by Andre Norton
"We have no time for dalliance, my Harous," she said. "I fear that we have been discovered."
She did not smile and Harous grew alert immediately, aware that the situation must be grave indeed. Until this moment she had never before come to him other than in the dark of night.
"What shall we do?" he asked.
"I had hoped that you would be able to lead the armies into another disaster, but this is not to be. Lord Royance is in the camp and even now approaches with some of the nobles at his heels. I was—let's say I was nearby, though they did not recognize me."
He accepted her words as truth. Royance's presence could mean only one thing.
All his suspicions were confirmed. Marcala had indeed tried to poison him, and must have drunk the dose meant for him. Then she had decided to tell her false tales while she still could. Hatred flashed through him; he hoped she had died, and in great pain.
"What shall we do?" he asked again.
"We must flee, for in a few moments the entire camp will be aware, and then nothing I can do will keep them from killing you. Come. Together we will ride
Ice Dragons, and you will lead the Army of the Great One against what remains of those you once commanded. Victory will be ours!"
"We cannot risk going out the entrance, past the sentries, where we could be seen. Nor can I chance going out into the main enclosure and retrieving my
Diadem of Concealment." Harous managed to smile, even at this tense moment. "I kept it in a chest out there, almost in plain view."
"You are ever the audacious and daring one," Flavielle said. Her mouth softened, but only for a moment. "Leave it. I will cover us with shadow for as long as it takes for us to make our escape."
She gestured with both hands, and, as the room darkened slightly in Harous's sight, she almost vanished in the gloom. He took up a dagger and cut a slit in the back wall of his tent big enough that both could duck through. Then they ran, two shadowy crouching figures, through the camp.
The Lady Marcala lay abed in the quarters that had been assigned to her next to the Dowager's apartment. True to her word, Ysa had been a frequent visitor, coaxing Marcala to sip a little broth, or try to eat a crust of bread. Also,
Master Lorgan had proven himself to be a skilled physician. Because of his treatment she was almost without pain and, indeed, felt stronger than she had when she had come to Rendelsham Castle three days ago with her tale of treachery and murder.
It was, she knew, only temporary. Beneath the gentle masking of Lorgan's strengthening tonics, the poison continued its deadly work.
She needed to know what was happening outside the room in which she lay.
Touching a bell beside her bed, Mar-cala summoned her maid, Reuta. The girl, encouraged at her mistress's apparent improvement, happily babbled all the gossip she knew.
Marcala listened without comment, but was pleased to learn that the
Bog-princess, Ashen, had done precisely as Marcala had wished her to do. That the fool had managed to summon the wit to drag old Royance along on her errand pleased Marcala immensely. Harous would surely have no chance to defend himself, not with the Head of the Council dispensing the stern justice he was famous for.
Nevertheless, Marcala wanted to witness the outcome for herself. Only then would death grant her peace. She continued to listen until the maid had finished.
"That is very interesting and amusing, Reuta," she said. "You have made my heart merry as it has not been in too long. In fact, I think I will get out of bed for a while today."
"Yes, Lady," Reuta said. "But remember that you are still weak. You have been so ill."
"I will sit in a chair with my feet up. To achieve this much will hearten me."
"Master Lorgan and Her Highness might not approve."
"Is the Dowager in her apartment?"
"No, Lady. She has gone down to the Hall for the midday meal. Shall I take word that you wish to see her?"
"No, I would not disturb her."
"I will go and fetch soup made with lentils. That is strengthening."
Marcala allowed the maid to help her into a dressing gown and help her as far as the chair. Though she desired no food, she needed to get Reuta out of the way for a while. This small burst of strength coupled with Ysa's absence might not come again before it was too late.
"Thank you. The lentil soup sounds good. Bring me also new cheese and bread. I believe I may have a little appetite today."
"I will be back before I've left!" The maid, obviously delighted, scurried through the door.
Marcala waited a moment, and then pulled herself to her feet. Clutching at whatever came to hand for support, she made her way out into the corridor, and thence into Ysa's apartment. It was deserted, as Marcala had hoped, all of her ladies having accompanied their mistress to dinner. Without hesitation, Marcala entered Ysa's bedchamber and looked around.
Ah. There, on a table, that must be a jewel chest. If Ysa was as predictable as
Marcala had always found her to be—
She opened the chest and lifted out a tray filled with costly baubles—brooches and rings for fingers and ears, most set with rubies or emeralds, the gems of
Oak and of Yew. In the space beneath lay necklaces of all kinds, from heavy and ornate to simple ones suitable for everyday wear. She lifted one of the most elaborate of the necklaces and discovered under it, just as she had hoped, the little amulet she had taken from the chest in Harous's secret room. It still lay safe in the dark gray velvet pouch.
Slipping the strings of the pouch over her finger for security, Marcala put all to rights in the jewel chest, exactly as she had found it. Then she returned to her rooms as quickly as she could. She tucked the pouch under her pillow and had time to settle herself in the chair and even to catch her breath a little before
Reuta appeared, bearing a tray with the soup, bread, and cheese she had requested.
Then Marcala suffered the maid to watch her while she ate. To her surprise, now that she had accomplished this small feat of stealing back the amulet, she really did have a touch of appetite. She finished everything on the tray and let
Reuta help her back to bed.
"Now it's time for a nap, my Lady," the maid said. "You deserve it. Master
Lorgan will be so pleased to learn of your progress V
"A little sleep sounds very good," Marcala said. "Please do not disturb me for at least an hour."
The maid tucked her in, made certain that the curtains were drawn so that no untoward brightness of day would disturb her mistress's rest, and then closed the door behind her.
Immediately, Marcala took the velvet pouch out of its place of concealment and shook the amulet into her hand. She had no idea what sort of creature it depicted—winged and furred rather than feathered. The tiny yellow gems glittered as if its eyes could see even in the dim light. She rubbed it, while calling the spell of activation back into clear memory.
As the Bog-men had expected, the Ice Dragon came to ground and began to walk toward the Bog, keeping as close to the sea as possible using the coast road.
Tusser and his followers had no trouble in cutting inland just enough to stay out of sight and pass the dangerous beast. He knew of a good spot for the
Bog-men to attack, well short of the boundaries of their homeland.
The Bog general had the luxury of a little time in which to make his preparations. He motioned to Sumase, his second in command, to sit by him and the two conferred in relative privacy.
"Now I sorry I go to fight with Rendel," Tusser said. "Out-landers always trouble. Rohan friend maybe, Gaurin also, but Harous no friend."
Sumase spat onto the frozen ground. "Never friend to Bog, Harous. So now we get whole Ice Dragon to fight, just us," he said, grinning. "How you think we do this?"
"I have idea," Tusser said. "We still ahead of Dragon."
The other man lifted his head, as if searching with both eyes and ears. "Yes. I hear it walk, walk, heavy. Still far away,
though."
"Find man who runs fastest. Something I want, something I take long ago when there is other big fight in Bog. Your man goes, we keep Dragon busy here until he gets back, brings bags I keep hidden."
Sumase grinned wider. "Bags not made of lupper-hide?"
"Yes, you know ones I mean, with royal mark on. Your man may have to make Vanka give."
"Everybody know what bad temper Tusser's wife has. I get Lorko. He strong. He run fast, and can sit on Vanka also."
"Good. Now, you know how to stir up big flyers? They hate us, but hate Dragon more maybe."
"They nest in cliffs around here, and south, too. While we wait for Dragon to get here, maybe we push eggs out of nest or kill fledglings. It be just like old times, you and me, eh?"
"Yes, good times. Harder now, though. If we get birds on our side, and maybe
Gulpers, too, we can kill Dragon and rider, both." Tusser's lips lifted in a mirthless smile. "Then Outlanders see how well Bog-men fightV'
Sumase drew back and stared at his leader. "You go back to Harous when Dragon is dead?"
"Tusser give word. We go back. But not Harous. Rohan and maybe Gaurin."
Sumase stared off into the distance, plainly disapproving. "Maybe. I send Lorko anyway." Then he hauled himself to his feet and went in search of the Bog warrior, to tell him of the thankless errand he would be sent on.
Marcala, too keyed up to lie in bed, moved to the little table in her bedchamber. Twice she assayed the spell of animation, and twice she failed.
Something she was doing, or not doing, was keeping her from success. She closed her eyes, picturing the spell book as it had been in the secret room off hers and Harous's apartment. In memory, she opened the cover and turned pages until she came to the right one.
The writing was beautiful, picked out in gold and red on the capital letters.
Her hand moved as once again she seemed to touch the page, hastily memorizing the spell. Then she realized what she had done wrong. The incantation was "flyer live" and not "flyer fly."
She took the amulet in her hand. With newfound confidence, she began to murmur aloud.
Flyer live, by night and by day, Harken to these words that I say. Flyer live, by day and by night, And bring to me the gift of thy sight!
For a long moment nothing happened. Then the amulet stirred in her grasp and began to grow. The golden gems of its eyes became real, came into focus still glittering, and the little creature unfolded and stretched its wings.
It was not something to be petted or stroked. Its glare could only be described as malevolent. Perhaps it was resentful of having been called into being.
Marcala did not care. She held it out on the palm of her hand. "Go," she told it. "You know the one I seek. Go and seek likewise."
It lifted rather than flew from her hand, and made a circle of the room. Marcala remembered, belatedly, that she had not opened a window for it. Such proved unnecessary, however, for the creature faded into nothing even as she watched. A dizzying moment as it passed through a wall, and then she was with it as it soared upward, seeing through its eyes.
Having accomplished this much, she could do the rest in bed, and indeed, she was exhausted as she had never been before. She crept back awkwardly, stumbling over the furnishings of her room, unable to see them clearly, and climbed in.
Gratefully, she lay back on her pillow and pulled the covers over her thin, wasted body, smoothing them so that Reuta would not suspect that her mistress had been about, unsupervised.
Up, up she went, one with the newly born creature. Below, everything was cold and white, dotted with the near black of evergreen trees. Above, the sun was almost unnaturally bright. Snow sparkled in the air, as if suspended in a clear blue sky.
She turned north. Time's outlines became blurry; now she fancied she could detect the twin tracks of sled runners in the snow, and then it seemed she saw the sleds themselves—two of them, hurrying northward even as she did, only slowly by comparison. She left them far behind.
There, ahead, was what could only be the camp where the armies commanded by
Harous were bivouacked. She circled it, noting the areas where the Rendelians were quartered, set aside from the place for the Nordors. Virtually isolated from the rest was another set of shelters and for the first time she got a glimpse of one who could only be a man of the BaleBog. Next to that was the
Sea-Rover encampment.
Having gotten her bearings, she found a place to perch and watch, invisible, from the top of a tent pole. She recognized the pennon flying over this large and imposing shelter and knew it had to be Harous's quarters. Inside she heard male voices but could not make out clear words though she sensed they were making plans for an impending battle. She discovered that she did not want to enter, and knew this was the flyer's preference rather than hers.
Then Gaurin left the tent with Rohan. A little later, the other Nordorn nobleman—Hynnel, she remembered—left with another Bog-man. She thought about following them, but decided against it. She—the flyer—closed their eyes, and in that strange time compression, night fell and then it became day again.
Harous left the camp. She launched herself skyward and, from a great height, observed as he made his way alone down a valley carved between two towering mountain ridges.
She was watching when he hid behind a rock for a moment and then emerged to embrace a woman who was waiting for him.
"So I thought," Marcala murmured to herself. But her voice had the effect of disturbing the flyer. Their vision shifted, and she knew they had become, if only briefly, visible. She resolved not to speak again, if she could help it.
Their vision shifted again, and she was once more one with the being she had conjured from a stone amulet.
Her husband and the woman mounted the back of a huge white beast waiting nearby.
An Ice Dragon. It lifted into the air.
Marcala and the flyer soared even higher, mindful to keep their quarry in sight.
As they flew, Marcala wondered. Where had she seen this woman before?
Then she remembered. At the Grand Tourney, when young Rohan had done something incomprehensible and the Magician stood revealed as the Sorceress, Flavielle.
Everyone in the viewing stand, where Marcala had been given the favorable seat close to the Dowager Ysa, had been petrified. Then, in a burst of thunder and snow, Flavielle had disappeared. Ysa had been left to defend her very life for having brought such a being into the Court.
The Ice Dragon alighted once more and Flavielle and Harous entwined in a passionate embrace. Marcala forbore to follow the guilty pair into the shelter made of tree branches, and this time it was by her inclination as well as that of the flyer.
She flew in restless circles around the shelter, thinking to wait and follow one or the other when they finally emerged. It would, she surmised, be a while. She knew all too well what was transpiring inside.
"Harous," she murmured. "I have no interest in where his doxy goes."
Again the flyer lurched in its course, disturbed, and their vision shifted.
Too late, Marcala realized how close they had come to the Ice Dragon. Its snaky neck lashed out. It opened its mouth, and the last thing she and the flyer heard was the sound of its teeth crunching into the tiny morsel of flesh and sinew. A loud noise in her ears, pain, the echo of a woman's laughter—
With a shock that made her entire body spasm, Marcala returned to herself.
Terrified, she thrashed for a moment in the restricting bedcovers. Instinctively she clutched at her limbs, certain to find them broken and mangled. The Dragon's teeth had been so huge on her, its breath so cold and foul—
Then she began to come back to herself. She was intact, unharmed, or would have been except for the fact that she was dying from her own poison. Only the flyer had been destroyed.
Marcala's lips lifted in a small, bitter smile. Ysa would never have any benefit at all from the bauble she had ordered her loyal friend, the Coun
tess Marcala, to go and steal for her. Marcala didn't even know if what was left had become stone again and now rested in the belly of the Dragon, or if it had spat the fragments out into the snow.
All Marcala was certain of was that she had now been supplanted in Harous's uncertain and fickle affections. She was glad anew that she had managed to convince Ashen, if not her erstwhile friend the Dowager Queen Ysa, of Harous's treachery. The sleds Marcala had marked traveling northward at such a feverish pace could only have been carrying Ashen and whomever she could persuade to accompany her.
The strain of her foray into magic was taking its toll, she realized. Then,
Marcala knew it was more than that. The small store of artificial strength she had been granted from the tonics and potions had come to an end. She was dying.