by Carol Berg
A man-at-arms appeared first, his sword incising a path in the river of men and women now rushing from the taphouse to the docks. Pureblood and master emerged next, shielded by powerful enchantments and the second guard’s sword. Close on their heels was the woman in blue.
I shoved two fishermen aside to reach her before any of her own people arrived from the potter’s house.
Raising my cloak as if to shield her, I touched her arm. “Lady, may I assist you?”
“Remove your hand or I’ll cut it off.” Indeed she carried a short sword drawn from a sheath at her waist. Her glance traveled from my hand on her arm to my face and did not drop at the sight of my mask. An incredibly strong-willed ordinary to see past the obscuré.
Her pale skin was stretched over fine bones like sculpted marble, flawless save for a diagonal scar that etched each cheek from cheekbone to chin. Her eyes were the color of spring sky in fairer climes, but as frigid in their disdain as ice shards at the winter solstice. “Who are you?”
“Only a . . . p-poor fisherman . . . lady.” Shock, not fear, loosed my grip and backed my feet away from her. No artifice contrived my stammering. “I would not have harm come to you.”
The precise, glaring scars on the slender woman’s cheeks would have told me enough, but the scarf around her slender neck confirmed it—a trailing scarf of bright orange, the colors of the ravagers who believed that cities and sorcerers and nobles should be slaughtered in repentance and the rest of humankind hide themselves in caves. The colors of the Harrowers. She could be none but Sila Diaglou, the priestess turned prophet who had slashed her own face in a public marketplace to amend the kingdom’s sins and now commanded legions rampaging across Navronne’s fields and cities.
She drew up her hood and bullied her way toward the potter’s house, where her four companions engulfed her. The man in the hat and his protectors were nowhere in sight. Townspeople thronged the lane in front of the commons hall, shouting about smoke with no fire in the commons, and flame with no spark at the docks. Ynnes likely hadn’t seen such doings in decades.
The city gates stood open and deserted, tempting me to run. But I needed to see if prince and priestess met again or left together, and I’d no wish for either party to overtake me on the road. Sila Diaglou slaughtered sorcerers.
I slipped back around the palisade and up the glassworks chimney. The risks of such a perch were not lost on me. But no house seemed safe with everyone awake. In a different season I might have hidden in the river, but the only way I could survive the frigid water for any length of time was with magic, which would draw the pureblood like a bonfire.
The two parties rode out within the hour—Sila Diaglou and her four companions first, the prince, his pureblood, and four soldiers a short time after, along with three wagons heaped with fish. The town gate was closed and locked behind them.
Ynnes was soon as dark as Sila Diaglou’s soul. Sad piping came from the direction of the taphouse. Somewhere in the night a man and woman argued. I slithered down from my aerie and slipped across the yard to the docks. I’d no time to hike upriver to the ferry crossing and no inclination to swim.
A youth sat on a barrel, bundled in a blanket, his mouth sagged open as he dozed. The star on my left bracelet provided a spell to deepen his sleep—not so much that any would think it unnatural. Infusing the spell with magic, I touched his cheek. His head lolled.
Magic frayed the mooring line of the most decrepit boat of their lot. Once across the river, I wedged the dinghy in a snag. Perhaps the boy would notice when he woke.
Avoiding the road, I ghosted over the countryside. Shivering in the rain and deepening cold, I sought some worthy reason a son of Eodward would parlay with a priestess who slaughtered purebloods, nobles, and priests with equal savagery. Her Harrowers were not weakened by the brother princes’ war, but proclaimed it more evidence that every god but theirs was a lie. Would Bayard, unable to defeat his brothers honestly, truly ally himself with Harrowers to make himself king? Even a paratus with half a mind recognized that as a foul and dangerous bargain.
Half an hour took me to the swale where beeches grew. The bay mare waited patiently where I’d left her. To my weary disappointment, she was not alone.
CHAPTER 6
Touching the magical perimeter I’d left around the mare gave a measure of the power used to breach it. Considerable, expert, though more kin to a smith’s sledge than an etcher’s needle. The mage who’d done it hid warm and breathing in the deeper shadows, eating the rest of my apples.
I could walk away with a clear conscience. Inek had given me no permission to engage Bayard or his men in any fashion, and a sorcerer who traveled with battle-hardened soldiers posed no small danger. Yet a confirmation of the noble’s identity, and a hint of his dealings with the Harrower priestess would be invaluable.
My senses probed the air around and the earth below as I trudged into the beech grove. No magics hung in the air—no snares, no paralyzing bolts. No tremulous loops waited to open a void or buckle the ground beneath my feet.
“Are you as wet as I am, Betony? I think it’s time for home.” I scratched the mare’s nose, ran my fingers down her legs, and tightened the saddle girth.
“So where would a faceless apparition have a home?” A soft gleam of magelight spread across the wet grass, as the short, bull-necked man I’d seen from the chimney perch stepped into the open. His wine-colored cloak was fine and thick, his black beard heavy and trimmed close to his square jaw. Naught else was visible in the faint glow.
“That’s a more complicated question than you could imagine, pureblood,” I said, keeping the horse between us. “Do you intend a fight? I’ve far to go and would prefer not.”
He edged around the clearing where he could see me better. “I doubt a fight would be useful.”
“Then I’d thank you to leave a bit of provision for my journey. Your noble master likely pays you well enough to feed yourself.”
He snorted a laugh. “Tell me what family permits such unseemly garb and what master commands you create disturbances in fish towns, and perhaps I’ll leave you these”—he peered into the leather sack—“haycakes?”
I shook my head decisively. “No bargain there. Only a goat would actually eat those cakes—they’re mostly salt and seagrass. I’ve heard naught to entice me to break privacy. But I’m still listening.”
“I really must know who you are. You smoked us into the open—a most unusual and powerful spell combination that has left me in bad grace with my master. He ordered me to discover your purpose or not come back.”
The pureblood leaned his back against a tree, folded his arms, and crossed an ankle, the very image of relaxed power. Yet spellwork soon threaded the air about him like a haze drawing over the sun—binding magic, pain inducements. Dangerous magic.
My thumb touched a small cross on my right bracelet. The spell waiting there had taken me months to learn. Called an impenetrable wall, it could provide an instant’s protection from any magical assault. Though extremely short-lived and extremely costly, it could save a man’s life when he’d no leisure to judge a threat. I sincerely hoped not to need it.
“It’s always satisfying to hear one’s mission is accomplished,” I said, feeding the mare the last sliver of apple from my pocket.
“Accomplished?” His sneer would have been obvious to a blind man. “I doubt that. You created a clever and perfect opportunity for assassination, yet you’re satisfied with a bit of confusion?”
“You assume my mission was your master’s harm,” I said. “Well, perhaps that was the task assigned, but then a thousand things can go wrong with assigned murders. Consider, I attracted your attention. I did not take the perfect opportunity to damage your lord. I displayed a fine sample of my skills. And you’re here, are you not?”
Tension rippled through his easy posture. “You wanted to draw me here?”
I gestured at my plain leather and russet, the full mask, the black cloak, all of them egregious violations of the protocols mandated by the Pureblood Registry—Damon and his cohorts whose iron hands governed pureblood life.
“—and his activities put both life and soul at constant risk. I would prefer less . . . spiritually grotesque . . . service. Yet, being a practical man, I could only accept a master of the same rank and prestige as my own, and there are only two such to be found in Navronne. So I examine what Serena Fortuna puts in front of me and, lo, today I glimpse one of these verisame two! Not only is he a lordly figure, but he has at least one formidable sorcerer at his command already. Thus I decide to investigate what opportunities might exist for a sorcerer who could bring exceptionally useful information, as well as exceptional skills, to that lord’s service.”
I could almost hear his mind open at my wild story. “One of my lord’s peers . . . an eccentric . . . Sky Lord’s balls! You serve Osriel the Bastard!”
So satisfying when a play bears fruit. The man in the hat, so clearly not Prince Perryn the fair-haired popinjay, was indeed Bayard, Duc of Morian.
“Discipline forbids me affirm your guess, eqastré,” I said, addressing him as an equal, “and my current discipline is extraordinarily cruel.” I waved my silver bracelets, and let him imagine what he would. “But I’ll say my master heard unsettling rumor of an alliance to be sworn in Ynnes this day and dispatched me to make an end to such a possibility. Indeed the meeting I witnessed makes me hesitate in my resolve. I already serve a demon. Why would I risk proximity to a witch who lusts for the death of all sorcerers?”
The pureblood’s hand waved in dismissal. “My master pursues what’s needful for Navronne’s future. He sees a great deal of litter that can be advantageously swept up before he takes his rightful place and returns the kingdom to good order. His servants do not question him. Yet, as all of our kind learn sooner or later, it is possible to . . . guide . . . ordinaries once we’ve proved ourselves loyal and clever.”
Litter? What sordid arrogance to use rampaging lunatics to broom away inconvenient opposition. And what extravagant idiocy to expect such allies to be dismissed easily in their turn. History demonstrated that fanatics were as dangerous and tenacious as hounds with the frothing sickness.
His magelight brightened. Eager, coal-dark eyes gleamed from his face, the masked side as well as the exposed. “As to your contract, my master would not wish to offend his brother. Yet he would welcome your information. So little is known of the Bastard. How could we trust you to be forthcoming and not take what you learn of our stratagems straight back to the demon prince?”
I spread my arms wide. “I’ve risked a great deal to speak with you,” I said. “You’ve no measure of my master’s wrath should he find out. But my contract is up for renewal, and if we manage the new one through the Registry, my lord could do nothing about it. And be sure, once free of his household, I’d bleed myself dry before going back.”
He crossed his arms and took my measure. “The Registry would need your name. And of course, His Grace would have to approve the negotiation first. But I’ll say . . . he’ll surely bite.”
Well he should say so! To bring Bayard an intimate of the reclusive third prince who lurked atop the riches of Navronne’s southern mountains would surely reap substantial reward.
“Come with me now,” he said, taking a few purposeful steps. A thread of insistent magic twined about my limbs.
Clearly I’d milked all that was useful from this encounter. I inclined my back, touched my forehead, and extended my hand. “I would be forever in your debt, eqastré. This is my family crest. It will reveal enough to forward our business, and I can swear truthfully to my master that I spoke my name to no one.”
He took the wooden disk and shone his light on it, wrinkling his brow. “But what—?”
Magic arced from the token in my hand to the one in his. He jumped a little and wiped his ashy fingers on his braies. They stung, I knew, as if they thawed after frostbite.
The pureblood’s twining magic dissolved, and I slipped into the shadow of the beeches. He passed me by as if I were one of the sodden trees and spoke only to the horse. “So who are you, lady beast, and what are you doing in the midst of nowhere? I’d some notion . . .” He frowned and shook his head. “Well, come along. No use letting you stand out here and take a chill, while I walk halfway to Tavarre. The soon-to-be king of Navronne will make good use of you.”
He swung expertly into the saddle.
“Damn all arrogant purebloods!” I mumbled as he rode away.
Inek was not going to be at all happy at my losing a horse and tack. And I’d have to hurry or lose hours to the demon tides. Yet I dared not use magic to reclaim my mount; to be seen would undo the memory wipe.
Fortunately, nothing on or about the beast could lead anyone back to the Order nor to the hostler that tended our mounts. And the urgency of my news would trump all else. Bayard’s alliance with the Harrowers would change the course of the war . . . of Navronne’s future and that of all the Middle Kingdoms. Rampant savagery condoned. Pillage and ruin of towns and trade routes not avoided but encouraged. Prince Perryn’s weakling legions could never stem such a foul tide. Something had to be done.
Bayard’s sorcerer would head north, toward his master’s ship. My course lay south. I sped across the barren hills to the coast road, then settled into a smooth gait along its grassy verge.
• • •
My path through the dark hours became a tunnel that seemed endless. The world blurred as I focused solely on controlling breath and muscle. I paused at stream crossings just long enough to slurp water. To stop was to invite the chill into tiring muscles. I encountered no other travelers.
At some time, the fog vanished, as if swallowed by a monster of the night. Multitudes of stars pricked the ebon sky—a rare beauty in these climes. I couldn’t enjoy it. Though the summer solstice lay but days hence, clearing brought the kind of out-of-season frost that had blighted Navronne’s weather for the past seven years.
A marker I’d left at the roadside sent me scrambling down rocky steeps toward the thrashing sea. Though my knees ached as I jogged along the rough shingle, the need to return to Evanide was implanted deep in all who trained there. The fresh water in the boat’s cask, a bite of Malcolm’s cheese, and an hour’s rest would allow me to catch the ebb and make the crossing without foundering.
So I continued. But somehow when my arm swept the stinging blur from my eyes for the five-hundredth time in an hour, the crash of waves had yielded to the shifting of reeds and the burble of streamlets and mudholes. My feet no longer traversed a rocky shore, but the marshlands that protruded into the western sea like the Goddess Mother’s apron.
The change shook me. Had I fallen asleep? How could I not have noticed entering such treacherous terrain?
A fan of magelight guided my steps toward the cove where I’d moored the skiff. Safely across a soggy mead, I pushed through chest-high reeds, testing each step. The low-pitched slop of surging water—the river Gouvron itself—welcomed me . . .
A spongy hummock gave way and I plunged, backside first, into frigid swirling water. Down and down. Cold, thick, the fingers of the tide reached through a submerged tangle of reeds drawing me deeper into the blackness.
Training took over. Slow the heart; steady the nerves; let the body’s reserves give time for magic.
But exhaustion slowed my response, and the grip of sea and river tightened and dragged me down faster and deeper. My chest burned. . . .
A burst of musical laughter rippled from the depths, bathing me in summer. Was the Last Ferryman a woman?
A warm, powerful current shoved me sideways and my feet found solid purchase. I
arrowed upward. Hands and head broke the surface, greeted by blustering wind. Gods’ fire, as if I weren’t already freezing!
Gasping, coughing, and spitting, I ripped slime and sea wrack from my head. Salt and mud had me blind. I scrabbled for a handhold to drag myself out of the sink.
“Wait, my poor Lucian! Let me help.”
Splashing and laughter accompanied hands of warm flesh that enclosed my wrists, and with a shallow chuff of effort, she hauled me onto the cold mud. No Order comrade could have done it so smoothly.
“Though I relish this intimacy,” she said in my ear, “our dance is entirely graceless.”
Astonishment and a mouth full of muck left my appreciation garbled. I scrubbed at my eyes with sodden sleeves, desperate to look on her.
“Stay—” Crouched close, she halted my frantic flailing. “Let me guide thee till we can wash them safely.”
One wrist in hand, her other arm slid around my back. Her presence heated me like flooding sunlight, as she guided me blind over squishing ground. Only on the inside was I shivering. She knew me. She was Danae.
Wary of tricks and illusion, I tried to resist such a mad certainty. “How did you find me, lady?”
“Did I not say we are bound by our deeds? Ever and anywhere can I find thee. Since I left the scroll, I’ve yearned for yon fortress to spit thee out again, so I’ve taken . . . residence . . . close by. ’Tis only thy urgency and direction these few days made me wait till now. Thou didst ever remark my persistence!”
As I fought for some hint of memory, my skull throbbed its usual refusal.
“I recall nothing of you before I found you in my boat,” I said. Though it violated all caution to reveal weakness, she had me at her mercy in uncountable ways. “Until I saw the portrait, I’d no idea I could do such work, or that you are . . . what it claims you are . . . or how I could possibly have come to know you. Lucian de Remeni’s life is an empty canvas to me.”