by C. Greenwood
I scrambled to make sense of this finding. I couldn’t reconcile my memories of my gruff father with his weathered face and work calloused hands to the image of this cultured looking youth with his smooth chin and courtier-style clothing.
Suddenly, I heard a door creaking open and I scrambled out from behind the desk, whipping the miniature portrait behind my back. It was only the guard who’d been posted outside the door, peering in to see what mischief I might be up to. I shrugged and tried to look nonchalant. I must have appeared more innocent than I felt, because after a cursory glance around the room, the man pulled his head back out and the door was closed again.
I realized then I had better use more care. It might just as easily have been the Praetor coming in to catch me with his portrait—no, my Da’s portrait in my hands. I reluctantly returned the miniature to the box. I hated to do that as I had hated nothing before or since vowing obeisance to the Praetor, but I had little choice. Even with the pained and confused emotions the sight of the portrait awakened within me, I still had enough mental clarity left to know I couldn’t afford for the Praetor to know I had found it.
I hastily re-latched the box, replacing it in the bottom drawer. I checked to be certain everything else I had touched was back in its proper place and then abandoned the desk and pulled up a high-backed chair in the corner to await whatever happened next.
Time seemed to drag by, but as there were no windows in the room through which to judge the changing shadows, I had no way of knowing if I had truly been waiting for hours or if it were my own guilt and sense of urgency that made it seem so. I fell again to looking round the room. My eyes were drawn to the only untidy aspect of the place and the heap of scrolls I had vaguely noticed before spread out on the desk. They were disarranged and jumbled, looking as though they had been searched through with clumsy haste by the room’s last occupant before being shoved aside. One, I noted had tumbled to the floor and been left to lie at the foot of the desk. Automatically, I stretched from my chair and bent to retrieve the fallen scroll. As I set it on the edge of the desk, my eyes fell upon another scroll, unrolled and held open by a heavy rock weight.
Curious, I bent over it and tried to make out the cramped writing scrawled across the page. There were words I was unfamiliar with, but it seemed to be some sort of recipe, a detailed list of herbal ingredients and the proper ways to mix them. What was it the Praetor found so fascinating in plants and dried, dead things? I found a second sheet behind the first, and on it were drawn detailed sketches of various plants with descriptions underneath. I paused as I recognized one of the herbs from Javen’s lessons. I had never heard the fancy name titled beneath the sketch, but we knew it as Horse Clover. It had no healing properties I was aware of beyond offering a questionable relief for sour stomach. For some reason, however, the five-petal flower held my attention. Now I thought of it, I was fairly sure that had been Horse Clover petals I found pressed in the book inside the Praetor’s desk.
What was it Javen had told me about Horse Clover? Some superstitious folk would never touch the plant, not even for medicinal purposes, because a certain dark influence was associated with it. It was said in the days when sorcery was common and magic used openly among the people, in that “evil” time before the Praetor had purged our part of the Province of this magical pestilence, that such plants as Horse Clover, Black Fern, and Bitterweed were used commonly among practicers of magic as components for the casting of spells. Most folk, of course lumped magickers into the one general category as I had before Hadrian had taught me of mages and naturals. A natural, I knew, would have no need of spells or their components.
I frowned at the implications of my find. Could the Praetor be studying the arts of magery or was there some other purpose for these lists and sketches? Perhaps a simple interest in botany? Certainly I had always found the study of plants and herbs interesting under Javen’s tutelage. But it seemed too much of a coincidence that I should find these things in the Praetor’s keeping in addition to all the other causes he had given me for suspicion.
I considered the jars of suspicious substances in his desk drawers and the notes I had found on ancient magic. I thought back to his miraculous recovery after being stabbed with my poisoned blade. Any ordinary man should have died, yet he massaged the wound and muttered strange incantations under his breath and suddenly it was as if the poison had never entered his blood. I remembered how he had taken my tainted blade and slipped it into his robes. My eyes went again to my polished knife resting in a place of prominence on the shelf. His wanting to take the knife before anyone else had the chance to examine it suddenly made sense. He didn’t want it to be proved that there truly was poison on the blade or there would be questions as to how he had survived without even growing sick. It wouldn’t do, I supposed, for his underlings to uncover the secret. To realize the man himself dabbled in the very magic he condemned in others.
I raged inwardly. Suddenly my mother and father’s murders seemed all the more needless and insane now I knew the man who had ordered them practiced the same forbidden magic in a different form. I also saw now that my attempt at assassination must have been a source of great amusement to my enemy, armed as he was with power against such weak efforts. I remembered Terrac’s miraculous healing from that arrow shaft between the shoulder blades so long ago. His incredibly quick recovery made sense now. So also did his attempt to protect the mage who had been responsible for his healing. The Praetor had much to lose should his strange secret come out and Terrac was being coerced or perhaps simply guilted into keeping it. It occurred to me I now held an excellent card for black-mailing purposes. At the same time I realized should the Praetor become aware I possessed such damning information against him, he would snuff me out like a candle and with as little thought. My usefulness in the Skeltai matter stood as nothing next to the danger of allowing me to live.
“Perusing my papers, I see. Find anything of interest?”
I hadn’t heard the door open. I whirled guiltily at the familiar voice, thinking that somehow my very thoughts must have conjured up the Praetor. He regarded me with disapproval tinged with cruel amusement. Remembering I still clutched the papers, I set them back on the desk and arranged the rock weight to pin them as I had found them, careful all the while to keep my actions slow and casual. If I hadn’t already betrayed my guilt by holding the very papers in question, I would not do so now by showing fear.
“Fascinating sketches you have here,” I said, surprised at the lightness of my tone. “I recognize a few of the plants. I’ve an interest in botany myself. Nothing like yours maybe but I’ve experimented with herbal cures and folk remedies.”
“No doubt. You needn’t be so modest in the face of my imagined expertise. I assure you I’m little more than an amateur.” He crossed the room as he spoke and sank into the great chair behind his desk. “I dabble. Nothing more.”
I saw him studying the arrangement of his desktop as if weighing what might be amiss. I kept speaking more from need to distract him than actual interest in the conversation.
“Now it is you who are being modest. Your talents must be advanced indeed to have afforded a recovery like yours after that brush with the poisoned blade.”
I grimaced at my thoughtless words, as we both glanced at the knife in its place of prominence. Why could I not help goading my enemy, even at the moment when I could least afford to do so? His gaze returned to me and I felt him studying me for some indication that my words carried any deeper meaning.
Something cold brushed at the front of my consciousness. It was not the familiar comforting presence of the bow. This was an alien presence, sinister and intrusive. In an instant, I threw up my mental walls and sealed them tight.
The Praetor smiled.
He knows. I couldn’t discern whether the thought was mine or came from the bow but it scarcely mattered. He did know. Then came the frantic question. What exactly did he know? I tried to remember what thoughts had been at the fore
front of my mind when I had felt that cold questing. His secret, his magery. How could I hide my knowledge of that? This was all I had been dwelling consciously on at the time. I dared to hope all other secrets were safe. Not that it mattered. This one alone was enough to kill me.
I was faintly surprised when the Praetor said, “I required no herbal remedies. As I said earlier, the blade contained no toxins. You must have been mistaken in that. Your herbalist lied to you in order to make a sale.”
He spoke easily as if there had been no invisible exchange between us just now. I was too confused by his lack of reaction to argue that I was positive of my poison, that I had purchased a kind with which I was familiar. Besides, it was a dangerous line to pursue.
Luckily he seemed content to let the matter go, leaning back in his seat and turning his attention to the doorway. “Where is my captain? He should have been here by now. He knows better than to keep me waiting.”
As if summoned by his very naming, the man appeared. “You summoned me, my lord?”
“Yes. The thief girl has what she claims to be some highly important information to share with us.” His tone was disparaging but I wasn’t fooled. If he didn’t believe my message a matter some urgency, he would not be here now with the captain of his personal guard.
I lit into a full explanation of what I knew, including Dradac’s suspicions on the timing of the eminent attack. I added, though no one asked, that in my opinion his supposition was well founded. I said haste was advisable.
No one seemed to pay that recommendation any mind. As they began conferring on their next course of action, both men shut me out of the conversation as if my part in this matter were finished. Perhaps it was. Circumstances had arranged themselves to make me little more than a messenger. Who needed my advice or sought it?
The Praetor caught me as I was about to back out of the room. “Going somewhere are you, hound?”
“Yes. I thought if my business here was finished I might withdraw. My lord.” I added that last with reluctance but add it I did. After all, I had made a vow, hadn’t I?
“I will tell you when your work is finished,” he said. “For now, hurry and get yourself to the stables and order my horse saddled and prepared. And get yourself an animal while you’re down there.”
I blinked. “A horse for me, sir?”
The Praetor’s captain spoke at the same time. “Your horse, lord? You will be accompanying the men when we ride out?”
The Praetor said, “To both your questions, yes and yes. I’ve yet to see in action these Skelatie who have the impudence to invade my lands. Who knows? If I am present, perhaps this time something will get done.”
The Fist captain looked offended. “With all respect, my lord, I am certain I have always carried out your orders to the measure—”
I cut him off. I had my own questions, no less urgent than his.“Where am I going that I need a horse?”
The Praetor said to his underling, “Enough, Captain Delacarte. I have made my wishes known.”
To me he said, “You’ll be accompanying us, of course. We’ll make better time with a guide to lead our force to this Beaver Creek. You’re familiar with the terrain, are you not?”
As if either of us were going to forget my connection with Dimmingwood.
I said, “I’m afraid you forget one minor detail, sir. I’ve been banned from Dimming on pain of death.”
“Oh? I hadn’t heard of it. By whom?” His response was vague. He had turned his back on both of us and was riffling through some papers on his desk.
“By Rideon, the outlaw captain,” I said.
“Ah yes, the notorious brigand leader. I haven’t heard his name in some time. Most people’s thoughts are too consumed with you.”
“With me, sir?”
“Never mind. Well, what are you afraid of? You’ll have an army at your back. I don’t imagine this infamous rascal is capable of plucking you from our midst, do you? Consider yourself well protected.”
Protected by Fists. Now that was a turn of events I had never expected to see coming.
As I excused myself and hurried out the door, I tried not to think of what sort of treason my old captain would construe if he heard of me passing through his territory with an army of Fists at my back.
Chapter Three
A half hour later, I was surprised to discover Terrac among those we would be riding out with. I had the opportunity to speak to him briefly as we and a party of Fists waited on horseback in the outer bailey for the Praetor to make his appearance.
I was full of my own worries about the excursion ahead and the Praetor’s reassurances had done little to relieve my anxiety. A hundred Fists behind me or not, I still wasn’t confident I was beyond Rideon’s wrath should he discover I was trespassing on his land. I had, after all, an advantage over the Praetor in this regard. I knew Rideon well. Well enough to know he was proud, vengeful, and clever enough to carry out what other men might consider impossible.
And I had other cause for discomfort. I had never been surrounded by so many Iron Fists before. Hemmed in on all sides by the black and crimson uniforms, I felt the sweat standing out on my forehead and a nervous clenching in the pit of my belly. I only hoped none of these louts got overly enthusiastic in the middle of the fighting and forgot I was on their side now.
As if sensing my nervousness, my horse, a heavy-footed animal with all the agility of an ox, shifted beneath me and shook his head testily. Naturally, I had been given the ugliest and most ill-trained creature in the stables. A glance at the ground, which felt a mile below me, reminded me I had rarely been on a horse. I’d never needed to learn anything about riding. It now struck me as an appalling omission on my part. It was ridiculous that I, who had fought both Fists and Skeltai in the thick of battle without so much as a quiver of fear, should be shaking in my boots at the prospect of a long ride on the back of a strange horse.
While all this was running through my mind, I became vaguely aware of a familiar presence tugging at the edge of my senses. I had mostly taken to keeping my barriers up at all times around the keep for fear of another surprise attack from my magic-wielding enemy.
I inwardly cursed myself for allowing my focus to slip. I would have to be extra cautious now that the Praetor realized, or at least I was nearly certain he realized, that I knew him to be that mage.
But this time it wasn’t the Praetor who approached. It was only Terrac, drawing a muscled grey horse up alongside me. I couldn’t help eyeing his sleek, smart-stepping animal with envy and my own mulish beast shifted in agitation again as though he were sensing my thoughts and resentful of them.
Terrac said, “You’re gripping too tight with your knees while hauling back on the reins at the same time. It’s confusing him.”
I ignored his unsought advice and tightened both holds grimly. “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “But if I wanted an instructor, I’d take lessons. Anyway, if I wasn’t holding on for my life, this cursed animal would already have me in the dust.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Old Snapper’s not a bad mount. He just has to have confidence in the rider on his back. Convince him you aren’t afraid of him and that you know what he’s about and he’ll cut out his tricks.”
“Tricks? He’s got tricks?” I couldn’t keep the dread from my voice. I had thought the shifting and stamping were all I had to worry about.
“Oh, he’s got a whole bagful. But don’t worry. Luckily for you, he’s the same horse they gave me to train on, so I can tell you what to watch out for. Mostly, beware the teeth when he tosses his head back. Sometimes he does that right before he tries to get ’em clamped into your thigh. You’ll also want to watch him particularly close when we get into the woods. He likes to scrape new riders off when he gets the chance, so don’t let him get you too close to the trees.”
“Great,” I grumbled. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about, even my own horse was out for my blood.
“You’ll do all right,” Terra
c reassured me. “Just pretend you know what you’re doing. That shouldn’t be too hard for you. You were never short on confidence in the old days.”
“Are you implying I pretended expertise at anything I couldn’t handle?” I asked.
“Admit it. You were more egotistical than excellent when it came to our old sword lessons with Dradac. Mind you, I’m not saying you were incompetent—”
My face warmed. As I recalled I’d usually come out on the winning end of our practice matches. I said, “Listen, priest boy, I’ll cross swords with you and best you any time you feel like being humiliated in front of your new friends. Just name the time and place.”
My challenge was interrupted by a commotion around us. The surrounding soldiers erupted into cheers and my horse started nervously at the noise. It was a moment before I could get him under control again, and when I did, I looked around angrily for the cause of the stir. The Fists were chanting something I couldn’t decipher and banging their gauntleted fists onto their metal breastplates, the result a discordant din painful to the ears but altogether effective as an attention getter.
I leaned half out of my saddle, which Snapper didn’t care for much at all, to see my way past the crowd. Then the cause of the stir was evident. The Praetor was entering the bailey, mounted on a coal-black war-steed, his Captain and First Lieutenant flanking him on either side. I gathered by his men’s reaction his presence on such an occasion wasn’t routine, but there was no doubt they were pleased to have him here to lead them.