by J. C. Staudt
“What did you do?”
“I chose one.”
“To fight with the savages from the northern continent?” said Jyrr. “That was the best option?”
“Neither was preferable. I could watch the destruction of Maergath… or dissuade the army outside its gates. In the end, pledging my sword to Rudgar King and helping him take back his homeland was the only offer he would accept in return for sparing Maergath the sword.”
“So in order to save the realms, you fought against them.”
“To restore balance to the world and thwart the Dathiri Empire, I fought against Dathrond. Not the realms. I served Orynn King faithfully for many years. Olyvard is not the man his father was. Ambitious, yes. But greedy, too, and false.”
“Even so,” said Jyrr, “did you not wish Dathrond to rule the northern continent?”
“Why should Dathrond be given more power than it has already?”
“Why shouldn’t it?”
“Spoken like a true Dathiri,” Darion said.
“I am no Dathiri,” Velden said. “And I do not see the harm in letting one kingdom conquer another, if done for good reasons. Korengad is a wasteland. If anyone could bring it wealth, I feel Dathrond is up to the task.”
Darion was hesitant to divulge Olyvard’s plan to destroy the mage-song. Should word spread that such a thing were possible, others would no doubt try. The druids, for instance. As far as he knew, the king’s plan still hung in the balance. Until he was sure Alynor and the scroll were safe, he couldn’t trust anyone with that information. “While I doubt the King of Dathrond possesses the power to change the northern climes, he may have developed the talent in my absence. In any case, now that we’re all nice and wakeful, I think Wendall and I ought to be pressing on.”
“I hope you don’t mean to go north,” Jyrr said.
“I must. I am looking for my wife.”
“She wasn’t in Westenreach, was she?”
“Let us hope she is safe within the confines of Trebelow. Or elsewhere.”
“Trebelow’s Lord Goldane is turning away all visitors. She won’t have gotten in there.”
“She will if she’s with the Dathiri Pathfinders,” Darion said. “If I know Lord Goldane, he wouldn’t dare turn them away.”
“Olyvard King is after your wife as well as you?”
“Her more than me, I should think.”
“Is your wife a powerful caster too?”
“Yes,” Darion said, believing it a lie.
“Why does he want her and not you?”
“Make no mistake—he wants us both. Yet he knows all he needs is to capture her and I’ll come running. Olyvard is no fool.”
“And you plan to take on the Dathiri Pathfinders by yourself?” asked Velden.
“Half of them, anyway. We heard not three days ago that the Pathfinders split up in Briarcrest to ride the Hightrade Road in opposite directions.”
“Might be you’ll get the jump on them, then,” said Jyrr.
“Wish us luck. Are you ready, Wendall?”
“Nearly.” Jeebo shoved the last few things into his pack and closed the flap. He held out his arm for Hyrana, who was still pecking away in the brush. “Here, girl. Here, Hyrana.” He made a ticking sound with his teeth. The lady hawk flew to his glove, at which point he transferred her to his shoulder.
“Are you really a hawker?” Jyrr asked.
“That part was true,” Jeebo said. “I really am a falconer.”
“And is your name Wendall?”
Jeebo shook his head and told them his real name.
“And now, we must away,” said Darion.
“Be well, Sir Ulther. Perhaps we shall meet again.”
Or perhaps not, Darion hoped. He forced a smile, then mounted his bay and guided her to the road to wait for Jeebo.
Jeebo went round to shake forearms with everyone in the group, speaking kind words and wishing them well in Faranion’s name before mounting his spotted gray gelding.
“Why do you do that?” Darion asked when they were a ways down the road.
“Do what?”
“Waste pleasantries on people you’ll never see again.”
“A kind word is never wasted.”
“You are a kinder man than I shall ever be.”
“You’ve your own sort of kindness,” Jeebo said.
“If you say so.”
They rode in silence for a time, down the wide dusty lane between mountain and river where Westenreach’s runaways camped in small clusters. Embers spotted the roadsides, burning a lazy red within feathered white coals. The moon was waning, the stars dim behind an early summer haze.
“You’re right about me,” said Darion. “I am worried about Alynor, and I’ve been on edge because of it. Forgive me. For everything I’ve said and done these past few days. I have been so wrong, and I’ve failed to treat you as you deserve.”
“That is considerate of you to say. I wish it were easier to stop worrying, but I suppose that’s the nature of worry to begin with—it begets itself. I know we will find her; I have faith in Faranion’s compassion.”
“If only Faranion gave us eyes to see over such a great distance, that we might know her circumstances in the meantime.”
“He did not give me those eyes,” said Jeebo, “yet in some ways, what he’s given me instead is better.” He stroked Hyrana’s breast feathers. The bird was hooded now, and gave a soft chortling at the touch.
“For a man as simple as you purport to be, you do carry an air of mystery.”
“I’m sure I needn’t tell you some mysteries are best left unexplained.”
“Says the man who knows the explanation.”
“In this case, perhaps,” Jeebo said with a smile.
The sun rose above the Dailfeld, awakening bright flashes of light on the sparkling river. They stopped before midday to eat and water the horses, then rode until dusk, when they arrived at the tall south gates of Trebelow.
A ring of piled stone, smooth and colorful, formed the wall surrounding the keep beside the riverbank. Here the town perched on the stony shore, a bastion at the southern edge of the Downs of Westenreach. Darion and Jeebo approached the gate where a complement of soldiers wearing the yellow-and-gray tabards of Lord Goldane stood on the battlement.
“Hail, and well met,” Darion shouted up with a wave.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” a soldier called down.
Darion leaned over and whispered to Jeebo, “A warmer welcome you’ll never find in all the realms.” He looked up again and raised his voice. “What say we open the gates, lads?”
“The gates are sealed by order of Lord Goldane.”
“Would it make any difference if I were to tell you I’m an old friend of Lord Goldane’s?”
“What sort of old friend?”
Darion took a deep breath, cleared his throat. “I am—” I was, “—Sir Darion Ulther.”
The soldiers murmured.
“Find somewhere else to sow your plague, Master Ulther. We’ll have none of it here.”
“We haven’t come from Westenreach,” Darion said. “We’re up from Briarcrest in search of the Dathiri Pathfinders.”
“Is that right? Last I heard, they were looking for you. Did you not pass them on the road?”
“No. Have you seen them?”
“They rode south from here not three days past.”
“That’s not entirely true,” said a second soldier, joining the conversation. “I was on lookout when they left. I saw them turn off the south road and head west.”
“Did they have anyone with them? Captives or fellow travelers?”
“If you are referring to your wife, she was not among their number. They came here looking for her, in fact, and left empty-handed.”
Darion was at once relieved and disturbed. If Alynor wasn’t with the Pathfinders, he had no reason to go after them. But if she wasn’t here in Trebelow, where was she? “Nevertheless, I would speak with Lor
d Goldane regarding my wife’s whereabouts.”
“He don’t know where she is,” said the soldier. “Go back to Briarcrest and trouble us no more. We’ve plenty of our own.”
Darion’s horse shifted beneath him, as though the animal could feel his ire. The guards could try to turn him away like Westenreach’s survivors, but he wouldn’t leave until he’d spoken to Lord Goldane. He met the soldier’s eye, and in a calm, level voice which belied his every inclination, said, “I will call upon your lord this day. Now open the gates… or I will.”
Chapter 25
Alynor was afraid to stop on the road between Westenreach and Trebelow. Though the Dathiri Pathfinders were almost certainly dead, the infected villagers were not, and there was no telling how many might’ve wandered off to haunt the downs. The journey would’ve taken a day and a half on foot, but Alynor cast the shadow-walking spell and dropped it at her horse’s feet more times than she could count, slipping through the distance in a single night.
It was just before dawn when she arrived at Trebelow’s short western gate. The morning guards were changing shifts with the overnighters and gathering their drowsy yawning wits for another day of turning away stragglers. Alynor was far from the first such individual they’d seen since nightfall, but she was the first who seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was as though she’d emerged from a cloud’s shadow into the sunlight when the woman on horseback materialized before them with her child in the saddle.
“Get away from there, you,” shouted the first guard who saw her. “We ain’t taking visitors. The gates is sealed.”
“I’m not infected with burrowing mites, if that’s your fear,” Alynor said.
Far overhead, Ristocule gave a dignified screech as he circled the city, searching for danger.
“Right,” said the guard. “You and everyone else who’s come knocking over the last three days.”
“I’m telling the truth,” Alynor insisted. “And there’s a good chance many of them were as well.”
“All it takes is one liar to share his filthy scalp with the rest of us.”
“I’m not a liar. Please, I must find my friends. It is a matter of great urgency.”
“Look, Miss. I don’t think you heard me the first time, so I’ll say it again. We ain’t opening the gates. Bugger off.”
Alynor felt like weeping. She was dirty, tired, hungry, and desperate. Draithon was feverish and faint, swaying on the saddle in front of her. He’d barely complained all night. Pathfinders and burrowing mites were the least of Alynor’s worries now; she could expect much worse from Shandashkaleth if she didn’t find Kestrel and the lute soon.
There must be some way I can convince them to let me in, she thought. Where else can I go? Briarcrest was four days south; Galmeston, three-and-a-half days north. To the east was the Dailfeld, and even if she could find a way across the river, Laerlocke was further away than either of them. Her horse was exhausted, and the shadow-walking spell wouldn’t do much for a blown steed. “Please—”
“Go away,” said the guard. “Next time I have to tell you, we say it with crossbows.”
Alynor sighed. Galmeston it was, then. At a normal pace. There was no better option. She could only hope the great northern city—the Thraihmish capital—was not so girded against outsiders as Trebelow had become. She wanted to scream and curse these guards and their lord for being so stubborn; she wanted to cast a flame spell and lay it on the doorstep of the gate they were refusing to open. A few bolts from their crossbows, though, and she would regret it.
She swung her horse left and began circling the wall. At the north gate, she turned her back on Trebelow and started down the Hightrade Road toward Galmeston. She and Draithon would starve along the way unless they found some kindly soul willing to share their food and fire. At least there was the river, with plenty of fresh water to drink.
Casting a final glance over her shoulder, she caught a flash of white feathers in the sky and saw Ristocule dive from the heights to plummet behind the walls. At first she feared one of those fool soldiers had shot the bird down, but Ristocule had appeared to dive of his own volition.
She stopped and waited.
When the falcon didn’t appear for quite some time, Alynor began to worry for him. There was nothing she could do, though. It wasn’t as if the soldiers at the north gate would be any more welcoming than the ones at the west. Perhaps the bird had only descended for a tasty morsel somewhere in town; a rat in an alley or a wounded pigeon on a rooftop. While she hated to think some ill fortune had befallen him, she also knew that without the scroll he was stuck as a bird from now on. Sir Jalleth knew that too; mayhap he’d resigned to let the bird take control for good…
Alynor struck the reins to get the horse moving again, convincing herself her fears were unfounded. Yet with each step the horse took, she became less sure of it. She was several hundred fathoms from the north gate when she heard a shout from the battlement.
The sound did not register at first. It was a short cry, one or two words at most. Yet the voice was so familiar it was impossible to deny. She reined up and wheeled her horse around. All at once she realized someone had shouted her name. Not Stoya or Mistress Lyrent or even Lady Mirrowell, but simply, “Alynor.”
Upon the north gatehouse stood a man in a dark cloak and simple leather armor. His brown hair was long and wavy, his beard half gone to gray. Ristocule was perched on his shoulder. Beside him stood a shorter, stockier man with a greenish tinge to his pale skin. A smaller brown bird sat on his shoulder.
She could not be sure from this distance, but she thought the taller man’s eyes were glistening. Sunlight flashed overhead, outlining them in heavenly coronae like some celestial vision. She squinted against it, no longer able to distinguish more than outlines.
“Alynor,” the taller man said again, snapping her back to reality.
“Yes?” she said dumbly. Her voice was a husk, weak and parched.
“Alynor. Come back.”
“I am not allowed inside,” she said, blinking.
When the flash of sunlight subsided, the two men were gone. The soldiers remained, statue-still in the dawn. Alynor’s heart sank. Just a vision. A hope, but not a real one. She was so tired she was seeing things—and hearing them as well. With a heavy heart, she turned away and bade the animal resume the long trudge north.
There was a crack, followed by the creaking of wood on iron hinges.
What now? she wondered. Are the guards playing some trick on me?
“Alynor,” came the voice again. “Where are you going?”
She turned.
Standing between the open gates were the same two men she’d seen on the wall. Others were with them. A slender blond-haired man; a brooding fellow with ruddy skin and long dark hair pulled back; and a brutish woman with curly red locks and a pair of bludgeons dangling from her hips. The brown falcon still sat upon the shoulder of the green-skinned man, but the taller man’s shoulder was empty where Ristocule had been. Out from behind the group stepped an old white-haired man, feeble and bent with age.
Alynor looked to the long north road ahead. If the people behind her were a mirage, she would sooner live within that delusion than face the road alone. She dismounted and hoisted Draithon down from the saddle.
“Do you not know the face of your own husband?” It was Sir Jalleth’s voice, tired and raspy.
She took a step toward the gates, her horse all but forgotten.
Darion sprang into motion. The others followed.
Behind them, the gates swung shut.
A hundred paces each, and the two groups came to a stop within a few fathoms of one another. A silence passed. Alynor studied them, one after another. They’re real, she decided. But if that were true, her husband was a different man than she remembered. He was thinner. Broader of shoulder. White flecks salted his beard, and there were silver strands in his dark hair. Even as he stood before her in the flesh, Alynor was surprised to find she felt more an
ger toward him than love. “Is it you?” she asked.
Darion nodded, then looked to the boy. “Is this…?”
Alynor held her son close. “His name is Draithon.”
Darion said nothing, studying the boy like a man appraising a rare work of art.
“Your husband has come a long way to see you,” said Sir Jalleth.
Alynor couldn’t believe her eyes. “Sir Jalleth. How did you—”
Darion lifted the knitted panel and let it unfurl from his hand, green sigils on a blue backdrop. “Such forethought was wise, my lady.”
“It was necessary. The scroll is lost to us, I fear.”
“How so?”
“The Dathiri Pathfinders took it. They met their end in Westenreach shortly thereafter.”
“Jeebo and I have heard of the trouble in Westenreach. You were there?”
“Hello, Jeebo,” Alynor said.
“Hello, my lady. It is good to see you.”
“You as well.” She gave the falconer a kind smile. “Yes, I was there. They took us captive. We escaped thanks to a spell Sir Jalleth taught me.”
“A shadow-walking spell,” the old knight said proudly.
“You impress me,” said Darion. “I’m pleased. I was so worried for you.”
“We’ve both had ample opportunity for worry, haven’t we?”
Darion was abashed. “It will never be enough to tell you how sorry I am.”
“How did you find me? How did you know where I would be?”
“I sought out your father at the Greenkeep. He could barely stand to look at me.”
“Would that I could find a shred of sympathy for you.”
Darion lowered his eyes. “I cannot imagine what you’ve gone through.”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Well, look at this,” Kestrel piped up from the back. “We’re all together again. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Darion motioned to his wife. “Come inside. You shall have food and drink and rest in the house of Lord Goldane.”
“Where is that lute of yours, Kestrel?” Alynor asked.