by Deborah Hale
“There it is,” said Rath, the barest trace of a sigh shadowing his words. “Everwood.”
He and Maura stood on a low bluff looking down toward the mysterious northern forest. Each of them held the reins of a horse who cropped the new summer’s sweet green grass as if this were any ordinary day and this ride any ordinary ride.
After rising from the dark innards of the Beast, the colors of the world looked sharper and brighter to Maura. The varied greens of the grass and trees, the vibrant yellows and purples of wildflowers, the deep abiding blue of the Hitherland sky.
Now she stared at the sky where a silvery-white phantom of the rising full moon shimmered in waning daylight. “I suppose we had better get moving so we will have light to see the symbols on that tiny map of Exilda’s.”
Reluctance tugged at the hem of her gown.
She and Rath had risked their freedom and their lives for this quest. Now they risked their hearts and their future happiness, as well. Part of her wanted to fly toward her destiny on swift hooves, so it would be over and done with no risk of her recanting at the last moment. Another part wanted to delay it for as long as possible—eking out every second between now and then in Rath’s company, with the love they had acknowledged for one another wrapping around them.
“I have studied that map enough, I could find my way blind-folded.” Rath reached for her hand. “Still, in case there are any Han coming after us, perhaps we had better be on our way.”
Maura knew how doubtful that was.
When they had sought aid from some twarith in northern Westborne, word had already begun to spread of the successful revolt in the Beastmount mine. Once or twice, during their ride into the Hitherland, they had glimpsed other riders in the distance, all rushing south at great speed, with no heed to spare for a pair of wary travelers.
Maura made no move to remount, no move to release Rath’s hand. There was something she needed to know and this might be her last quiet moment to ask.
“What will you do... after...? Where will you go?”
He lifted her hand and laid it to rest over his heart. “I will go... where you bid me. I will do anything in your service. The King may be your husband, and I swear I will never do anything to sully that. I only beg leave to be your champion.”
His words brought tears to her eyes, hard as she fought to hold them back. After what she and Rath had shared, he would not need to see those tears fall to know they were locked inside her and to understand their source as well as she did.
“Will that not be unbearable for you? For both of us? To be always near but never near enough?”
Rath shook his head. “We have been as near as a man and woman can be. I trust that somehow, someday we will be, again. Until then, let me at least serve you and protect you. Let us work together with the King to free and heal this land of ours.”
He made it sound easier than Maura knew it would be. Likely he knew it, too. Which of them would it be harder for?
Her? To wed another man, share his throne, bear his heirs? Wanting to be a faithful and dutiful wife, but forever torn?
Or Rath, to watch all that and ache?
He was right about one thing, though. They must not dwell on what might have been, but concentrate on what could be. This quest that had brought them together was only the beginning. They owed it to themselves, to each other and to a great many other people to see it through to its end.
“You have proven yourself a worthy champion, Rath Talward.” She lifted the hand he had placed over his heart to rest against his cheek. “Even a queen could ask for no better.”
“Then you accept my pledge of service?”
“With all my heart.”
As if pulled by some invisible force, half against their will, he bent toward her and she raised her face to meet him. They sealed their pledge with a chaste, wistful kiss that neither dared to hold longer or take deeper, for fear they would never be able to stop.
Then they mounted their horses and rode toward Everwood as the full moon of Solsticetide grew brighter and brighter in the darkening sky.
“What shall we do with the horses?” asked Maura, when they reached the edge of the forest.
Rath lifted her down, then handed her the reins of her mount. “Bring them this way. Unless Everwood has changed a good deal, there should be a small glade not far in where we can leave them until we return.”
Their return—of course, Maura mused as she followed Rath through a narrow gap between the trees. Though she knew better, what they were about to do still felt like an end of something. It was hard to imagine what would happen after she had wakened the Waiting King.
No doubt Rath was right. They would need the horses, later.
“Not changed a whit,” said Rath as they entered the glade. He sounded pleased and a little surprised. “Good grazing, a bit of a brook over there, out of sight of any chance passerby. A body would think it had been put here on purpose, just for us and this day.”
“Perhaps it was,” Maura whispered to herself as the flesh on the back of her neck bunched.
There was something silent and watchful about this forest, as if every tree stood guard. No wonder the folk in neighboring villages had been frightened of the place and warned their children to avoid it.
While Rath turned the horses loose to graze, Maura picked a few interesting leaves and flowerets that caught her eye.
“Old habits die hard,” she explained when he shot her a puzzled look. “This would be a fascinating spot for gathering. I wonder if anyone knows what some of these plants are called, or what they can do?”
Rath shrugged. “Some of the old folk in the villages around here might. Ganny’s friends, if they are still around.”
Maura looked around. “Which way do we head, then?”
“We follow the brook for a while.” Rath pointed toward it as he pulled Exilda’s ivory map from his pouch. Until we come to a large rock. There we should find a path.”
“Lead on.” An anxious eagerness had begun to brew deep in Maura’s belly.
Now that she had Rath had made their choice and sealed their pledge, her feeling of reluctance was waning.
They had done it. Trekked through almost every province of Embria to find the map, then followed it to the Secret Glade. When she thought of all the perils they had faced and challenges they had overcome along the way, the difficult, dangerous task of reclaiming their kingdom from the Han no longer seemed quite so daunting.
And what would he be like—the king who had slumbered so long, who would now be her husband and her lord? Though her heart belonged to Rath, she hoped and believed the Waiting King would be someone she could honor and admire.
Just as Rath had said, the brook eventually wound its way to a large moss-covered boulder, behind which they found a path that looked well-trodden, though Maura doubted many folk had ever ventured this deep into Everwood.
The path led Rath and Maura deeper still, to a giant hitherpine.
“My word!” Maura stared in amazement. “That trunk is so thick a body could take a chunk and carve a cottage the size of Langbard’s out of it. Which way, now?”
“A moment.” Rath handed her the little map, then pulled a small torch from his belt and set it alight with his flint. “There. I wanted to get that done while I still have light enough to see what I’m doing.”
He pointed to another tall tree in the distance. “According to the map, there are six of these. We should be able to see the next one clearly from the last.”
And so it proved.
As they rested a moment at the base of the fifth tree and took their bearings, Maura stared up at the night sky, where thousands of glittering stars paid homage to their monarch, the full moon. “After all we came through to reach Everwood, this seems almost too easy.”
“I have been thinking the same thing,” murmured Rath. “I never did trust anything that came without a struggle.”
The torchlight flickered over his face, giving it th
e impudent look Maura remembered so well from their early days together. “Perhaps the Giver decided we deserve a little ease at last.”
“Perhaps so.” Maura rose. “We had better not take too much ease, though, if we want to reach the Secret Glade while the moon is still high.”
They picked their way through the forest to the last of the large trees.
“Next...” Rath peered at the map by the light of his torch. “We must find... a waterfall, I think.”
“Hush,” whispered Maura, “I hear one over that way.”
They followed the sound until they came to a narrow cascade, tumbling from a high ridge, its waters sparkling in the moonlight. Rath found a set of stairs carved into the rocks on one side, which he and Maura climbed.
“The Secret Glade is very near here.” Again Rath consulted the map, then held his torch aloft. “Do you see anything that might point us the way?”
Maura saw something, though when she tried to warn Rath, the words stuck in her throat. Finally, she got his attention by plucking his sleeve.
“What is...?” Rath turned to look. “Oh, slag!”
There, one good leap away stood the largest tawny wolf Maura had ever seen. If it had not been so deadly, she might have admired its wild majesty.
“Hold this.” Rath thrust the torch into her hands. Dropping the ivory map into his belt pouch, he slowly drew the Hanish blade he had stolen in the mines.
The fierce weapon looked feeble against such a beast, especially if it was not alone. Maura knew tawny wolves always traveled in packs.
“Back away, slowly,” said Rath. “Keep the torch in front of you. If he goes for me, run.”
But the creature showed no sign of going for either of them. It did not growl or bare its teeth. It stood watching them, then turned and walked a few steps, before stopping to glance back.
“Rath, I think it wants us to follow.”
“Inviting us back to its den for dinner, you mean.”
“It does not look very hungry to me.” Maura took a few tentative steps in the direction of the great beast.
Once again, the wolf began to walk ahead, then turned to see if they were following.
“Just so you know,” said Rath as he hurried to catch up with Maura. “I do not like this. Unless it leads us to the Secret Glade soon, I...”
Maura never did find out what Rath meant to do, for as he spoke, they stepped through a gap between two slender whitebark trees and found themselves in a place of moonlit enchantment.
It was not large, but ringed with whitebarks at regular intervals, like so many elegant columns. Rich grass covered the ground, groomed to the ideal height for a luxurious carpet. Not a single fallen leaf marred its perfection.
Before Maura could notice more, the tawny wolf raised its muzzle to the night sky and let out a loud, resonant howl that sounded almost like a trumpet. Then it slipped away so quickly and so silently, it seemed to vanish before their eyes.
“So here we are at last,” Rath whispered, sheathing his blade. “But where is the Waiting King?”
“Why he must be...”
Maura held the torch aloft. She had been so absorbed by the mystical beauty of the place, she had not realized what was missing. Who was missing.
She had expected some finely carved resting place, with the Waiting King sleeping upon it, still wrapped in the thousand-year-old spell of his beloved.
But there was no sign of him.
As he stared around the deserted glade, Rath felt like someone had chopped his legs off at the knees. He could only begin to imagine how Maura must feel.
Putting his arm around her shoulders to steady her, he took the torch from her hand.
She shook her head, as if in a daze. “I do not understand. Were you right all along? Is the Waiting King nothing more than a story? After all we went through. All the trouble we stirred up. All the false hope we gave folk. How can it be?”
“Do not lose heart now.” Rath could scarcely believe those words were coming out of his mouth. Could his fledgling faith continue to soar when reason and hard evidence would cut off its wings. “This is the Secret Glade. If ever there was a place full to the brim with enchantment, this is. The map led us here. You are the Destined Queen. I know it surer than I have ever known anything... except perhaps that... I love you.”
This was what he had envisioned, back when they set out into the Waste. That Maura would face bitter disappointment at the end of her quest, and he would be here to console her and make her his own.
Now, in spite of what it meant for him, he wanted the Waiting King to be here. He wanted Maura’s destiny fulfilled.
“But, look.” She made an empty, hopeless gesture. “There is no King here for me to waken.”
“Perhaps he will not appear until the moon hits just the right spot in the sky,” Rath suggested. “Or perhaps there is a magical trumpet or a gong you must sound to summon him.”
Maura nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”
“What is that, over there?” Rath lifted the torch and nudged Maura toward the center of the glade. “Perhaps it will give us a clue. And do not forget what you told me.”
“I have told you a good many things.” A ring of confidence returned to Maura’s voice. “Some of them pure foolishness. Which one do you mean?”
“This was not foolishness.” Rath assured her. “You told me tales may be fancies of things that never happened but they may still hold great truths. Perhaps the tale of the Waiting King is one such.”
“I suppose it might be.” Maura strode toward something sticking out of the ground, like a tall tree stump. “But how are we to puzzle out the riddle?”
Rath stared at what looked like a giant’s goblet. It appeared to have been carved from a good-sized tree, the roots of which still held it in place. From the base, a slender stem rose, with a wide bowl perched on top of it.
“What can it be, do you suppose?”
Maura inspected it closely. “I cannot guess. None of Langbard’s stories of the Waiting King ever mentioned anything like this.”
She knelt before it, peering at the base. Then she beckoned Rath to lower the torch. “There is an inscription carved here.”
She groaned.
“What?” asked Rath, anxious for her.
“It is in twara, which I can speak a good deal better than I can read.”
She murmured to herself for a bit in a questioning tone.
“Well?” Rath prompted her when he could stand the waiting no longer.
“I believe it says, ‘Gaze ye here by the summer moon’s light, behold the King who has been woken, and meet your doom.’”
“Slag!”
“Aye.” Maura gave a soft chuckle that held no merriment. “Slag.”
She rose. “I suppose there must be some enchanted potion in the font. Langbard told me the Oracle of Margyle sometimes looks into the future that way.”
“Put out the torch, if you please.” She bent to gaze into the font. “The instructions say to look by the moon’s light.”
“No!” Rath pulled her back. “I do not like that ‘meet your doom’ business. Let me look first. Then, if no harm comes to me, you may look to your heart’s content.”
“Rath, this is my quest... my destiny. There may be something here to be seen that only I can see.”
“So there may.” As Rath looked around for a way to douse the torch, it went out on its own. “Or there may be danger. When the Waiting King is woken, he will need you. I offered myself as your champion and you accepted. Let me do my duty.”
“Very well.” Maura did not sound pleased with the idea.
She reached for his hand and clung to it with all her strength. “Look, then.”
Rath bent over the bowl. For a moment he saw nothing but darkness. Then his eyes became accustomed to the absence of the torchlight. Or perhaps the solstice moon waxed brighter.
And he beheld something that puzzled and amazed him.
“Rath.” Maura tugged
on his hand. “Are you all right? Do you see anything?”
“I see... something,” he murmured, “but I do not know what it means.”
“Let me look.”
She gazed into face the font’s shimmering water, to see her reflection beside his. The light of the solstice moon sparkled on their brows like a pair of luminous crowns.
A faint gasp escaped Maura as she understood what the Giver was telling them. Then one tiny circular ripple disturbed the still water in the font, followed by another and another as her tears fell.
“Do you see what this means?” she whispered.
Rath shook his head.
“The water shows us the King who has been woken.” She turned and slipped her arms around his neck. “You, Rath Talward.”
“Elzaban.”
“What?”
“Elzaban,” he repeated in a daze. “That was my name, once. I took so much grief for it from the other boys in the village, that after Ganny died, I took a new one, less apt to get me picked on.”
“You never told me.”
“I never thought to.” He sank to the grass, taking her with him. “It has been years since I thought of myself by that name. Until the Giver called me by it when I begged for your deliverance, in the barge.”
“When I saw your reflection in the water crowned with stars, I knew what it must mean. It was as if Langbard and my mother, and all my forebearers back to Abrielle, herself, were telling me. I need no more proof from the Giver. But if I did, that would convince me beyond any doubt.”
She hesitated for a moment, trying to take it all in. “There is one thing that puzzles me, though. I was told I must waken the Waiting King. I did not wake you”
“You did.” He pulled her closer into his embrace, and she feared her heart would burst to contain the joy that swelled within it. “You woke me in a hundred ways. I was sleepwalking through life, caring for nothing beyond my own survival, believing in nothing beyond my next meal. Blind and deaf to everything it means to be Embrian.
“You woke my heart.” He planted a tender kiss upon her palm, then rested it against his chest. “You woke my spirit and my honor.”