by Carol Berg
Footsteps and voices beyond the doors distracted the prince before his gathering wrath could break upon my head. When the door opened to Voushanti, I found myself able to breathe again.
The mardane hurried across the room, not bothering to bow. His heavy cloak was dusted with snow. “Skay has confirmed that Prince Bayard’s men control the city gates this hour. The guards are stretched thin and shitting their trews for fear of the Harrowers. I’ve transport ready.”
“Excellent. Have Saverian see to the monk while I ensure my pureblood’s good behavior.”
“We’d best be quick, my lord. We caught three Harrowers trying to climb over the wall. Our…inquiries…revealed they were hunting the little monk.” Voushanti bowed and left.
“Alas, we shall have to continue our discussion another time.” The prince rose from his chair. Not short, not tall. His voluminous velvets prevented me deducing more of his size or shape. He pointed a finger at one of the blazing bowls atop the slave statues. The fire bloomed scarlet, then vanished, dropping an inky mantle over his left shoulder.
“I believe the time has come to bring my fractious brothers to heel,” he said. “Thus I’ve decided to remove my valuables—including my very expensive pureblood—south to Evanore, far from this precarious city. Until we meet again, you will remain in Mardane Voushanti’s sight at all times and obey his commands as if they were my own. You will strictly maintain your pureblood discipline. And you will not discuss this day’s business—my business—with anyone. Now tell me whether or not you choose to obey these orders. If you think not, we can just get on with the necessary unpleasantness.”
His mild-spoken menace did naught but inflame my curiosity. He had some use for me. To make the best use of my position, to protect my friends and aid their mission, I needed to learn of my new master or, at the least, prevent him interfering with the cabal. “Does not my duty require me to be at your side, lord? I should protect—”
“Honesty, Magnus.” The second bowl of fire bled and died. My skin felt the flash of heat.
I bowed and touched my forehead. “As you command, Your Grace…” Though, honestly, I would prefer the freedom to choose my own course.
Chapter 30
We rode out within the hour. In the kitchen courtyard, where Voushanti had first brought me to Osriel that morning, three of Osriel’s warriors waited beside a mule-drawn wagon draped in mourning garlands of dried laurel and black ribbon. A stone coffin occupied the wagon bed. Brother Victor—
“The little monk sleeps, pureblood,” said Voushanti at my mumbled curse. “But not his final sleep.”
I gaped at him, unable to contain my horror. “You hid him in a coffin?”
“The Moriangi will not inspect Lord Osriel’s dead. Now, mount up.” He pointed at a beast waiting patiently behind the wagon. “We’ve found a docile steed for you tonight.”
Prince Osriel did not see us off.
Palinur lay eerily quiet as we plodded toward the city gates. Winter held the world fast in its grip. Ice sheathed toppled statues and charred wreckage, and hung in great spikes from gutters and balconies. Churned, filthy snow lay deep in the byways. Hunched figures scuttled into alleyways as we approached and darted out again only after we passed.
No Moriangi gate guard dared so much as glance at Prince Osriel’s pureblood or his “fallen knight” in the coffin, not when a warrior of Voushanti’s complexion growled hints of the Bastard’s retribution should they do so. But neither did anyone want the responsibility of violating Prince Bayard’s order that no one breathing was to leave Palinur that night. We were passed from one guard captain to the next—the events a blur of torchlight, waiting, repeated stories, and anxious, stuttering progress. I rejoiced that I was not expected to speak. Exhaustion weighed on my limbs like the burdening ice.
Eventually Voushanti convinced Tiglas Volti, a seedy-eyed senior guard captain, of the mortal risks in insulting Prince Bayard’s neutral brother—a brother whose vaults of gold, once opened, would likely dispense their contents as far spread as the Bastard’s goodwill…even so far as senior guard captains. Eventually, the portcullis slammed shut behind us, and we rolled into the night.
“Get out of the tent or you’ll be folded up in it.” Voushanti’s ugly face poked through the slit in the canvas for the third time since he’d called me out of a dead sleep. The patch of sky behind him was a sunlit blue.
I slipped on my mask and crawled toward him, every bone and sinew complaining, breathing through my mouth to avoid the persistent stench of old sweat, old ale, and old vomit woven into the shelter’s fabric. I’d never known a tent that was aught but cramped and stinking. “If you don’t give me time to stretch and take a piss before I climb onto that devil horse again, I’ll make both sides of your face look equally ugly,” I mumbled, as he backed away from the entrance.
I had no idea how far we’d ridden after leaving Palinur behind. I had fallen asleep in the saddle, waked only long enough to break a drover’s nose when they threw me into the wagon bed. I’d thought they were going to put me in the coffin. I didn’t remember being stuffed into the tent.
Voushanti awaited me in an alder thicket frosted with new snow. Pale sunlight glittered through the crusted branches. “Just beyond these trees lies a party of His Grace’s retainers,” he said as I unfolded my stiff limbs like some great chick from too small an egg. “We’ll be traveling with them. Remember your orders. Keep to your pureblood practices. Once you’ve relieved yourself, follow me.”
“Voushanti!” I called after his departing back. “What of Brother Victor?”
He paused. “My lord yet has hope to extract some return for all our trouble to get him.”
I took that as good news. “Where are we going? What does the prince—?”
“South.” He vanished into the trees. A flurry of black-birds scattered and circled above the thicket.
I saw no sign of horses, wagon, monk, or coffin in the vicinity of the brown and white tent. But scents of woodsmoke, burnt porridge, and horses wafted through the leafless trees, along with the muted clatter and bustle of an encampment. My most urgent needs met, I followed Voushanti down the well-trod path into the brake.
The busy camp sprawled across a broad clearing. Soldiers moved among the horses, leading them to water, cinching saddle girths, and picking ice and stones from hooves, while servants collapsed tents, rolled blankets, and stuffed packs. One very large tent yet stood in the center of the trampled snow. The green and white colors of Evanore hung limp from its center pole, along with several other pennants of various colors.
Beside the large tent, a group of well-armed men and women encircled Voushanti, their craggy faces contrasting sharply with their jeweled rings and brooches, gold-etched sword hilts, and fur-lined cloaks. Evanori warlords—at least five of them among the small group—each a petty sovereign in his or her own right with bloodlines far older than purebloods, bound by oath to Caedmon’s line since the kingdom’s founding.
“…while he attends to his business,” the mardane was saying. He might have been a toad addressing a gathering of eagles. “Prince Bayard is not yet seated in Palinur. Our spies report he is paying calls on several noble Ardran houses before announcing his victory, while Harrower raiding parties spring from the brush like grouse before beaters…”
The lords seemed attentive, but not deferent. Voushanti was clearly not one of them. Though his manner and accent witnessed to his Evanori blood, his mardane’s rank was an Ardran grant, not Evanori inheritance. His authority was strictly Osriel’s.
“His Grace will see you at Ygil’s Moon. Do not disappoint him.” Such woe and ruin as Voushanti’s tone promised would have sent Magrog running from his throne of skulls.
The proud warlords dispersed slowly, eyes hooded, mumbling among themselves. A round-headed lord in a steel cap and tall boots glared at Voushanti as if to argue, only to think better of it. He tightened his mouth in disgust and turned his back sharply. Perhaps more warlords th
an Stearc of Erasku viewed Eodward’s youngest son as an abomination.
Two of the Evanori turned to intercept the man in the steel cap, thereby facing me straight on, not ten paces distant. A flood of pleasure warmed my veins, and I fought to keep from laughing outright, which was a wholly unreasonable reaction to encountering a warrior who would prefer me dead and his daughter who had betrayed me.
Elene controlled herself well. After one startled blink, she averted her gaze. But little more than a touch of her father’s arm drew Thane Stearc’s eye my way. The frown lines about his mouth and hawkish brow deepened. He, too, glanced away quickly.
Though a sword hung at her waist, Elene no longer stood as Stearc’s squire, but as a woman of Evanore, a descendant of warlords like these. Her wide-legged trousers were suitable for riding, her breasts unbound beneath her copper-colored shirt and fine-linked habergeon, her cropped bronze hair now grown long enough to twist in numerous tiny braids laid flat to her head. I might have been looking on the goddess Mother Samele herself, the exemplar of the earth’s health and strength. My hands ached to touch her cheeks, flushed with the cold, and stroke the hips that filled her trousers so delectably…
Great gods, I felt like a witless pup, after a month imprisoned, with no hopes to spare for pleasures of mind or body, and before that a novice vowed. Of a sudden my grievances with the woman seemed of no more substance than the frost vapors rising from the sunlit tents. Somehow I found myself willing to believe that she had acted out of devotion to her cause—at least while I stood so near that tantalizing flesh and bright spirit. So much had changed since I’d seen her last.
The man in the steel cap snapped orders to break down the large tent. Elene stood by as her father and Voushanti exchanged stiff courtesies. No love lost between those two men. Stearc’s arched nose flared as they spoke. When Voushanti moved on, Stearc began arguing with a bear-like man about whether their party should travel together or take separate, shorter roads to their strongholds. Elene joined in, her cinnamon eyes flashing. No demure maiden she.
As custom and protocol prescribed, no one spoke to me or acknowledged my presence with anything but sidewise glances. Only a pureblood or his contracted master could initiate interaction with ordinaries. Pureblood discipline required me to maintain that distance. After his pointed warnings, the mardane would surely be watching. And these two…I could give no one cause to suspect their divided loyalties. No matter their opinions of Osriel, I had no illusions that others of these fearsome folk conspired to preserve books and tools in preference to their duc and his gold mines.
I tore my attention from Elene and wandered through the rapidly dwindling camp, seeking any sign of Brother Victor. Cheered to discover the emptied coffin abandoned in the trees, I drifted toward the three wagons. One was packed with household goods, one with hay and grain sacks. A severe woman in a plain cloak was helping the older servants climb into the third wagon. Before I could sidle close enough to peer inside, the woman looked up—and did not drop her eyes. Her look of scorn near torched my cloak. Donning my own best disdain, I strolled on past her and her charges, hoping she cared more for Karish monks than purebloods. I’d have wagered my prick that poor, battered Brother Victor lay among the bags and bundles in that wagon bed.
I retreated and sat down on a fallen tree. Elene stood listening to a tall woman with iron-gray hair and cheekbones as angular as the crossguard on her sword. Happy for once to be ritually ignored, I stared at Elene and imagined and yearned until her rosy flush expanded to her neck and ears, and she yielded me a sidewise glance. Ah, if only we were back under that dolmen in the rain…
A dark-haired man bundled in a thick black cloak hurried out of the great tent, lugging a worn leather satchel. He caught sight of me at once. Of course, Gram would be here, too.
I winked and twiddled a finger at the sober secretary. Gram whipped his glance around the company until his gaze settled on Voushanti’s back. He raised his eyebrows and flashed me a grin, then ducked his head and moved on about his business.
I buried my grin in my hands. How fine to discover friends here. I’d no expectation of seeing anyone I knew ever again—save perhaps Brother Victor. Of a sudden I found myself anticipating the coming journey with excitement. Somehow I’d find a way to speak with them.
When Gram strode past her field of view, Elene scowled at his back. No softening of that enmity. For some perverse reason, that consideration cheered me even more.
By the time the cumbersome party moved out, some fifty of us altogether, the rare blue sky had skinned over with clouds, and snowflakes flurried like dandelion fluff. “Stay close, pureblood,” said Voushanti, as I tried to find the right combination of knee and hand, curses and cajoling to prevent my beastly mount from shedding me. “I’m charged to keep you healthy.”
The mardane moved into the vanguard beside the iron-gray woman, the lord in the steel cap, and Stearc. They scarce looked at him. Someday I would insist someone explain why Voushanti’s presence made a man’s bowels churn.
Elene rode two ranks behind, alongside two younger men who eyed Voushanti’s back with a mix of awe and terror. Over the course of the first hour, I maneuvered my balky mare to her side, close enough we could speak with little risk of being overheard. “May I ask where you are bound, mistress? ’Tis a wretched season to trade hearth fire and good company for a perilous road.”
“My father and I have business southward—a Karish school in which he takes an interest.” A glance my way, quickly controlled. “And then, as do all those loyal to the Duc of Evanore, we return home for Lord Osriel’s war-moot, the first he has summoned. We’re curious to learn if Evanore’s position of neutrality in this vile conflict is to change. Perhaps his pureblood advisor could enlighten us?”
I imagined Voushanti’s ears straining to hear my disobedience. I kept my eyes on his broad back. “Alas, I’ve no leave to discuss my master’s business. In truth, having been in my lord’s service only a single…unhappy…day, I’m not even sure of our destination, save that it be south—which seems to leave half of Ardra and all of Evanore a possibility.”
She bit her lip and bowed her head, which made me believe she knew of Luviar. “My sincerest apologies, sir. I’m not accustomed to pureblood company, or what is proper to ask. So often we can give offense…hurt, even…when none is intended.” Her voice shook a little. “I’d suppose you bound for Prince Osriel’s great fortress at Angor Nav or, perhaps, his smaller house at Renna.”
I nodded with as much hauteur as I could summon. “My life has changed dramatically of late, mistress, and I find life more pleasant when I forget unintended slights. You know, though we’ve not been formally introduced, you resemble a lad I once knew—a squire of marginal talents, though exceeding fair for a boy. I would not be surprised to see his position vacant.”
She kept her eyes on the road, snowflakes dusting her flushed countenance. “Indeed, sir, the portion of your face that I can see resembles that of a man I once knew—a monk of marginal piety and excessive interest in matters he had forsworn. I would not be surprised to see his habit uninhabited.”
“Thank all gods that men grow wiser as days pass.” I could smell her even in the cold…fennel and lavender and leather. But for the snow, one might have imagined us on a pleasure outing in happier times.
Impelled by dreary wisdom, I left Elene and dropped back to ride in the fourth rank for a while, sharing curses of weather and Harrowers with a new-bearded youth who rode as if soul bonded to his mount. The weather worsened by the hour, blowing snow and increasingly cold. We passed several villages burnt to ash. Other cots gaped open to the weather, perhaps one in five showing signs of habitation. In the distance, dark shapes—wolves or wild dogs—loped across the snow-covered fields, which did naught to soothe our unhappy horses.
Gram rode several ranks behind me, his cloak and hood bundled about him. At every stop I tried to draw him aside, hoping he might hint at what use the cabal would make of my gra
ndfather’s story, but we were able to exchange only a few empty words. The warlords demanded his attendance. His bottomless well of facts about Navronne’s history fueled the lords’ never-ending arguments of politics and war. By evening, the rigors of the journey had sapped all conversation.
We sheltered that night in a burnt-out inn, its broken walls blocking the wind. I maneuvered a seat next to Elene as the company shared out hard bread and bean soup. “The boy and the Scholar,” I mumbled into my bread. “Safe?”
She bobbed her head over her soup.
“And the book?”
Elene turned to the iron-gray Thanea Zurina, who sat on her right. “No matter how difficult the journey, I’m happy my father chose to leave Palinur,” she confided. “When one sees both Temple priestesses and Karish practors deserting the place, one must think the gods themselves have given up on it. With so many clerics, the roads south should be safe enough for children and valuables!”
I smiled and drained my bowl. Thalassa had book, boy, and Scholar and was taking them south.
On the next morning, once we persuaded the horses to move out of their huddle, four of the seven lords split off and headed west on the Ardran high road, taking all the wagons and two-thirds of the soldiers. I had caught nary a glimpse of Brother Victor, but assumed he traveled with them. The rest of us, perhaps twenty in all, continued on the less-traveled way that led south past Gillarine toward Caedmon’s Bridge. We kept a slow, steady pace, stopping only to water the horses or pick ice from their hooves. Just after midday, one of our scouts reported a disciplined cadre of orange-blazed Harrowers bearing down on us, he said, like Magrog’s chariots of doom. We spurred our mounts and fled.