by Gayle Greeno
“Like the medallions the Fifty had? Such a special gift from Corneil, weren’t they? How you wanted one.” Hands pressed against her temples, Hylan reeled at Doyce’s words.
“But a medallion can be removed,” she protested, “hidden.” She held her hands over the steaming bowl as if to cleanse them, then reached for the iron rod thrust deep into the brazier’s coals, waved it to show Doyce. “Just a little burn, a little crescent shape. It won’t wash off, can’t be hidden. You shouldn’t send something like that,” she spat in the children’s direction, “to the Lady without a reminder, should you?” she appealed to Doyce.
“You’re depending on the Lady a great deal, aren’t you? That She’ll accept your sacrifice and then send you the king?”
Hylan nodded eagerly. “Oh, She will, She will! She transforms all, gives everything another chance. Just as water turns to steam, then air. Or earth turns to coal, then fire.”
“Will you sully your hands with the Resonant King’s death, or must She do that for you as well?”
A lone ghatt mindvoice rode the night, seeking, searching, worried beyond measure but not letting his Bond sense his fear. “Hello? Hello, I am F‘een, Bond of Cady Brandt. I seek one called Hru’rul, Hru’rul the Magnificent.”
He perched on the wagon seat, oblivious to Cady’s constant pacing, indecision racking her. Distraction would hamper the contact. Khar had entrusted him with finding help, and what he’d read in her mind had been dire. Find the one called Hru‘rul, likely to be closest. F’een knew the direction; if he had no luck there, he’d broaden his search, sweep through the quadrants, send his mind as far as he could until someone answered.
Besides, truth be told, he hero-worshiped Hru‘rul. Stories already circulated amongst ghatti in training about the magnificent Hru’rul. His astounding looks—his thick ruff, tufted ears, and large furred feet, his stub of a tail, sacrificed to a hawk before his eyes were open. His devotion and loyalty to Eadwin—sharing his hard-caught food, going hungry himself—and all this before they had even truly Bonded!
He owed it to Davvy, too, felt guilty about letting him go like that. Davvy had wanted to contact Eadwin, so the next best thing F‘een could do would be to contact Hru’rul, the king’s Bond. He took a wispy breath, cold night air stinging his nostrils, and pressed harder, upward and outward just as Mem‘now had instructed. “Hru’rul? Are you there? You are needed. Help me, please.”
“Who you?” the voice ‘spoke, almost flattened F’een with its powerful eagerness, like a good-natured cuff. “What be wanting?”
“I be ...” he broke off, corrected himself, the ghatt’s compressed dialect contagious, “I’m F‘een, Bondmate of Cady Brandt. We’ve been assigned to protect Davvy McNaught, Doyce Marbon, and Khar’pern from danger. But the danger’s more all-encompassing than we anticipated. Your Bond is in danger as well. Will you send help? Are other ghatti near?”
“The beautious Khar? The sweet Doyce? In danger?” F’een quailed at the mindgrowls that reached him. “Me tell Eadwin, tell Rawn and Jenret, everyone. We come. Already looking for Davvy.”
“Rawn?” F’een went rigid, wondered if his stripes had paled. “Rawn and Jenret, are they with you, are they all right?”
“Being fine but grumpy. Drop mindvoice short, other ghatti being close to you, too, namely Parm and M’wa. You know?”
He knew of M‘wa, but had never really ’spoken him. As for Parm, he’d heard of him as well, the jester ghatt and his unprecedented second Bonding. “Thank you! Hurry!” He let his mindvoice sail high and wide in a shout of jubilation and relief.
Not far away Per‘la jolted upright on the gig’s bench, hackles rising. “Saam, wake up!” she nudged the steel-gray ghatt, poked at his face. “Can you hear it?” But it had faded, and she wasn’t sure who had ’spoken, couldn’t get a fix on it again. Waving a handwritten pass from the Monitor, Mahafny and Parse were arguing with a Guardian to let them through the cordon into Ruysdael.
Cady paced the length of the wagon, back again, caught on the horns of a monstrous dilemma. Doyce hadn’t come back, and now F‘een had informed her that Davvy was in the cellar as well. Every moment F’een spent searching for the other ghatti delayed her, delayed her duty. But what was her duty? To protect Davvy and Doyce—but how could she leave Inez and Francie alone?
As F’een blinked she made her decision. “Come on, we’re going after them!”
“But wait, I haven’t finished—”
“I don’t care what you haven’t finished! Come on!” “I’m going after Doyce,” she announced and tossed her sword to Inez, who laid it across her lap.
“ ’Bout time, girl. I’ve told you you need to make faster decisions.”
Easy for Inez to say, but Cady wore the Novie green trim on her tabard. Still a beginner, still learning. No way to respond to Inez’s remark, so she shrugged, went loping off before she was offered any more advice. “Always choose your terrain for a fight,” her instructor had drilled into them. “F’een, which side should we try?” She suspected Doyce had descended the western slope, the one with the gentlest slant, as if it had been used to bring drays up from the cellar when workmen had removed anything salvageable after the fire. The other three sides were steeper, precarious to traverse, although they were all equally crowded with people. A fighter on the upgrade had the advantage over a downhill opponent, but once she started down, others would have the advantage over her. Well, steeper meant quicker as well, so the south slope in front of her it would be, and she plunged over the edge.
“Cady, we can wait, we don’t have to—” But F‘een realized Cady wasn’t really listening to him, didn’t care that he’d managed to contact M’wa as he ran at her side, knew that others were coming, Guardians as well. A roar rose from the pit—“Sacrifice!”—and Cady started to shove her way down, F’een tight behind her, exasperated yet exhilarated. After all it was his job to guard Cady, mindwarn her of danger, protect her back. And if she wouldn’t listen to him, he’d have a great deal of protecting to do.
The same cry that sent Cady plunging to the rescue transfixed Inez and Francie at the wagon. “What does it mean?” Francie whispered as Inez clicked the sword hilt free of its sheath.
“Don’t know yet, child, but suspect it’s not good.” And at the sound of running feet Inez drew the sword clear while Francie brought her cane up in her good hand. “Mayhap they’ll not notice, run right by. Now hush.”
A small white dog veered in their direction and bounced a frenzied greeting, springing beside the mules. A kick in his direction and he yapped his dismay, tumbled clear, crashed into a black and white ghatt who’d been following in his wake.
A voice snarled, “Damn, I knew we should never have followed that dog! First a rolapin, now this! Parm was mad to think the dog could lead us to Hylan.”
M‘wa washed his face, chagrined. Barnaby had been right and he’d refused to listen, had ignored Parm’s entreaties to trust Barnaby, pulled them all offtrack instead by bullying the dog. If it hadn’t been for F’een’s mindshout, they’d still be running wide.
“Who be ye?” Inez shrilled, standing in the wagon bed, waving the sword. “What ye want? Speak quick or I’ll skewer ye!”
“I could ask,” a puffing sound, “you the same ... question, ma’am,” another panting gasp, “though we don’t plan on skewering you. I’m Darl Allgood, High Conciliator for Wexler.” And Inez realized that two other men approached the wagon from different directions, hemming them in. He watched the older woman whisper something quickly to the younger one, saw her head swing round, searching, then shake her head in the negative.
“What’re ye doing with a ghatt? Don’t see no Seeker garb amongst ye.” The sword was trembling in her hand. “My Doyce always wears her tabard, excepting for now when it won’t fit.”
“Are you Doyce Marbon’s mother?” The lithe, honey-gold man had slipped closer, eyes pleading. “Is Doyce truly down there with the children? Where are they, where’s Lindy,
have you seen her?”
“Don’t know about any Lindy, son, but Doyce’s looking for a little boy, Davvy McNaught by name.” He’d pressed closer as she’d spoken, the ghatt by his side, and she could tell he meant her no harm, appeared to labor in the grip of strong emotion.
“Well, then, what are we doing up here?” A squarish, ugly man had joined them. “I’m Garvey, ma’am. If they’re down there, that’s where we should be.”
“And isn’t that what I’ve been thinking? I don’t know you gentlemen, but you’re just the perfect escort to get me and Francie down there.” An imperious finger crook in Allgood’s direction. “You, sir. Unharness those mules. Me’n Francie should be able to ride down the slope unless you’d like to piggyback us.”
“If you’ll just be patient a bit, ma’am, we’ve got Guardians coming right after us. They may be enough to make a difference, we’re not.”
Inez whacked the wagon’s side with the flat of her sword. “Would you leave your baby down there on her lonesome if you heard people chanting ‘Sacrifice’? Cady and F’een are on their way down, and I plan to be there, too. Right, Francie?”
Garvey shot Darl a condescending look. “Let Faertom bring the Guardians down. No reason we can’t invite ourselves to the party early.”
Arras Muscadeine waved to the fiddlers to begin another reel, and breathless dancers re-formed their patterns. He’d not been joking to Wycherley about quaint folk dances, and he’d prevailed on the mayor, Remaire, to invite a few of the town’s young people into the heavily-guarded central square where the evening’s final festivities were taking place after the formal welcome at the city limits. He’d hurried Eadwin and the rest through with no dawdling, Eadwin faintly puzzled by his hand on the bridle, urging the royal mount along. Now he’d formed a defensive square, each of the four sides double-layered and dependent on Guardians for the outer wall. Whatever might happen—or not—he felt more confident in the city itself, not vulnerable to charges down the roadways or across the fields. Besides, any danger must pass through citizens still reveling in the streets outside the fortified square.
A messenger thrust a note at him and he read it impatiently, asked for a description. Yes, a red-haired, garrulous fellow, missing his right leg. Fine then, it was Parse, not an imposter, someone holding Mahafny hostage to get inside the defenses. He couldn’t be too careful. “Bring them in.” A deep relief that Mahafny had arrived, perhaps she’d know what to do about Harrap. He’d tried to shrug it off—things happened in war and this was perhaps another sort of war—but he felt an abiding guilt about having made Mahafny send the Shepherd after Hylan.
“Your aunt’s just arrived. And Darl and the Guardians have reached the goat cart and are searching for the children, ” he told Wycherley.
Jenret ignored the second half of the report, having heard precisely the same thing from Faertom. But the first part was a relief to hear. He’d left Harrap in the hospice, Dwyna and the resident eumedicos poring through herbals, pharmacopoeias. If only Mahafny knew something that would help. Arms folded across his chest, hands practically lost in the billowing folds of the orange-red sleeves, he tapped his foot impatiently in time to the music. How Davvy had gotten himself into this fix, he’d love to know. Not to mention what Bard was doing in the company of a little girl. He concentrated on watching, searching for danger.
Eadwin hurled past him, a slightly bemused smile on his face, and was snapped back into the arms of his partner, a more than energetic and muscular young Ruysdael woman. Rather like one of those snail-curled paper whistles that children played with—blow on them and they unfurled themselves, only to snap tight again. The young dancers had lured some of the Marchmontians to join in the dance. Lysenko Boersma skipped, nimble as a flea, while Valeria Condorcet and her daughters seriously copied the patterns taught them. Ezequiel, auburn hair swinging like a girl’s, capered by, arms intricately knotted with a young woman’s who teased him about his drooping hosen. It all looked so innocent and merry.
The music came to a halt, the signal for dinner, trestle tables being set up in the square for various dignitaries. Muscadeine gestured Jenret to follow with a select few to the mayor’s substantial, two-story red brick house for a private dinner. Ministration Lords Boersma and Condorcet, Muscadeine, Eadwin, and himself, plus anyone from Ruysdael whom Remaire thought deserving of the honor. Or those exceptionally unflappable about breaking bread with Resonants. Ignacio and Ezequiel hurried to help direct the servants.
Once inside the door and away from prying eyes, Eadwin stumbled, almost dropped in a faint. “I’m not feeling well,” he apologized, “it must be all the excitement.”
To Jenret’s eyes the mayor looked paler than Eadwin. “But he hadn’t even eaten yet!” Remaire blurted. “It can’t be poison!”
Hand on sword, Muscadeine rounded on him. “And were you planning to poison him?” “No, no!” the mayor kept gibbering away.
“Easy, Arras. Call for Dwyna.” Jenret took pity on the mayor, eased him away. “Have you a room we can use?” And following Remaire’s quaking directions, Jenret and Muscadeine eased Eadwin up the stairs while the remaining Marchmontians soothed the other appalled, outraged Canderisian guests.
Once safely inside the room, Eadwin stopped short. “Precisely what have you been keeping from me, Arras?” There was no brooking his tone, a ruler to one of his subjects. “Hru’rul’s been telling me about some extraordinary goings-on. I’ve a right to know.”
Arras straightened, arms rigid at his sides, as if on report. “About what, sire?”
“About the fact that two children are missing and possibly in jeopardy?”
“That’s correct, sire. We’re taking measures to rescue them. Nothing to concern yourself about, the situation’s under control or will be shortly. Won’t it, Wycherley?” he appealed.
Before he could answer, Eadwin looked at him with pity. “There’s more, Jenret. Hru’rul says Doyce is here as well.”
But Rawn was running toward him, ’speaking as he came, confirming Eadwin’s tidings. “Faertom and the others haven’t found the children yet, but Doyce has! She and Khar are with them, trying to convince Hylan Crailford net to sacrifice them.” He skidded to a stop. “Coming, or do I have to do this by myself?”
Grabbing blindly at Arras and Eadwin, he tried to push by. “Doyce found them, but now they’re all in danger! Let me go!”
Eadwin locked onto his arm, slowing him down. “What better trade for two children and a pregnant Seeker than a king, don’t you agree, Wycherley? My Lord Muscadeine? That was the other little thing—the plot on my life—you neglected to mention, wasn’t it?”
“Sire, I forbid you to go—”
A snap like steel, “You forbid me nothing, Muscadeine. Now do you plan to tag along, or do you want to stay here while Jenret and I go rescue Doyce and the children? I’m sure the dancing will start again,” the quirked smile flashed. “You’ll enjoy it.”
“Sire, you can’t!” But Eadwin and Jenret had already slipped down the back stairs toward the servants’ quarters, grabbing cloaks from pegs and donning them for disguise.
Muscadeine stood immobile at the top of the landing, face suffused. Eadwin ’spoke back, “Either come along, Arras, or reconcile yourself to breaking in a new king. I doubt Nakum will prove any more biddable than I. You’ll be up there cooling your heels and more on that icy mountaintop trying to grow arborfer!”
With a growl, Muscadeine rushed after them, joined, just outside the door, by Dwyna Bannerjee. Her bracelets tinkled as she sleeked back her hair, swung her braid over her shoulder. “You never know when you’re going to need a eumedico until you need one,” she murmured. “Best insurance not to is to have one around. There’s nothing more I can do right now for Harrap. Mahafny’s with him double-checking everything.”
Mind in a whirl, Jenret shoved them out the back door before a startled servant realized what was happening. Doyce, so close! “Oh, please, listen for me, darling. I’m com
ing, don’t worry!” He doubted his message would do any good, but he so craved to reassure her that he was here, was coming. The baby—of course, he could contact the baby!
“You wouldn’t dare after last time, would you?”
But Jenret was already reaching, seeking the consolation of that little mindvoice—voices? he still wasn’t clear about that—hoping it, they, would calm Doyce, allay at least some of her fears. He had the strangest vision in his mind of two tiny bodies, curled tight and compact as lima beans, heads pointed downward, constricted beyond belief. Was Doyce carrying wrongly, what was it? He probed and tried to cajole them into speech, but they were silent, the pressure increasing.
“Leave off! Don’t get them started now!”
The pain clamped around her, bore down on her, and she gritted her teeth, rode it through. No more, she ordered herself, hold off, you have to hold off. Do you want to deliver in public like this? A man with burnished blond hair darted toward Hylan, both of them eyeing her with unconcealed dislike.
“Tell me it’s false labor, ” she begged Khar as the crushing pain faded and she began the count under her breath.
“If it were, we’d all be happier. Your timing’s exquisite,” Khar paced, and to Doyce’s eyes, still blurred with pain, it seemed as if her stripes jounced. “Just pant and puff at Hylan and mayhap you’ll scare her away. Try ‘whooo! whooo!’ and she’ll think you’re possessed.”
Most of all the ghatta didn’t dare reveal that Jenret was near, approaching quickly. If Doyce lost her concentration, the situation would spin out of control. Damn Jenret anyway for interrupting like this! And what, in the name of the Elders, was Cady Brandt doing pushing her way down the slope? Didn’t F’een have better sense?
Once clear of the house, Eadwin, Jenret, Muscadeine, and Dwyna Bannerjee slipped into the mayor’s stables, Eadwin chuckling softly when he realized that Muscadeine’s defensive square included part of the long, brick stable on one side—no soldiers or Guardians stationed behind it. Commandeering horses, they rode swiftly through the empty heart of Ruysdael.