The ghosts spoke in calm, distant voices, suffused with the knowledge that only comes to the dead, and Rupert's and Julia's hearts hammered painfully in their still-living breasts as they remembered things and feelings they thought long lost. Somehow they knew they were being told things they needed to know, but the presence of so much death diminished them, with their memories of loss and failure and things left unsaid but never really forgotten. The living were not meant to hear the dead, because the human heart cannot bear too much truth.
And then the silver tunnel opened up with a roar and threw them back into the real world, and the Forest slammed into being before and around them. Bright green with the lush foliage of summer, the great trees stood tall and proud. The air was full of the song of birds and the drone of insects, and the rich scents of grass and earth and mulch. It smelled like home. Hawk reined his horse to a halt as the silver tunnel disappeared behind him, and the others stopped with him. He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily with the strain of long-suppressed emotions, and then glared at Chance.
"Why didn't you warn us?"
Chance looked back at him uncertainly. "I'm sorry. I was given to understand you'd traveled through the silver tunnel before."
"Not that," said Fisher heavily. "You should have told us. You should have told us about the dead."
"What dead?" asked Chappie, looking quickly about him.
"They came and talked to me," said Hawk. "Ghosts of the past, long since buried."
"The dead," said Fisher. "Trying desperately to warn me about… something."
Chance shook his head slowly. "No one has ever reported such side effects before. The Rift is just… a means of transport. Hundreds of thousands of people have gone back and forth through the Rift, and no one ever reported hearing voices. Perhaps it's your exposure to the Wild Magic again."
"And perhaps it's just us," said Hawk. "Still haunted by our past, and the things we had to do in it."
"Who spoke to you?" Chance asked curiously. "What did they say?"
Hawk and Fisher looked at each other. "Maybe we'll tell you. Someday," said Fisher.
"That's far enough!" said a new voice, arrogant with the privilege of command. "You will have to declare everything you've brought with you from the south before you can be allowed to proceed any further."
They all looked around, and there were half a dozen tents and twenty or so heavily armed men. Hawk and Fisher looked at Chance.
"Customs and Immigration," he said apologetically.
"Welcome home," said Hawk. "Nothing ever changes."
CHAPTER FOUR
Not Really Like Coming Home at All
Hawk looked at the Customs and Immigration people, and just knew he wouldn't get along with them. The owner of the officious voice, a broad, portly specimen dressed in a bright and gaudy uniform of gold and russet, had the upturned nose and supercilious scowl of every civil servant who knows he's been promoted well past his point of competence, but is damned if he'll admit it. The kind of official who knows every rule in the rulebook that will stop you getting what you both know you're really entitled to, all the while saying he's only doing his job. And that it's more than his job's worth to make an exception in your case; unless, of course, you might be willing to grease the wheel a little. The armed men backing him up were wearing traditional Forest trappings and colors, but their voices as they murmured together had distinct Redhart accents. Mercenaries. Certainly they were experienced enough to recognize a possible threat in Hawk and Fisher, and they all had their hands somewhere near their swords as they watched the Customs Officer advance importantly on the new arrivals. Chance dismounted and stood patiently beside his horse, and after a moment Hawk and Fisher joined him, just to show willingness. Chappie scratched vigorously at a flea until Chance nudged him hard with a foot.
The Customs Official stopped just in front of Hawk and tried to stare him down, which was his first mistake. When Hawk calmly refused to be stared down, the official turned his stare on Fisher, which was his second mistake. Fisher glared back at him so venomously that the official actually fell back a step. Somewhat desperately, he turned to the third new arrival, and immediately his manner changed. A wide ingratiating smile took over his face, and he bowed low to Chance.
"Sir Questor, forgive me for not recognizing you immediately! Customs Inspector Ponsonby Stout, at your every service! The whole Kingdom has been anxiously awaiting your return, but no one expected you back so quickly. Did you find them? Have you brought back our beloved Prince and Princess?"
He looked eagerly past Chance, ignoring Hawk and Fisher, as though Rupert and Julia might be hiding behind them somewhere. He'd clearly already dismissed the scruffy figures of Hawk and Fisher as being unworthy of his expectations. Hawk didn't know whether to feel relieved or insulted. The mercenary soldiers took a new interest in what was going on, and strolled forward. Some bowed politely to Chance; some didn't.
"The Prince and Princess will not be returning to the Forest land," Chance said carefully. "They have instead sent these two… personages in their place, to investigate King Harald's murder. They are Hawk and Fisher, Guard Captains from the Southern city-state of Haven."
"Haven? Never heard of it!" snapped Stout. He looked reluctantly back at Hawk and Fisher, and tried out his best sneer on them. "But if they are from the south, they'll have to be inspected for forbidden contraband, and pay all relevant taxes and duties on whatever they've brought with them. You, Hawk! Show me your travel documents."
"They don't have any," Chance said quickly. "I brought them through the Rift myself, bypassing Southern Customs by use of the Magus' charm. As Questor, I vouch for them both."
"This is all very irregular," said Stout, quite pleased at having found something he could exercise his authority over. He sneered condescendingly at Hawk's and Fisher's admittedly somewhat grubby outfits, and then his gaze fell on their bulging backpacks. "I want both of those opened! Now! I have to be sure they don't contain any of the prescribed items of contraband."
"What counts as contraband?" Hawk asked Chance, ignoring the Customs Officer.
"Practically everything these days," said Chance. "Let me handle this, Hawk."
But by now Stout had spotted the burned-out mannikin protruding from the top of Hawk's backpack, and his eyes bulged excitedly. "Sorcery! Magical paraphernalia! You must know trafficking such items across the Rift is forbidden, Sir Questor. This is very serious, very serious indeed. Who knows what else such people might have about their persons." He gestured importantly for the armed men to come even closer, and they did so, clearly pleased at the prospect of a little excitement. Stout smiled unpleasantly at Hawk and Fisher while addressing his mercenaries. "I want both their bags searched, and I want these two strip-searched! Be very thorough, gentlemen. I don't like the look of these two at all."
Chance covered his face with his hand. "Oh, no."
Fisher looked at Hawk. "Just how messy do you think we should make this?"
"Minimum necessary," said Hawk. "There's still time for everyone to be reasonable."
"Strip them!" shouted Stout, infuriated by their casual manner and refusal to be at all intimidated by him. "I want a full body cavity search, followed by a strong purge, just in case they've swallowed anything!"
One of the mercenaries reached out an eager hand toward Fisher's bosom, and she punched him right between the eyes. His head snapped back, and he hit the ground like a falling tree. Two more mercenaries reached for her, and Hawk flattened them both before they even knew he was there.
"So much for reason," Fisher said calmly.
"Ah, what the hell," said Hawk easily. "There's only twenty of them."
The other mercenaries were already surging forward, swords in hand, and Hawk and Fisher went to meet them, weapons at the ready. It was a short and not especially bloody battle, as Hawk and Fisher were still on what passed for their best behavior. Chance kept dancing around the mayhem, shouting to Hawk and Fisher, "Don't k
ill them! Please don't kill them! They're only doing their job! Oh God, the Queen will have my balls for this." Hawk and Fisher could have inquired whether the mercenaries would also be observing such guidelines, but didn't have time or the breath. It's actually quite difficult to stop a man just by wounding or disarming him, especially when he's doing his very best to kill you, but Hawk and Fisher had years of experience of bringing in suspects more or less alive. Not too much later, twenty semiconscious or heavily bleeding mercenaries were sitting together, mumbling, moaning, and holding their heads while they tried to remember what day it was, while the Customs Officer looked on with bulging eyes. Hawk and Fisher examined their work with quiet satisfaction.
"Start as you mean to go on," said Hawk.
"You have to be firm," said Fisher.
They turned to look at Stout, and all the color drained from his face. He would clearly have liked to fall back several steps, but his legs were shaking too much. Hawk smiled at him, and Stout actually whimpered. "We don't do Customs," Hawk said firmly. "We also don't do taxes or duties or any kind of strip search that isn't entirely consensual. Now go and sit down with your little soldier friends and don't bother us again, or Fisher and I will validate your credentials with something large and heavy and pointed. Go."
The Customs Official went. Chance shook his head slowly, and gestured urgently for Hawk and Fisher to join him a little distance away. Hawk and Fisher did so, cleaning the blood from their weapons with dirty pieces of rag. Chappie lay down by the subdued mercenaries and kept a hopeful eye on them, just in case. Chance kept his voice low, but his voice was sharp and severe.
"That was really not a good idea. Those soldiers were operating on the Queen's authority, and so was Stout. He may be a prick, but he's the Queen's prick… I can't believe I just said that. Look, the point is, you have very little authority here in the Forest. You're not Guard Captains anymore, and you've refused to claim your Royal prerogatives, so all you have left to back you up is your letter of intent, purportedly from Prince Rupert. That, and my support as King's Quest or, will buy you some leeway, but you can't go on acting like this! You don't have the justification, and there's a limit to how much I can protect you. You're on your own here."
"Best way," said Fisher calmly.
"If I learned anything from my time in the Forest Kingdom," said Hawk, "it's that you have to come on strong, or they'll walk right over you. If Isobel and I act as though we have the authority to take names and kick arses, everyone else will let us. We are Rupert and Julia by proxy, and people will respect that as long as we act the part."
"And if they don't?" asked Chance.
"Then we start throwing people off the Castle battlements until they do," said Fisher.
"I wish I thought you were joking," said Chance. "I can't promise to protect you. I'm only the Questor."
"That's all right," said Hawk. "We've had lots of experience protecting ourselves. You worry about who's going to protect the Court from us."
"Oh, I am," said Chance. "Trust me, I am."
Leaving burning Customs tents behind them, they journeyed on through the Forest. The Forest Castle was still several days' hard riding away, but Hawk and Fisher were in no great hurry to get there. It had been a long time since they'd seen the rich colors and splendor of the Forest, and they were enjoying the slow return of old memories. Their horses easily followed the open path, and they were free to just sit back and look around them, drinking in the sights and sounds. It was summer, and the great tree branches were heavy with greenery. The trees soared up into the sky, their highest reaches bending over to form an interlocked canopy through which golden sunlight fell in thick shafts, full of swirling dust motes. The air was comfortably warm, almost drowsy, and full of the clean, fresh smells of living things. Birds sang, insects buzzed, and from all around came the slow cautious sounds of game on the move.
"God, this is a change after Haven," Hawk said finally.
"No more soot and sewers and sorcery; just the woods. It smells like home."
"You're right," said Fisher, almost dreamily. "I'd forgotten how… alive and uncomplicated the Forest is. It's a hell of an improvement over Haven, with all its stinks—"
"Trust us, we noticed," said Chappie, padding along beside the horses. "Place smelled so bad, I was beginning to wish my nostrils would heal over. I mean, I like a good roll in some muck as much as anyone, but there are limits."
"It's good to be back," said Hawk, not really listening. "Despite everything that happened here, this is still my home."
"I never really thought of it that way," said Fisher. "The Forest is only special to me because that's where I met you. I'm from Hillsdown, remember?"
Hawk turned in the saddle and looked at her uncertainly. "We could go visit Hillsdown afterward, if you want."
"No," said Fisher. "There's nothing for me there. What memories I have aren't happy ones. You're my home, Hawk—wherever you are."
They smiled at each other, then rode on for a while, enjoying the sharp staccato singing of the birds, and the endless low drone of insects. The horses meandered along, happy to be taking their time, while Chappie made brief darting journeys off the trail into the trees in search of food or amusement. Chance was quiet, watching in what he hoped was an unobtrusive way as Hawk and Fisher remembered who they had once been. For the first time he really began to see them as the legendary Prince Rupert and Princess Julia, who had saved the whole Forest from almost unimaginable horrors and evils. They seemed almost to grow in stature as their memories came back to them.
"I know this place," Hawk said suddenly. "I've been here before, on my way to Dragonslair Mountain. I was so determined to prove myself by finding and slaying a dragon. I thought that if I could do that, all the problems of my life would be solved. I'd be appreciated, respected, and all the rest of my life would be… sorted out. I was so young then."
"We both were," said Fisher. "And I was so frightened of my father. Duke Alric of Hillsdown, undisputed monarch of all he surveyed. Except maybe his own family. I had seven sisters, all of us searching for our own identity by challenging our father in different ways. When he sent me off to die in the dragon's cave, I was almost relieved. It meant the worst was over, and I'd never have to be scared of him again. He could be terrible when he chose to be. At least there was a chance the dragon might be kind, and kill me quickly instead of by inches, like my father was doing. I wonder if I'll still be scared, when I meet him again at Forest Castle. It's been twelve years, and I'm so much more than I was then, but still… do we ever really see our fathers differently than when we were children?"
"Oh, I think so," said Hawk. "My father and I never really got to know each other till we were both adults, and better able to appreciate and understand each other. I suppose that's true for lots of people. You never talked much about your father before. It's hard to believe you were ever afraid of anyone."
"You never knew Duke Alric," said Fisher. "And I wish I never had, either."
Hawk smiled at her. "Don't you worry about your father, lass; if he even looks at you funny, I'll kick him up one side of the Court and down the other."
Fisher looked at him fondly. "You would, too, wouldn't you?"
"Damn right," growled Hawk.
"You worry me," said Chance. "Please remember that Duke Alric is an honored guest of the Forest Court, and as such has been promised all diplomatic courtesies and full protection from all forms of harm and harassment."
"That's all right," said Hawk. "I didn't promise him anything. And as Hawk, I'm not a citizen of the Forest Land, so the Court can't be blamed for whatever terrible thing I might do to him. Don't look so gloomy, Chance; we know how to behave diplomatically, if we have to."
"Right," said Fisher. "We didn't kill any of those Customs soldiers, did we?"
"And that's your idea of being diplomatic, is it?" asked Chance heavily. "Not actually killing anyone?"
"Well, mostly, yes," said Hawk.
Chan
ce looked at the trail ahead of him. "If I had any sense at all, I'd turn around and ride away right now."
They rode on through the Forest. Days and nights passed, and all was quiet and peaceful. They met no one, but Chappie always found fresh game from somewhere, and they ate and slept well under the Forest canopy and the starry night sky. Bubbling streams ran fresh and clear, and long summer days were calm and pleasant, and Hawk and Fisher began to relax, almost against their will. They'd never been able to let their guard down in Haven, even when barricaded inside their own quarters. Chance saw the slow change in them, like soldiers home from the war at last, and approved. It was all going well, until they came to the borders of the Darkwood.
The Darkwood, the one place in the Forest where it was always night and the sun never rose. Where the trees were always dead and rotting, and nothing lived but demons. The Darkwood had returned to its original boundaries after the Blue Moon passed and the long night collapsed, but it was an ancient place, and could never be entirely destroyed. Hawk reined in his horse and sat there for a long time, staring into the darkness that fell like a curtain before him. The day ended abruptly in a straight line, the impenetrable dark turning aside the daylight with contemptuous ease. A cold breeze gusted eternally out of the blackness, carrying with it the stench of corruption and death. Hawk's horse wanted to back away from the dark and the smell, but Hawk wouldn't let it. Twelve years had passed since he'd last looked upon the Darkwood, but now he was back, and the horror in his heart was as fresh as yesterday. Fisher moved her horse in close beside him, knowing what he was feeling. They had both journeyed through that long night, and they still carried the scars on their souls.
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