by necessity and he genuinely admired that in them.

  Catharian came up on deck and said, “Thank you for taking the helm.”

  Hatu chuckled. “What else could I do? Denbe is asleep, Sabella can’t sail, and you had to relieve yourself.” He glanced at the agent of the Flame Guard, whom he still thought of as the “false monk,” and said, “I suppose I could have watched you try to give the boys a quick lesson in helmsmanship.”

  Catharian returned the chuckle. “They might surprise us both. At least you allowed me time to clean up a little down there. It was getting rank.”

  “Getting? It was rank three days ago. Whoever thought of a privy that needs bailing out daily on a ship should be tossed overboard.”

  Catharian nodded. “It’s acceptable for a coast-hugger, just doesn’t work out at sea. If you’re putting into shore each night, a bucket of seawater, open the trap, and you’re done. Open the trap when the wind’s in the wrong direction out here, you flood the lower deck.”

  Hatu laughed. “I’ve been on more than one ship where you just hang your ass out over the rail.”

  “I as well.” Catharian moved behind the wheel as Hatu stepped aside. He checked the position of the sun and said, “On course.”

  “Well, there seemed to be no benefit to changing it. I have no idea where you’re taking me, and wasting more time getting there didn’t seem wise.”

  Catharian smiled. “We’ll be at our destination soon.”

  “Do you mean Nytanny?” asked Hatu. “You and Denbe both keep avoiding the answer.”

  “Eventually, you’ll be taken to the last bastion of the Flame Guard. It’s the safest place in this world for you.”

  “You’ve said that before, but you’ve never explained that whole ‘end of magic’ bit or why my safety is so paramount to anyone beside myself.”

  Catharian could see Hatu’s color rising and realized that Hatu’s temper was returning. He sighed and said, “I can tell you only a part. But before we get there, we will visit an island where there is someone who will be able to give you a complete understanding, I hope, of all of this. As I told you, like most members of the Guard I am told only as much as I need to know.”

  Hatu’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he nodded. “It’s like that with the Quelli Nascosti. Your enemies can’t torture information out of you that you don’t have.”

  Catharian nodded. “What I do know is there was a very special relationship between your family and the Guard. The Firemanes were important in ways I barely understand, and much of it is wreathed in myth, exaggeration, even intentional lies. A great deal of what I was taught as I grew up in the order seemed hardly credible until the Betrayal. Not only were your family and most nobles loyal to your father murdered, but every member of the Flame Guard who stood exposed and many we thought were not vulnerable: all were hunted down and killed.”

  “By Sandura?”

  “By Lodavico, certainly, but also by agents of the Church of
the One.”

  Hatu nodded. He recalled that moment when he had realized that the two men, the Azhante, he’d seen with the agents of the Church of the One in Sandura were somehow related to Coaltachin. He was still enough a student of Coaltachin that he didn’t tell Catharian, but he realized they were somehow a part of all the murder and ruin Catharian had talked about.

  “In any event, it took us a few years to retreat, to regroup a little, and to establish ourselves in a stronghold. We’re rebuilding as best we can, but as you’ve seen with Sabella, and perhaps with Denbe, it takes a special sort of person to first gain our notice and then successfully be recruited into our ranks.”

  “You recruited Sabella?”

  “Those with the gift of sight are a little different, Hatu,” answered Catharian as he checked the set of the sails and adjusted his course slightly, to maximize speed. He shouted to the boy Jenson, “Up to the top and give us a look!”

  Being the smallest of the three, the little fair-haired lad could climb the mainmast nimbly without causing too much disruption to the course. Unlike larger ships, this vessel was vulnerable to small changes, like a large man climbing to the top of the mast. Hatu had wondered why, out of a choice of vessels, they had ended up on a boat designed always to be in sight of land.

  After a pause, Catharian said, “When we find a girl like Sabella, we don’t recruit as often as we . . . well, to be honest, we just abduct them. If we get them young enough, as we did with her, it’s the only life they know. For others it can be very difficult.” Bitterly, he added, “Often it does not work out for the best.”

  “Abduction rarely does, I’ll wager.”

  “The gift is rare, so this happens rarely, but when it does and we find someone like Sabella, they become acolytes—”

  “I don’t know that word,” interrupted Hatu.

  “A follower, assistant, like your students in Coaltachin.”

  “Ah,” said Hatu.