The Destined Queen

by Deborah Hale

  Perhaps, but was that need worth risking their lives and mission for?

  Two nights after his army crushed the Hanish forces in Prum, Rath woke suddenly from a deep sleep. Had he heard that noise or only dreamed it? He lay still and strained to catch it again if it had been real—the deadly whisper of a sharp blade slicing through canvas.

  He listened hard for several moments, but all he could hear were the usual noises of the night—the gurgle of a nearby stream, the distant nicker of horses, some snoring that must be deafening to anyone closer. That other sound must have been a dream. Rath rolled over, nestled into his blankets and tried to get back to sleep.

  That was another unwelcome effect of the growth potion. Besides the foul taste, the pain and the hunger that made him eat like a starving beast, the effort of shifting that huge body around all day sapped his energy and made him sleep soundly the whole night. That went against the outlaw instincts which had kept him alive for a good many years.

  The kingly part of him told the outlaw part not to be so cursed foolish. Why should he not enjoy a deep restful sleep? There were soldiers—the cream of Idrygon’s Vestan troops—standing guard outside his tent. He would have plenty of warning if danger was near.

  Hold a moment! thought Rath the Wolf, remembering the noise he’d dreamed. The guards would only protect him from danger that was fool enough or arrogant enough to mount an attack from the front. His tent had three other sides, and canvas presented no great obstacle to an enemy with a sharp blade and a bit of enterprise. Not for the first time Rath asked himself whether the guards were meant to keep others out, or to keep him in?

  Rath’s heartbeat slowed down and his breathing deepened. In the morning he would issue orders for the guards to keep watch around the whole tent, not just the entrance.

  There! What was that?

  It was a different sound than the high-pitched rip of cloth—a rustling, furtive scuttle. This time Rath knew it was not a dream. He willed himself to keep his breath slow and even, giving no sign that he had heard. At the same time he roused to defend himself.

  The thought of calling for help flitted through his mind but did not take hold. Whoever had stolen into his tent, and whatever they wanted, they had a knife and were no doubt prepared to use it. Besides, he’d spent most of his life relying on his own powers to stay alive. That kind of habit did not desert a man easily.

  It was quiet in his tent again—too quiet. But Rath had not been called Wolf on account of his fierce fighting skills alone. Among his outlaw brethren, he had been known for his sharp senses. Now his ears picked up the faint hiss of breathing and his searching gaze spotted an unfamiliar shadow among the familiar ones. His nostrils flared and caught the whiff of whoever was crouched nearby, waiting to strike.

  Pretending to roll over in his sleep, instead Rath lofted his blankets in a swift, sudden motion, bringing them down over the intruder. That should muffle the knife and give him the very brief benefit of surprise. Taking his advantage while it lasted, Rath seized the intruder who was struggling to escape the blankets.

  Strange? The fellow seemed far smaller and lighter than he’d expected. Rath was able to lift him off the ground with ease, at which point a pair of sharp heels began to pummel his knees. Beneath the blanket, the intruder twisted and thrashed like a wild thing.

  What he did not do was make much noise. Rath could not stifle a flicker of grudging admiration. The intruder knew while their fight was one against one, he stood at least a chance of escape. Any cry he made was sure to summon aid for his victim. So even in the midst of a struggle, he had the wit to keep quiet.

  Perhaps it was respect for that wit kept Rath silently grappling with the intruder rather than calling for help. Or perhaps he’d have been ashamed to think he could not subdue this wriggling mouse of a fellow on his own.

  Rath gave him a really sudden, hard squeeze to get the intruder’s attention, then demanded in a soft growl, “Drop the knife.”

  “Let go,” came a muffled counter-demand from beneath the blankets. “My knife is sheathed. I meant you no harm.”

  Was he imagining things or did that voice sound familiar? “Then why did you sneak into my tent, armed, in the middle of the night?”

  “They wouldn’t let me in, would they?” At least the intruder stopped struggling. “And I have an important message for you. Wouldn’t trust those uppity islanders to pass it along.”

  “Sire?” called one of those uppity islanders from outside. “Everything all right in there?”

  Idrygon had given strict instructions the guards were not to enter Rath’s tent unless summoned.

  “No trouble!” For some reason, Rath found it hard to keep a chuckle out of his voice. “Just a bad dream.”

  To the intruder he whispered, “A message? Are you sure it’s for me? Do you know who I am?”

  “Who doesn’t? Now let go of me so I can tell you and get out of here.”

  “First things first. Hold still a moment.” Rath laid the intruder on the floor and pinned him with his knee long enough to strike a light.

  Then he lifted the blankets.

  “You!” The word burst out of them both at the same instant as Rath stared at the beggar boy known as Snake.

  “Sire?” the guard called again. “Are you certain all is well with you?”

  “Oh, aye. Just singing a little song to myself. I do that sometimes when I can’t sleep.”

  Snake rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t imagine anyone daft enough to believe a story like that. He glanced around the tent as if looking for someone else. Then he whispered, “So where’s the Waiting King? I thought this was his tent.”

  Rath shrugged. “It’s a long story. What message do you have for him. I promise I’ll tell him straightaway.”

  The boy looked doubtful for a moment. “Aye, well, I reckon she’d want me to tell you, too.”

  “She? Maura?” The words came out louder than he meant them to. Before the guard got suspicious and reported to Idrygon, Rath sang in a hoarse voice, “Oh Maura, my fair one, my lady…”

  Snake made a face and pretended to plug his ears. “That might be her name. The one from the hay cart. Pretty. Helping folks all the time.”

  “When did you see her?” Rath’s hands closed around the boy’s upper arms. “Where? What did she say?”

  “Let go or I’m not saying nothing.”

  “Tell me before I beat it out of you!” growled Rath. He could imagine the look on Maura’s face if she’d heard him.

  “Your pardon.” He let go of the boy. “I didn’t mean that. Just tell me…please. I’m sick with worry about her.”

  “Then why’d you let her wander around Westborne with that…that…”

  “Delyon.” Rath whispered the name as if it were a curse. “That’s an even longer story. Tell me what you know, I beg you.”

  “‘Right. I didn’t talk to her, just seen her. Two, three weeks ago. Long as it took me to get here from…” The boy spoke the name of a place Rath had never heard of. “I was in the market that day, lifting…I mean, looking around. I hears this racket and I knew the lady’s voice, so I run for a closer look.”

  Rath hoped the boy’s story wasn’t leading where he feared it might.

  “It was her, all right. The Han had her and that Delyon. If she’d kept her mouth shut, they might have got off. But she hollers out right in the middle of the market, ‘We ain’t spies for the Waiting King.’ Might as well spit on a death-mage.”

  Once Rath got over the feeling that Snake had slashed him hard across the belly with his knife, he puzzled why Maura might have done something like that. Now and then she could be heedless when she got caught up in helping someone, but provoking the Han like that was something else again. “What happened to them?”

  “Han marched ’em off to the garrison.” Snake’s hard young features tensed. “Reckon I should’ve done something. Tried to help, like. Made a row so they could get away. It wouldn’t have done no good, though.
There was too many Han and zikary.”

  Rath shook his head. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to get yourself in trouble, too.”

  The boy scratched his chin where the first delicate shadow of a whisker was starting to grow. “While I was watching the garrison and trying to figure what to do, a pair of Han rode off with them, tied to horses. Heading for Venard, I reckon. Since I couldn’t do nothing else, I thought I’d come tell the Waiting King. If the lady claimed she wasn’t his spy, I reckoned that’s what she must be.”

  Snake’s news acted on Rath’s heart the way the growth potion did on his body.

  “That’s alls I know,” whispered the boy, as if expecting more questions that hadn’t come. “Been on the move ever since.”

  “You…must be hungry.” Rath picked up a basket of Long Vale peaches and thrust them at the boy. “Thank you for bringing word.” He almost heaved his supper saying that.

  “So…” Snake grabbed one of the peaches and took a great, juice-squirting bite. “What are you going to do? About the lady, I mean?”

  What could he do? Order his army over the mountains to besiege Venard? Run off and try to rescue her himself? If she and Delyon had been in Hanish custody that long, were they even still alive?

  Snake spit the peach pit into the basket and grabbed another piece of fruit. “I’d go with you.”

  Their whole exchange had been in whispers, but the boy’s last words were even quieter. Caught in a web of dread, Rath almost didn’t hear.

  “I’d go with you.” Snake spoke a little louder. He stared at the peach as if addressing it instead of Rath. “When you go to fetch her back.”

  A lump rose in Rath’s throat that felt as big as one of the peaches. He shook his head. After several tries he managed a gruff whisper. “She wouldn’t want that.”

  “No?” Snake slurped down another peach.

  No. She would want him to believe she could fetch herself back, even from the clutches of the Echtroi. She would want him to believe in destiny and the Giver’s providence.

  For her sake he would try. Though there were few things in the world he found harder to do…than believe.

  For the first day after they made their escape from the Hanish guard post, Maura kept glancing back for signs of pursuit, then ahead for fear of ambush. She only calmed when she realized Songrid was every bit as fearful of being caught.

  The two of them shared a horse while Delyon rode the other, which also carried their supplies for the journey. Whenever Maura spoke to him, he replied with no more than a word or two. With his handsome features clenched in such a forbidding expression, he looked more like his brother than Maura had ever thought possible. He did not seem to fear falling into the enemy’s clutches again—he fully expected it at any moment.

  “Let us stop here for the night,” said Maura after many hours’ riding up a winding mountain pass.

  With a glance at the setting sun, Delyon shook his head. “We have another hour of daylight at least. We should press on.”

  That was more words than he had spoken the rest of the day combined. Was he beginning to relent?

  Perhaps not, for he added in a tone of bitter mockery, “Did you not say we must press on an hour after the Hanish army and begin an hour ahead of them if we are to reach the eastlands in time?”

  “That was before we had horses.” Maura reined hers to a halt. “They carry us more swiftly, but it can be dangerous to take them over such a steep trail in the dark.”

  She tried to sound both conciliatory and authoritative. She understood Delyon’s anger and suspicion, but she would not cater to them.

  “There’s water here.” She pointed to a trickle sliding down the rocks. “And a bit of grass for the horses. We might come across another spot as good as this before nightfall, but I wouldn’t want to count on it.”

  With a grunt of grudging surrender, Delyon swung down from his saddle.

  Maura felt a tug on her cloak. She glanced back at Songrid. “Your pardon. I should have asked what you think on the matter. These are your horses, after all.”

  As he led his mount to drink from a shallow basin carved in the rocks, Delyon grumbled in Umbrian, “Ask her, but tell me. We’ll be slaughtered in our sleep.”

  Maura ignored him.

  “Do you reckon this would be a good place to stop for the night?” she asked Songrid. “Or should we keep going?”

  The Hanish woman answered with a question of her own. “What does the man mean about ‘reach the eastlands’? Are we not first going to one of the mines to look for your husband?”

  “Oh, that.” Maura scrambled down from the horse. “Let’s talk about it while we eat.”

  To her relief, Songrid did not seem angry to have been…misled.

  “You are a good liar.” She sounded as if she approved, even admired Maura for it. “When you told Kez of your husband, it sounded so true.”

  “It’s true I am eager to see him again.” Songrid’s acceptance of her deceit shamed Maura more than anger would have. “Only, over the mountains, not in them.”

  “That is better.” Munching some bread, Songrid gazed back the way they had come, on the broad plane of Westborne, lit by the sun’s last rays. “I will feel safer when we reach your eastlands.”

  Maura shot a look at Delyon, but he paid her no mind, as he sat some way off from the women, his back all but turned on them. He continued to eat, but with a different manner, somehow—as if he were no longer certain every bite must be poisoned.

  “What about your husband?” she asked. “Were you not sorry at all to leave him?”

  “Kez is not my husband.” Songrid stared into the gathering darkness. “I was given to him as a…sort of servant when my lord cast me off for being a bad breeder.”

  “I’m…sorry.” It sounded so inadequate, but Maura could not think what else to say.

  “Do not pity me. My people scorn women like me, but I reckon we are the lucky ones.”

  No Han attacked them in the night, which seemed to surprise Delyon. He and Songrid did not exchange a single word the next day, and he pretended not to listen when she told Maura more of her story. But when she fell the next evening and twisted her ankle, he whipped up a poultice and bound the injury almost before Maura knew what was happening.

  The next morning he hoisted Songrid in his arms and lifted her onto the horse’s back. By the time they reached the Long Vale, he’d become positively attentive to her. Did he repent his earlier suspicions? Maura wondered. Or was he trying to prove that not all men were like the others Songrid had known?

  As they neared the end of their journey, part of Maura rejoiced that their quest might still succeed and that she would soon see Rath again. Another part dreaded having to face him, knowing what she now knew about herself.

  19

  A fter another long day in the saddle, Rath stumbled into his tent tired, hungry and troubled. He told himself he should be grateful for the Giver’s blessings. His army’s progress through the Long Vale had been nothing short of triumphal. After their victory at Prum, other Hanish garrisons had fled before them.

  He’d kept up the pressure, advancing each day as far as his men could march. The last thing he wanted was to give some vindictive Hanish commander time to organize a slaughter of Umbrian countryfolk like the one he’d found in that mine.

  His men were not able to move quite as fast as he’d have liked, though. For every day their progress was slowed by the crowds that gathered to cheer them. Who’d have thought nodding and waving and acknowledging the adulation of his subjects could be so wearying? Rath could have told them.

  Every stooped grandam who blew him a toothless kiss, every child hoisted on its father’s shoulders to catch a glimpse of the Waiting King, every young man who flocked to join his makeshift army—was another pebble added to a bulging pack he carried.

  They were his responsibility—his burden. He worried his hungry troops were depleting their harvest. He fretted that once his army passed
by, they would fall prey to outlaws. Most of all, he feared the Han might rally and strike back, leaving them worse off than before the rebellion.

  Some nights it was all he could do to keep from stealing out of his tent and slipping off into the darkness to become another nameless outlaw in whom no one placed their hopes and of whom no one expected anything.

  He would have managed better with Maura by his side. Almost from the moment he’d met her, the lass had brought out everything that was noble and heroic in him, no matter how deeply buried. But Maura was not here. After what he’d learned from young Snake, each day that passed with no word of her made it harder for Rath to hope that he might see her again.

  His armor was beginning to hang loose on him. Rath pulled it off and wrapped himself in a woolen robe that seemed snug at the moment but would become ample once he returned to his proper size. Then he turned his attention to a heaping tray of food that had been left for him. Though the growth spell made him constantly hungry and Long Vale farmers sent him the choicest fruits of their harvest, he hardly tasted what went in his mouth.

  Once he’d finished, he sank onto his bedroll and bowed his head against his bent knees with a sigh dredged from the depths of his heart. Giver, I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Just help me get through tomorrow, will you?

  He’d have welcomed some sign or answer, even the faintest whisper in his own thoughts. Approval that he was doing the right thing, no matter how wrong it felt sometimes. Encouragement to keep on. Assurance that this would all end well—for the kingdom at least, if not for him. But no answer came. His mind and heart felt as empty and hungry as his belly had a while ago. And he had nothing to feed them.

  Hearing the soft rustle of his tent flap and the sound of footsteps, he stifled another sigh. This time one of impatience. He might not know what he needed just then, but he knew what he did not need—another lecture from Idrygon. Reluctantly he raised his head and opened his eyes.