Exile's Return

by Gayle Greeno

  But Jenret didn’t hear what else Eadwin said, although he feared the girl might melt at his feet, her doting father following suit on Muscadeine’s arm. Muscadeine stood rigid, head canted skyward, his original smile fading as he concentrated harder. Then, “Let me borrow Rawn, Wycherley. I need his help. ”

  Rawn? One didn’t exactly borrow one of the ghatti like a cup of sugar or an extra egg, and he was about to protest, except that Rawn was already at Muscadeine’s side. His green eyes widened and his head bobbed once, one foot poised in the air as if set to run, then his head jerked in the other direction.

  Jenret’s did as well,. as some argument or commotion broke out behind the wall of Guardians who separated the town dignitaries and royal participants from the common folk. A ghatt’s voice soared out of the blue, totally unexpected. “Jenret, it’s M’wa! Make them let us through, it’s an emergency.” And tumbling over and through that plea, another familiar voice, “Well, you see, but then mayhap I didn’t mention, by the way, Wycherley, Harrap and I’ve had the most horrible—”

  Trying to work his way through without annoying or alarming anyone, Jenret found the knot of Guardians doing their best to halt a maniac intent on breaking through their lines by using another man as a battering ram. His face obscured by the man slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, he threw himself at the line again, slamming them with the solid and ample posterior of the man being carried. Perplexed by the strange assault, the Guardians were doing a creditable job of blocking the blows, feinting with their pikes, slamming interlocked shields at ground level to keep two ghatti from breaking through. Tired of the charade, M‘wa launched himself over their heads and slammed onto Jenret’s shoulders, and Jenret took two quick steps to steady himself. “Hullo, M’wa, back in the thick of things, eh?”

  “Make them clear Bard and Harrap through, it’s crucial.” The question of including Parm didn’t arise as Parm himself levitated overhead, a somersaulting tricolored flash of fur that landed with a thump at their feet.

  “Harrap needs help! Get a eumedico!” A quick shake and he groomed his shoulder vigorously, too overcome to say more.

  His tap on a sergeant’s shoulder nearly swept Jenret into the fray, the Guardian assuming he was being attacked from behind. “I’m Seeker Veritas Jenret Wycherley!” he shouted, finally managed to call attention to his tabard. “You’re holding back a fellow Seeker, Bard Ambwasali, and a Seeker-Shepherd, Harrap.” If Harrap had a last name, he realized with a sudden pain, he didn’t know it, somehow thought it had been relinquished with other worldly possessions upon becoming a Shepherd. It seemed important to know, now more than ever. A little dog yapped ferociously, darting at the Guardians’ feet, nipping and snapping.

  “Don’t look like none such to me, but if you’ll vouch for them as your friends, I’ll let them pass.” As Bard staggered through with Harrap, Jenret had to admit the Guardian was right. Kneeling, Bard gently deposited Harrap at Jenret’s feet, folded the Shepherd’s hands across his breast, then abruptly rose. Bard’s tabard was absent; he bore a crusted, bloody nose, the swollen beginnings of a black eye, and other marks of battle. Worst of all was an explosively lethal expression that Jenret gauged as just a step short of his berserker mode, when all evidence of compassion and civility fled to escape a cold, killing fury. He’d last seen it when Bard and Byrta had fought for their lives.

  He grabbed Bard by the shoulders, shook him hard—at his own peril, he knew—and then hugged him tight, as if he could force sanity back into him. But Bard didn’t erupt, marginally relaxed and focused on Jenret’s face, nodded once and stepped out of the embrace. “Harrap’s been drugged, damn near poisoned to death. And when I find the person responsible for addicting him ...” his voice broke and he coughed.

  Harrap, face greenish-white and an odd sweet-sour smell clinging to him, moaned and stirred, eyes half-opening before they rolled back in his head. The carefully folded hands began to twitch and pluck at nothing while Parm huddled miserably at his side. Shocked beyond belief at Harrap’s wan, dissipated looked, Jenret urgently mindspoke Dwyna Bannerjee’s help, blessed her comforting reply.

  But Muscadeine’s mindvoice crowded his brain with an equally sharp urgency. “Wycherley, I need you. There’s an emergency. It could mean danger for Eadwin. ” Promotion to Defense Lord from Chevalier Capitain had made Muscadeine no less arrogant or demanding, especially when it involved his king. He’d made his way close enough to speak aloud now, and did, after recognizing Bard, finally registering Harrap’s supine figure with growing dismay. “You’ve called Dwyna, haven’t you? Good.” Urgency overrode compassion. “Don’t want to say much aloud, not here. But you all should know, a child’s been kidnapped—”

  “Have you had word, have you.found Lindy?” Bard burst in, hands locked into Muscadeine’s flowing sleeves as if he’d rip them free. “The poor little girl’s—”

  “Girl? Jenret, what’s he talking about? I’ve had word from Dawy McNaught that he’s in danger, and Eadwin as well, possible assassination by our old friend Hylan Crailford.” He swung on Bard. “What happened between Harrap and Hylan? Has he been able to say anything, give any indication? Do you have any idea where she is right now?”

  Jenret stood-stock still, torn by conflicting loyalties. Damn all, there was no question—Harrap looked at death’s door, while Muscadeine worried that a rumor might knock at Eadwin’s. Rawn trotted up, greet-sniffed Parm and M’wa. “Let me sort out the facts because you’re facing interconnecting problems here, puzzles that are part of larger puzzles. Davvy’s been kidnapped, along with a little girl he called Lindy.”

  Bard marginally brightened at learning someone knew her whereabouts. Danger he could cope with, but not danger in disguise—a missing child, a drug-mazed friend. He hoped Dwyna Bannerjee, the cinnamon-tinted woman in the white coat who now bent over the Shepherd could bring back the Harrap he knew.

  “Apparently Hylan coaxed Lindy along with her and Davvy followed, then was seized himself. From what Davvy’s overheard, Hylan plans to kill the King of the Resonants, Eadwin, as she refers to him. I was able to get a fix on Davvy’s mindvoice before he was knocked out, so that’s where we’ll have to start.”

  Relaying the information to Muscadeine did nothing to improve his mood. He slapped his riding gloves against his palm, emotions chasing across his face. “Wycherley, I don’t have the right to command my forces in your land except in protection of my king. So we’ll have to use your Guardian forces, some of them at least.”

  “But you’ve no right to give them orders.”

  A wolfish smile, the same one that had momentarily terrified the little musician. “No, but Darl Allgood undoubtedly can, he’s acting for the Monitor. I’ve called him and Faertom and that fellow—the one that brought you in—Garvey, is it? Three Resonants who look and dress like ordinary Canderisians, which is exactly what they are. I’ve got Yulyn Biddlecomb doing a mindscan for Davvy since she knows him best of all.” He stood, feet apart, radiating confidence, though Jenret sensed the torment buffeting his mind.

  “Most of all, I don’t want Eadwin or anyone else to know of the possible danger, especially if we can thwart it. I’ve a plan, but you must understand, I have to remain with Eadwin, that’s my duty. He can know about the children being kidnapped, but nothing more—and only that if it’s absolutely necessary. Wycherley, I ask you as an upstanding Canderisian citizen to remain with me to guard the king. Besides, I know you want to stay with Harrap. I understand, commend you for it.” He caught Bard’s eye. “Stay or go? You’ve reason to go, the child needs finding.”

  Rousing at the sound of his name, Harrap lifted his head, brushed feebly at Dwyna Bannerjee as she tried to set an injection into a vein in his arm. “Hylan—goat cart,” he wheezed. “Cart at campground,” and his arm flailed, knocking Dwyna away. “Not hurt children! Parm, go! Show them where!” Dwyna slipped the needle in and pushed the plunger and Harrap’s sense melted away again.

  “What is i
t? Do you know what he took?” Bard whispered.

  She swung her black braid angrily, her bracelets jangling. “I’ve no idea yet. I was planning on asking you. If I-only had a sample I could tell more, decide what might counteract it. All I’m trying to do is strengthen and steady his heart right now.”

  “Mayhap we can get you one,” Muscadeine mused, “if it’s stored at that cart Harrap mentioned. Have a Guardian bring some back.”

  Faertom and Darl Allgood came together, Garvey from a different direction, nearly veering away when he caught sight of Faertom and Jenret. “Good, you’re all here. Now let me outline the problem. And the plan. I want Eadwin safely moved into town to the central square where the festivities are to take place and we can reinforce the protective quadrant around him. By the way, Wycherley, do any of your people know any quaint country folk dancing? Something entertaining that doesn’t involve children and trumpets? I want anything I can get to distract Eadwin.”

  While the roads out of Coventry had been deserted, the roads leading into Ruysdael were crammed with wagons and carriages, riders, and those afoot, all funneling into the city. Traffic had slowed to a crawl or worse as people stopped to picnic, gossip with old friends. No rush, no real rush, this was a day and a night to come of tentative celebration, or at least a time to witness a scene of epic proportions and importance. More than once the white mules had proved fractious as the afternoon wore on, backing in their traces, lunging and snapping at jostling neighboring teams. Tired and drawn, Cady constantly strove to anticipate and head off the mules’ stubbornness as twilight fell.

  “ ’Bout as patient and forbearing as their owner, Mr. Adderson,” Inez sniffed, wedging her way between Cady and Doyce on the seat. “Good thing I’m small.” An age-spotted hand clamped down on Doyce’s left hand, dragged it away from her mouth. “And don’t go chewing your nails ’cause it doesn’t gain us a thing. Now get back with Francie and let me show Cady how to drive. Mostly, where to drive.” Gathering the reins, she chirruped to the mules and began inexorably easing them right, forcing an adjacent carriage to yield. “They’ll close off the main road soon to clear the way for the king. Can’t get in the front door, try the back. Brickyard Pond Road.”

  Unwilling, indeed, unable to argue, Doyce swung around and slipped into the wagon bed, leaned against Francie, eyes unseeing. Damn Ruysdael, damn it! Invading her brain like that. All she could think of was the past in Ruysdael, children in danger. Not just Davvy, but a little girl as well, so like yet unlike Priyani. And what would happen to her would be a quicker end than Priyani’s but equally perverse. She blinked hard, snuggled against Francie, and ordered her mind to think about Now. Jenret, what he was doing, where he was, how he fared. Usually a good, righteous bout of anger at Jenret would snap her out of her funk. Her back ached and she was so tired, but she didn’t dare sleep. Her whole body felt as if it were clenching and unclenching, and she flexed her hands in time to it. Lady bless, she’d skin Davvy alive when she got her hands on him, even if his intentions had been good.

  She sighed, dozed as they picked up speed, the road narrowed and hummocky but at least traffic-free. The rhythm rocked like a cradle and she slept. Two children, hand in hand, lost alone in a pit, cried piteously to her in the dream.

  “What’s that over there, that crowd of people?” Francie asked her mother in hushed tones and Doyce awoke, picking straw out of her hair. Khar’s head popped out of the straw where she’d nested.

  They’d reached Ruysdael from the back, the section of town where manufacturers and merchanters kept their warehouses, a mill on the pond, its wheel ghost-gray and still against the night sky. Something was missing, although Doyce couldn’t think what. The people in the distance, at least two hundred milling like ants, then somehow stilling, reorganized into orderly ranks, some of them seemingly disappearing. The absence finally caught up with her. “I thought the brickyard was there,” she pointed at the winking torches, harsh compared to the light of the stars and the moons.

  “Was,” said Inez. “Burned down ten years past, built a new one cross the pond. Only thing left here is the cellar pit.”

  “Stop!” Impulsively, Doyce grabbed her mother from behind, hands over hers to control the reins. Cady turned and looked at Doyce as if she’d lost her mind. “I want to see what’s going on.”

  Inez wriggled and bucked, Cady rescuing the reins as mother and daughter tussled. “We’re here to find Davvy,” her mother reminded, “not go gallivanting around at anything that takes your fancy. If you’d been awake and listening, you’d have heard the cheers and yells and trumpets. ’Spect the king arrived not long ago.”

  “Meaning Davvy’s likely in the thick of it,” Cady groaned.

  “I don’t care! I said stop.” Why had this unreasonable stubbornness swept over her, sweeping all else aside? “I have to get down.” Inspiration seized her. “Go to the bathroom.”

  “Use the pot, Doyce. That’s why we brought it.” Inez wasn’t about to brook any excuses.

  With a cloaked, considering smile Francie swung her cane to shift herself, and a cracking sound was heard. “Oh, dear, I think I knocked it over and broke it,” she apologized, whispering, “You owe me, Doyce. I don’t know what’s up, but it had better be good. You’ve got a look about you that means trouble.”

  She kissed Francie and rolled off the tailgate as Cady pulled to a stop, Khar following after her. “She’s right, this had better be good. I sampled that dream, too. You’re just getting crotchety and worried this far along in your term.” The two children had worried the ghatta as well, but she’d guessed they symbolized the boy and girl Doyce carried, still unaware there were twins. Vesey had manipulated Doyce’s dreams and Khar had been unaware of it, but she’d never known anyone else with such an ability—or such a bent—to do so. Whatever Doyce had dreamed had been completely innocent—and true.

  Dropping all pretense of finding a spot to relieve herself, Doyce marched straight toward the lights. Her whole abdomen felt tight and cramped, as if a giant hand squeezed her. The last thing she needed was this sort of tension and worry with the baby so near due. “I don’t know what’s going on there, Khar, but whatever it is is wrong somehow.”

  Khar shivered as she trotted beside Doyce. Something was wrong, she was just beginning to register it. What scared her most was that Doyce had discovered it long before she had. She strained for Davvy’s mindvoice; even when he didn’t use it there was a faint vibration to him. No use. The air was abuzz with mindvoice emanations, flowing and crackling like sheet lightning. What did she expect? If Eadwin had arrived, there’d be Resonants aplenty in the vicinity. The thought of Eadwin brought Hru’rul to mind, and she debated contacting the ghatt, letting them know they were here. No, best wait, whatever happened she needed all her concentration on Doyce right now, and it was hard, because the ghatten shoved and heaved inside her, her flanks expanding and contracting. “Not now,” she scolded. “Wait,” and they quieted as she purred to them.

  They’d arrived at the outermost torch ring, but no one seemed to pay them any heed, all eyes fixed inward and downward, people swaying, craning for a better view. Few noticed when Doyce tapped them on the shoulder, asked what was happening or if they’d move, but they parted docilely enough, distracted but vaguely realizing a pregnant woman required passage through. Khar scrambled after her, wary of kicks to her bulging sides, all too aware of what the unexpected feel of fur against legs could engender.

  The cellar pit no longer had any defined dimensions; its burned-out walls had partially collapsed, shifting outward to create a rubbled incline of dirt and stone that sloped down to what had once been the cellar floor. Spectators sat or stood along the slopes, the cellar pit almost like a natural amphitheater. The light of the torches from below was dazzling, cast up and outward onto the rapt faces of the audience, enthralled by the drama unfolding below. Leaning backward to avoid skidding, Doyce squinted, trying to pick out the figures.

  Hell was a nebulous con
cept to Doyce’s mind because the Lady’s religion didn’t allow for it. Still, it was a word and a concept that had journeyed with the Spacers. Hell was a pit of writhing flames, tormented bodies, an eternity of damnation. But the Lady never damned anyone, offered infinite opportunities for all to improve and refine their belief in Her; if not in this life, perhaps in another. She shifted uncomfortably, pain wrapping her pelvic girdle, squeezing inward until she wondered if she could draw breath. Then it eased and her knees went weak in relief. Amazing what fear could do to you.

  Clad in a long cloak that captured the light, reflected it back in honey-bronze tones tipped with orange, a woman appeared in the center of the pit, positioned herself beside a stub-toothed pillar fragment, and warmed her hands over the battered iron brazier beside it as she inhaled the steam rising from a shallow copper bowl atop the coals. She turned deliberately, the cloak swirling around her, and allowed her gaze to rise, at last deigning to notice her audience. Large eyes dominated her face as she engulfed them with her stare, silently inviting them to partake of her private ritual. Her upraised right hand held something Doyce couldn’t identify. It looked thin and forked. Toasting fork? Fish spear? An odd thing to wave, but she revised her opinion as the crowd moaned its approval.

  From the woman’s right, a knot of people separated to reveal a man struggling to drag two children, girl and boy, in his wake. Her breath came tight, moaning as the crowd’s, but with dismay, not approbation. The girl battled, fought against the man, tried to bite his wrist before he jerked her arms over her head. The boy seemed to stagger, feet not fully obedient, his expression slack. Davvy—it was Davvy! And a girl a bit younger with long blonde hair and a perfect oval face, graceful as a bulrush next to Davvy’s slightly chunky figure. Watching premonition become reality, Doyce’s knees gave and she sat hard, hiding her eyes.