The Destined Queen

by Deborah Hale

  Rath rode up to a mounted Vestan soldier paused at the crest of the ridge. “The king—where is he?”

  “There.” The fellow pointed. “In a bit of trouble, I reckon. I’d go to him but Lord Idrygon ordered me to stay here and keep these men moving.”

  Gazing into the distance, Rath squinted against the glare from the Hanish armor. He thought he could pick out one figure larger than the rest.

  “Not that the likes of us would be much use to a great hero like him,” said the Vestan.

  “Oh, he needs us, all right.” Rath gave his horse a nudge to head down the far slope. “Nobody’s that great a hero.”

  His entrails tied themselves in knots as he rode toward the Han. He had told Delyon to keep as far away as possible from his brother. Clearly he should have told the young scholar to give the Han a wide berth, too.

  The ragged rear of the rebel force seethed with chaos. Teams of riders grabbed the hindmost marchers and carried them farther up the slope before coming back for their next load. Vestan archers covered the disorderly retreat, firing arrows to discourage the boldest of the pursuing Han from drawing any closer. An answering hail of arrows fell like lethal rain upon the rebels, now and then finding a target. The heath was littered with bits of gear men had cast off to make better speed.

  Here and there, parties of horsemen burst from the Hanish ranks to make swift, violent strikes against the fleeing Umbrians. Each time they were beaten back by rebel riders, including one giant warrior who scattered the Han with every plunge of his massive mount and every swipe of his huge sword. Rath hoped the enemy did not guess what he did—that Delyon was having trouble controlling both the beast and the blade.

  A qualm of shame gripped him for having put the young scholar into a dangerous situation for which he was unprepared. He spurred his horse toward Delyon. The next while passed in a desperate, darkening blur as he helped fend off a series of attacks and herd the last remnant of his army toward the temporary safety of the forest.

  By the time they reached sight of Aldwood, most of the clouds had blown away and the moon had risen, nearly full. That silvery white moon was the rebels’ heavenly ally, shining off the armored Han to make them easy targets for bow fire. Meanwhile, their shadowy leather-clad foes slipped with ease into the friendly darkness of the wood.

  Rath feared the Han might pursue his men into Aldwood, in spite of the dark and their distaste for forests. To his vast relief, they stopped and withdrew out of bow range. Their commanders must have decided to wait until morning when they could see to attack and savor their victory.

  Would the time that bought for the rebels be enough for them to recover the magical staff? And if it did, what manner of wish should Rath make with it to gain his people’s freedom? After all, he would only get one chance.

  Maura stared down at the still, silent figure shrouded in black that lay on the grass in that tiny glade. The drink skin in her hand felt as heavy as a brimming wooden bucket from the well behind Langbard’s cottage. Could she bring herself to do what part of her felt she must?

  To perform the ritual of passing on a man who had lived his whole life in opposition to the Precepts of the Giver seemed like a violation of those sacred teachings. And how could she stand to share the memories and experiences he had collected during his life? She would rather bathe in a festering bog or eat the contents of a hog troth! It felt obscene to undertake so intimate a connection with someone she had never known or wanted to know.

  And yet…she could not deny the subtle tingle of curiosity to learn how he and her mother had come together and what had passed between them. Taken by itself, that would not have been enough to make her do this.

  But her spirit had once been where his might be now. And if he had gone to that place of endless, crushing, suffocating darkness, it was because he had come to her aid. Besides that, no matter how much she might resist the idea, his blood flowed in her. If he remained forever a mystery to her, then part of her would be forever incomplete.

  Maura knelt beside him and drew back the black hood that hid his humanity. She let out a gasp at the sight of his face—so gaunt and hairless. Even in death, his features did not look peaceful.

  Taking the stopper from Rath’s drink skin, she dabbed a little water on the death-mage’s hands and lips and brow, all the while chanting the ritual words. Was there enough water in the whole Sea of Dawn to purify his thoughts, words and actions?

  Reluctantly she let her spirit rove, searching for him. Calling. Would she be able to reach him? she wondered when she received no answer. Rath had almost not been able to find her when he’d tried.

  Then she sensed a presence, the way she had sensed Langbard’s during his passing ritual.

  “Where are we?” he asked. “Why are you here?”

  “I do not know what this place is.” How could she explain to him, when she barely understood, herself? “But I may be able to put you on the path to the afterworld, if you are willing.”

  “The afterworld? Dareth told me about it and about your Giver. I doubt I would be welcome there.”

  Something about his apprehension stirred her sympathy a little, but she did not want to feel that for him. Curiosity and obligation were difficult enough.

  “Would you rather stay here?”

  “No,” he replied at last, with an air of uncertainty that seemed foreign to him. “It feels too much like the life I left behind. I have left it behind, have I?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Then take me where you will. But first will you tell me one thing?”

  “If I can.”

  “Were you in Venard a week ago? In the High Governor’s palace?”

  “Yes. That was me you saw. I followed you afterward and heard the things you said about my mother. That was how I guessed…”

  Maura sensed his relief. Did it matter so much, now that he was dead, whether or not he had been going mad?

  She sought to answer his unspoken bewilderment. “The spirit and the mind are not the same, you know. Langbard taught me that all ailments of mind and body stay behind when the spirit is freed of them.”

  “Langbard?”

  “My guardian. The man my mother entrusted to raise me when she died.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Before I was a year old.” She was growing impatient with his interrogation. She could not afford to linger here for hours on end. “You said only one question.”

  “So I did.” There was an air of apology in his reply, but he did not entreat her pardon. Perhaps it was something the Han considered a sign of the weakness they dreaded so much.

  “Come, then.” She had only to form the intent and she felt herself moving, drawing the death-mage with her.

  As had happened during Langbard’s ritual of passing, his memories cascaded through her mind.

  She saw his childhood, different from other Hanish boys, for he had been raised by his own mother, a stern but doting widow. Because he was an only child and often ailing, she’d indulged and protected him, sometimes even seeking forbidden Umbrian remedies. Though not robust, the boy had been clever and strong-willed. When he was old enough, he’d been sent to train as a death-mage. He had thrived on the challenge of mastering the powerful dark forces of mortcraft, but he had also been clever enough to sometimes question the ways of his people. Those questions had never found satisfactory answers until one spring when he’d been sent to help put down a rebellion brewing on the northern isle of Tarsh. There he had captured Dareth Woodbury and she had captured his heart.

  While taking her back to Venard as his prisoner, their party had been attacked by outlaws and they alone had escaped. Lost in the wild lands of the north, they reluctantly came to rely on one another. Reliance had blossomed into comradeship and she’d told him many things about her people and their ways. Things that intensified his questions and doubts about the way of the Han.

  As summer ripened the wild beauty of the northlands, their comradeship had rip
ened into desire more potent and frightening than any feeling he’d ever known. The harder they had tried to resist it, the hotter and sweeter the flame had burned, until finally it had consumed them.

  Hard as she tried, Maura could not remain aloof from the feelings that charged those memories. For she, too, had once burned with forbidden desire.

  By the time the captor and prisoner had reached a more settled part of the country, they were both captives of their newfound passion—or so he’d thought. When she fled from him one summer night, the love he’d felt for her became a measure of his bitter betrayal. Certain she had willfully seduced him so she could escape, he had taken out his rage against Dareth on her people, especially those who wished to destroy his.

  The next flood of memories left Maura shaken and revolted. She might have deserted him there, had she not sensed that every act of violence and torture he committed had rebounded to warp him in painful ways. Ambition, though a constant mistress, had also been a greedy and demanding one.

  As his memories grew more recent, Maura saw his fellow Echtroi respond with derision to reports that some young woman in an obscure part of the country might pose a threat to their power. He alone had paid heed, for he remembered stories he’d once been told of the Destined Queen. And he knew the havoc one young woman had wreaked upon his life and his heart. His power grew as it became clear he’d been right to take the threat seriously. Yet the pressure upon him increased when Maura eluded his grasp and her threat to the Han continued to grow.

  Then, at the summit of his power, he’d seen what he thought was a vision of Dareth Woodbury. His long-denied love and his long-buried doubts had risen to haunt him with the fear that he might be losing his mind. A lifetime of questioning and inner conflict had crystallized under the pressure of battle when he’d seen Maura and heard her call him father. When a fellow death-mage had turned his wand upon her, he had to intervene—even knowing what it might cost him.

  After all she’d learned about her father, Maura had hoped it would help her make sense of her perplexing feelings for him. But it had only left her more confused.

  “From here,” she said, “you must continue alone. I have to go back.”

  A familiar, beloved voice replied, “Perhaps I can conduct him the rest of the way.”

  “Langbard!” Maura could not feel his arms physically about her, but comforting, cherished emotions embraced her. “I have missed you so!”

  “And I you, dearest girl. It is one of the few clouds that shadows our contentment here—longing for those we have loved and left behind.”

  “There’s so much I want to tell you.” She clung to him even though she could feel him already slipping beyond her reach. “So much wise counsel I need from you.”

  “It is there within you, Maura. What could I tell you in a few moments that I did not show you during all the years we shared?”

  Her old impatience with his riddling advice flickered once more. “You might tell me how to get the Staff of Velorken from its hiding place, for a start!”

  Langbard chuckled. “But that would be a long story, I fear, and an old one. I have faith you will find the answer. Farewell, dearest child.”

  Her heart ached with an echo of the old bereft feelings that had overwhelmed her at the time of his passing.

  “Now—” Langbard prompted his sworn foe in a tone of gentle impatience “—is there not something you wish to say before we take our leave?”

  In the hesitation that followed, Maura sensed a fierce struggle, followed by a difficult but welcome surrender. “Farewell, dearest child.”

  Before she could reply, Maura felt herself slipping away from them. The last thing she heard—or perhaps she only imagined it—was Langbard’s murmur, “Come along. There is someone waiting who is anxious to meet you again.”

  When she opened her eyes to find her wandering spirit returned to her body, night had wrapped around the tiny glade. Somehow, it softened the stark outline of the death-mage’s robes, making him look less monstrous and more human.

  Her obligation dispensed, if not her confusion, she rose to head for Aldwood Castle. She only got a few steps, when a bewildering compulsion overcame her. She turned back and pressed her lips to the death-mage’s brow. “Farewell, Father.”

  When she rose to depart again, an elusive feeling of peace and renewed confidence stole over her.

  As Rath led his horse through the trees toward Aldwood Castle, he could sense the contradictory mood of his army by the murmur of voices around him.

  Some sounded jubilant—delighted and relieved to have reached the shelter of the forest and trusting in the Waiting King to bring them victory tomorrow.

  Others were beginning to doubt.

  For the first time since the Waiting King had landed at Duskport, his army had faced a true challenge. And they had been forced to flee in retreat. Friends and comrades had fallen in battle and all the magic of the Waiting King had not been able to prevent it. What awesome powers did he possess anyway, and when was he going to summon them to defeat the Han once and for all?

  Their king could not help feeling greater respect and sympathy for the doubters.

  “Rath!” Maura dived out of the crowd, almost bowling him over with the force of her greeting. “Thank the Giver you’re all right!”

  “And you, aira.” He wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “After I left you, I worried you were too near the edge of the wood. You weren’t bothered, were you?”

  She shook her head. “Not in the way you mean.”

  “Did Anulf bring Newlyn to you?”

  “Aye. I’m glad he found me. I dosed Newlyn well with summerslip and rebound his open wounds with a poultice.” She glanced around at the men making their way toward the castle, their paths through the trees lit by a few torches and lanterns. “He should be all right.”

  Perhaps he would. Provided the Han did not overrun Aldwood tomorrow and cart him back to the mines he’d escaped once but could never hope to a second time.

  Loud cheers rang out behind them, driving that woeful thought from Rath’s mind. A crowd of faster-moving rebels surged forward, pushing aside everyone in their path. As they swept by, Rath saw a large figure in their midst, waving to acknowledge their cheers.

  “All hail King Elzaban!”

  “The Waiting King kept the Han from catching us!”

  “He’ll give them a taste of battle tomorrow!”

  Hundreds of similar cries swelled into one loud, exultant chorus.

  Maura glanced at Rath with a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “Do you grudge Delyon getting the glory that is rightfully yours?”

  He shook his head and meant it. Delyon deserved their cheers. The young scholar had done well to fill a difficult role never intended for him. Rath only wished he could have been an ordinary foot soldier—ready to take his part and follow orders, but not carry responsibility for the victory or defeat of their whole cause.

  Ahead of them, Aldwood Castle loomed among the trees. Warm light spilled from its narrow windows and arrow slots. Its ancient stones echoing with the ring of more voices than had been heard within its walls for centuries. The crowd surrounding King Elzaban had disappeared through the front gate, taking its joyous din with it. Now the woodland beyond the castle walls seemed almost quiet, though many rebel warriors still moved beneath the trees and through the underbrush.

  Maura glanced toward the night sky where a swath of stars twinkled through a gap in the foliage. “Praise the Giver night fell when it did, otherwise…”

  Her words collided in Rath’s mind with his recent glimpse of Delyon.

  “Slag!” He slammed the horse’s reins into her hand. “Find a place for him, will you? There’s something I must do!”

  He raced toward the castle, dodging men, pushing them out of the way. “Pardon! Let me by. Urgent matter for the king!”

  He reached a large courtyard thronged with rebels. Their noise was nearly deafening as it echoed off the stone walls. At
least it still sounded of good cheer—that was a blessing. If he could reach Delyon in time and drag him out of sight before the growth potion wore off…

  Fie! Rath had waded through waist-deep snow with greater speed than he was able to make through this crowd. With each passing moment he grew more desperate and less restrained. He gouged with his elbows, trod on feet, growled blood-chilling threats—anything to bring him within reach of Delyon. He was almost there when the tenor of the crowd changed. Suddenly a hollow hush fell, followed by an ominous buzz.

  As the men in front of Rath turned to whisper the news to those behind them, he was able to slip through. At last he reached Delyon, throwing himself in front of the young man in a vain effort to shield him from the horrified stares of the other rebels.

  Within the massive armor of the Waiting King, Delyon had shrunk until it looked as if he might melt away altogether. A moment later, Idrygon strode through a nearby doorway.

  “What is all this?” he cried, glaring at Rath and his brother.

  Delyon pulled off his oversize helmet.

  “Say,” cried a man standing near, pointing at Delyon, “that fellow’s never the Waiting King!” His accusing finger jabbed in Rath’s direction. “He is…leastways he was.”

  At that moment, Rath would have given anything to be able to deny the charge.

  25

  “H ow could you jeopardize everything we have worked and fought for with a daft prank like this?” In a small inner chamber of Aldwood Castle, Idrygon glared at his brother and Rath. He’d hustled them there after Delyon’s disguise had been exposed.

  “It was no prank!” Rath stepped between the two brothers to bear the brunt of Idrygon’s reproach. This had been his idea and Delyon a barely willing accomplice. “It was done to preserve what we have worked and fought for. You would not listen to reason, which left me no choice but to act in stealth. If I’d known the Han would come so close to catching us on the march to Aldwood, I might have done differently.”