by Gail Gernat
“Very well Min. Get yourself a horse and supplies. And tell the other squires where we are going. Tell them to let Ashera know come morning, but not before. Understand? Not until the morning.”
“Yes, yes your majesty, I understand,” he called over his shoulder as he scrambled away to do her bidding.
The darkness inside of her vanished like the mist before the sun. She knew this would succeed, she knew it in her bones. Pulling Commitment around, she scrambled to his back.
Only muscles aching to the point at which she wanted to scream made her stop and allow Min to make camp. It would be only a few hours until dawn, and Commitment and Min’s stocky bay were tired, glad to rest and graze. Illera lay on her back and stared at the night sky, the pinpricks of the stars glowed with unusual brightness in the absence of the moons. She was weary in every fiber of her body.
“Lady, why do the Shul want Sir Lark? I mean he never fought against them so’s they’d want to kill him.”
Without looking away from the arching heavens, she replied. “It’s me they want Min, not Sir Lark. He’s just the bait they are using to get me.”
After a pause of a few minutes, he asked again, “Why do they want you Highness? Did you do something bad to them?”
Illera laughed. “No, Min, I did good things for them.”
“Then why, Lady? What do they want with you?”
“It’s not even really me they want. What Targ wants is gold. A friend of mine once told them, in order to save our lives mind you, that I was worth a large ransom of gold. So that’s why they want me, to trade for gold.”
Min pattered up and handed her a tin plate of steaming food. Illera’s stomach rebelled at the thought, but she sat up and forced herself to eat. Across the fire, Min watched her as he bolted his own food.
“What do they want the gold for your Highness?”
Illera looked at him puzzled. “They just want the gold.”
“But what good is it? You can’t eat it, or wear it, or ride it. It just sits there, and you have to drag it around, and it’s heavy. What good is the gold to the Shul?”
Illera set her plate on the ground and stared at the boy. His words echoed like one of the Thunderer’s bolts in her mind. ‘What good is it? What good is it? What good is it?’ It was, as if, for one dizzy moment the world changed its configuration and settled into one more in harmony with reality; the eyes of a child seeing what the rest were too blind to notice. She grinned, her mouth stretching wide and her eyes lighting in sudden understanding.
“Min, I think you just saved Madean, Frain and me. When we get back from this ‘adventure,’ you are going to be the personal squire of whichever man I choose to be King of Madean beside me. If he doesn’t want you, then he doesn’t get me either.” Illera caroled a song to the stars, a shout of laughter.
“Your Majesty?”
She leapt to her feet and danced around the fire to the boy. Seizing his hand, she drew him to his feet and hugged him, a swift clasping of arms around his gangly frame. She moved back to her side of the fire and flipped the blanket over her shoulders.
“Go to sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Yes, your Highness.” Min huddled still against the ground, watching her, puzzled at her behavior.
Illera greeted the dawn with a lightened heart. Fully formed in her mind, the plan of action shaped itself while she slept, so that now she could approach the Shul full of confidence and goodwill. She called to the creatures she needed as she washed and groomed Commitment. After a quick bite of breakfast, she swung into the saddle, and they chased the shadows towards the mountains.
At midday, a pair of ewes and a splendid ram joined them on the trail, their shepherd boy puffing along behind them. Sweat trickled in runnels down the child’s face, and he left a long smudge of dirt across his forehead and nose as he wiped it away with his tattered sleeve. Illera reined her stallion to a standstill and leaned down over the cantle.
“Greetings, boy. What is your name?”
The boy stared up at her with wide blue eyes, unspeaking. Min kneed his bay in to tower over the child almost knocking him down.
“Here now, answer the Lady. This is Queen Illera, ruler of Madean,” he snapped, all bluster and authority.
“It’s all right Min. Give the child some room.” Illera noticed the child shrink away in fright. “I am Illera, Queen of Madean, and I need your help very much. If you will help me, it might just save our whole country.”
She dismounted and tossed the reins to Min. Approaching the boy she knelt before him.
“Won’t you help me?”
“Y-y-yes y-y-your M-m-m-m-m-majesty,” stammered the child. “M-m-my name is N-n-n-n-n-nar-r-r-in.”
“Thank you, Narin. I know it is a big responsibility to take care of the sheep, for your parents?” At the boy’s nod, she continued, “And I know you must do a very good job because you have chased them all the way here to me and that shows me you are a very good shepherd. But you see I called these sheep because I need them very much. I need them to save our country, so all our people can live in peace and have enough to eat and a good place to live. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded his head, his eyes wide.
“Now I know it is not fair to ask your parents to pay for the whole country, so I tell you what I’ll do. I’m going to give you a piece of paper that your parents can take to the castle, Seven Spires, and one of my servants will give them some money to pay for the sheep. Is that okay?”
The boy nodded, his eyes wider than ever. Illera strode to her saddlebags and ripped a scrap of paper from one of the packages. With a small stick of graphite, she scribbled the note and gave it to the boy who tucked it into the pouch at his waist. She mounted the stallion, and they headed down the thread-thin path with the three sheep following. The child stood still on the trail, staring after them until they were out of sight.
They moved gradually into the rolling hills, gentle swellings of the ground at first, becoming higher as the day wore on. The row of hills heaved upward, growing ever steeper until they blended into the purple mountains ahead of them. A warning prickled down the back of her neck and unseen eyes bored into the back of her skull. Someone, somewhere behind, someone important was staring, was coming. She continued on, speeding the pace of the horses as the sheep fell behind. Their distressed baaing causing her to slow again.
The hills rose, giving a better view of the plains and road behind. She paused on every crest and glanced behind, searching for the eyes that followed. The horizon on all sides was empty of people of any sort, but the feeling persisted, strengthening as they approached the scrubby open forest. As they jogged through the aspen, birch and pine Illera listened to the bird's songs. These were normal, the larks and sparrows singing as usual from their leafy perches and fluttering past on urgent avian missions. The sights and sounds were all normal for this area, the insects and wind, small rustlings of rodents and the occasional crash of a larger animal fleeing from their path. Still, the sense of imminent confrontation with someone, some watcher from the rear pricked at her nerves and transmitted itself to Commitment, making him shy and duck from every shadow. The trees grew thicker as the land heaved upward. As twilight settled in, Illera told Min to make camp in a small clearing surrounded by birch and clean rock. He bustled around making a fire, fetching water and cooking, as Illera stared out into the darkening forest, trying to thrust her senses along with the wind, to discover who or what was picking at her nerves. The darkness kept its secrets, and she settled for the night, uneasy and unsatisfied; the morning’s joy and confidence a fading memory.
The sharp crack of a snapping stick jerked Illera awake. A huge shadowy form moved between the fire and her bedroll. Illera leapt to her feet, tangling in the blankets and crashed to the ground. Huge callused feet shifted backward from her view. A low, gravelly chuckle rang in her ears. A hand lifted her to her feet as if she were thistledown and not flesh and blood. She struck and kicked at th
e huge form, screaming her defiance. He chuckled loudly.
“Princess Illera, I thought we were friends. So why are you trying to slaughter me?”
His chuckled became loud guffaws that woke Min on the other side of the fire.
“Frak?” Illera grew still.
“Who else?” he replied, “Who else would be guarding your way to the Shul? Why are you coming this way princess? You serve only to play into Targ’s hand. I thought you would recognize a trap when you saw one.”
He set her upon her feet, and she snapped the blankets around her shoulders to keep out the chill night air. A whippoorwill sang his lonely story from a nearby tree.
“I know it’s a trap, but what can I do? I have to get Lark back.”
“Is one squire so important that you would risk the Princess and future ruler of a country to get him back? I’m sure Targ means to kill you this time. He doesn’t like to be made a fool of.”
Illera sighed and trusted her instincts about Frak. “Lark is going to be King of Frain. He is Korul’s son, and Korul is dead. Torul is dead as well, so Lark will be Frain’s King. He’s not just some squire; he’s a king.”
Frak sank to his haunches, staring at Illera, the horizontal pupils widened to large darkness in the center of his glowing eyes.
“I see, that does make things different. And you trust me with this information?”
Illera gave a short laugh. “I do, strangely enough, I do. You are a man of integrity and my friend. And without your help, I doubt if Korul would be dead or Lark King of Frain.”
“Highness?” ventured Min from across the fire.
Illera gestured at him to remain seated and silent.
“Highness?” questioned Frak.
“Yes, my friend. I am now Queen of Madean. My father, all the gods, rest him, left me alone to care for his country.”
A low whistle escaped from the ogre’s lips as he shook his massive head.
“Don’t let Targ know that. As a princess you are a valuable hostage, to be ransomed for gold then killed on the way home. An accident, I understand, has been well planned. But as a queen, why then you are nothing but the enemy and to eliminate you is to own Madean.”
“But Frak, I must get Lark back. I must, and I have a plan, a way to make life better for all the Shul. Surely Targ will listen to reason.”
Illera drew back at Frak’s bellow of laughter.
“Targ listen to reason?” The ogre snorted. “Not until the moons go dark and hell becomes a green and inviting place.”
Illera turned from him and paced around the fire, aware of his and Min’s eyes following her every step. She shook her head.
“No, I have to go to Targ, persuade him to release Lark, and make a pact for peace with him.”
Sadly, the large ogre shook his head. Rising to his full height, he stared down at her upturned face.
“Lady all you will accomplish is the destruction of the very things you seek to preserve.”
Stubbornly she shook her head at him. “I must. I can feel it inside, and I know this is the right thing to do.”
“Even if it costs your life?”
“Even if it costs my life.”
“Very well then, Princess, I will guide you. I will tell Targ that I discovered you on the trail and am bringing you to him. That way at least you won’t be killed on sight as an invader.”
“Thank you, Frak. You’re a good friend.” Illera placed one small hand on his massive forearm.
The Shul shuffled his feet and looked away.
“Well, yes, best get some sleep now. The trail tomorrow will not be easy.”
Illera nodded and rolled back into her blankets. Frak lumbered to the other side of the fire and flopped down beside Min who stared at him with distended eyes.
“Go to sleep, or I’ll eat you,” growled the ogre.
Min hastily pretended sleep that soon became a reality.
The dulcet shades of dawn were barely established when the trio resumed the trail. The woods were dark, and grew darker as the day advanced, thick with spruce, cedar, and willow. Large canopies blocked the sun, leaving only startling lancets of brightness amid the gloom. The hooves of their horses and the sheep made little sound on the thick luteous moss. The narrow trace snaked between the massive boles of rough bark that snagged on mane, tail, and fleece. Frak led them forward at a steady pace, pausing only to allow the animals to drink from the small streams that seemed to nestle in the bottom of every dip in the landscape. The hills grew higher and the valleys shallower, and by nightfall, the woods were thinning, the trunks decreasing in size and further apart. The moss gave way to patches of rock or hard packed sand covered with a thick layer of reddish cast off needles.
Frak guided them to a clearing beside a jutting cliff face. It started to drizzle as they made their fire and the rain pounded down all night, effectively ending any hope of conversation.
They began the day, as damp and dark as the weather. The sky continued to weep, making the rocks slick. The horses slipped, again and again, forcing Illera to walk rather than trust the animal’s balance on the steep switchbacks. The hungry bleating of the sheep caused her to divide the horse’s grain and left the mounts unsatisfied. The world narrowed to rock walls, rain and Frak’s back leading them ever upward; their ears filled with the patter of rain; the hungry complaint of horse and sheep.
At the higher elevations, the clouds shredded and fell away, blessing the travelers with a weak and watery sunshine. The wind prowled around the peaks and stole what heat they had in their bodies as it moaned and cried around them. Much of the journey was up and down now. They climbed a peak only to descend again and climb another. As the sun sank ahead of them, it robing the peaks in a glorious crimson and fuschia, Illera spied the Shul camp below.
As they inched down the switchback into the camp, a furor exploded. Horns blew, and Ogres poured from buildings, some armed and some half armed. Illera smiled at the thought that they were so afraid of one small female and a half-grown boy that they must appear in full fighting gear. Thus, Frak led her into the camp. A young one appeared and took their horses the instant they dismounted. Commitment sent a whinny back to her, ringing in the cold air and drowning out for a moment the noise and conversation of the Shul.
The wind was strong, and the yellow feathers lining the doorway of Targ’s hut beat a tattoo against the leather and stone as if attempting to fly again, far away from this place. They glowed in the dying rays of the sun. Frak roughly pushed her inside, and she stumbled, nearly going to her knees in front of Targ, but she caught herself and pulled herself erect in front of the Monarch of the Shul. Min, less disciplined, landed face down in front of the huge ogre. Frak strode in behind them, puffing out his chest and raising his crest high.
“What is the meaning of this Windsinger?” Targ’s face bore a vicious snarl.
Frak puffed and strutted. “I caught this small female and partially grown male. I believe this is the one you have been looking for: the princess of Madean who is worth much gold. I wish to claim the reward of bringing her in.”
Targ smiled, long yellowed fangs glittering in the dancing lamplight. His attention focused on Illera, peering at her with gimlet orange eyes.
“Are you the Madean Princess?”
“I am.”
Turning to his attendants, he roared, “Give the Windsinger the reward. You are dismissed.”
Frak bowed and left of the tent. Illera’s heart clenched within her, tightening in a painful spasm as she questioned her abilities. What if she had judged Frak wrong and he betrayed her? Fear coiled poisonous in her gut. She raised her chin and stared boldly at Targ.
“I want my friend Lark,” she demanded.
Targ laughed, and the attendants surrounding his throne laughed with him. “I will deal with you tomorrow, in front of the whole camp. Then you will learn what it means to try to make a fool of Targ.”
He made a gesture with one hand, and Illera, with Min, was dragged from
the tent and across the compound. They were thrust into a dark, tiny hut with barely room for the two of them. It was already occupied, and a scream of pain as they tripped over him alerted Illera and Min to his presence. Min pressed against the outside flap as Illera went to her knees and ran her hands over the crooked body. The body moaned and babbled deliriously.
Illera felt the face and whispered, “Lark?”
“M’Lady,”Lark's voice was thick and garbled. “Sh’d’n’t be here. Gon’ kill ya.”
“Yes Lark, I know Targ wants to kill me. But I couldn’t leave you in his clutches. What has he done to you.”
“Beet’n.” The reply was muffled.
Illera felt through the pouch at her waist. The mushrooms were easy to identify in the total darkness, both by feel and smell. She slipped one into Lark’s mouth.
“Try to chew this. It will help you.”
Beneath her palm, his jaws moved. She could feel the swelling on his lips, eyes and the side of his face. Crushing one of the leaves from her pouch to ascertain if it was the correct one, she sniffed. It had the right astringent odor. She placed it where his face seemed to be the worst and was rewarded by his sigh of relief. His arms felt intact, but when she got to his legs, one was bent underneath him at such an impossible angle she knew it had to be broken.
“Min,” she called softly, “come here and lift Sir Lark so I can fix his leg.”
Min shuffled forward, running into Lark and eliciting a bellow of pain. Illera guided Min’s hands to Lark’s hip and back. On her command, he lifted the older man as much as possible. Lark gave one sharp scream and passed out. Illera pulled the broken limb from beneath him and laid it out straight. Working by feel alone she aligned the ends of the bones, dripped the astringent sap from the leaves in the wound, packed the area with the healing moss and knitbone, binding it tightly with the thick leather of Min’s jerkin and strips torn from her own petticoats. She placed her hands over the wound and willed her healing energy into damage, feeling bone and flesh knit together under her touch as the night crept away.
Fatigued and sleepless, she watched the crack around the door flap lighten. The howling wind eased, and the luffing of the leather stopped. The absence of the constant sound woke Lark. Raising himself to his elbows, he stared at Illera.