The possibilities of what he should have done buzzed round in his head like angry bees. Even as he was racing to the King’s Inn, he was berating himself for not following the abductors. Perhaps they would stay in the city another day in some lair, and a rescue could have been tried with the handful of Kieran’s men who were in Calabra. But it would be difficult to catch Sif’s soldiers by surprise, and if there had been six on this detail it stood to reason there were more where these had come from, and possibly still more within earshot. And, counting Adamo himself, there were only five all told in his own small group. They had not been sent here as a fighting unit. And Kieran…Kieran would have to be told…
Wishing all the while that Charo, who was much better suited for this kind of intrigue, was in his shoes, Adamo managed to charm the landlord’s wife at the King’s Inn into believing he was her newest lodger’s half-brother, who should have been here to meet her yesterday but was delayed on the road. After one or two lukewarm refusals, she eventually agreed to let him wait for Anghara’s return in her room.
A swift search gave him nothing but more mystery. The package containing Anghara’s Kheldrini regalia baffled him; if the landlady had been one whit less sure of herself, Adamo would have been quite prepared to believe she had let him into the wrong room. Knowing with bitter certainty that Anghara would not be back to claim any belongings she had left behind, Adamo packed the intriguing paraphernalia and, giving the landlady a wide and cautious berth, took his leave.
Only one of his men was at their lodgings. He’d been laying out a solitaire with a battered pack of cards when Adamo arrived, and looked up with an expression of patient boredom at the sound of the opening door. One glimpse of Adamo’s face and that expression fled; the man leapt to his feet with a haste that overturned the small table before him, sending cards flying everywhere. “What in the world has happened?” he demanded. “You look as though you just saw a ghost.”
“I have, and she’s very much alive…and in trouble,” Adamo said, tossing Anghara’s package onto his bed. “Where are the others? We move out today. Kieran spoke about pulling out from the base shortly; if he’s not there he might take some finding, and this can’t wait.”
The other man had turned pale, knowing instantly the identity of Adamo’s “ghost.” “Are you sure?” he gasped.
“There is no doubt,” Adamo said grimly. “Come on, Javor, move. They will also move today; with that prey they will not wait. Our only chance lies in getting to Kieran in time, and cutting them off before they reach Miranei.”
But it took over an hour for the other three in their company to be rounded up, and by then Adamo had changed his mind, concocting a different plan.
“Javor, you, Helm and Merric cut across to the fords of the Hal; make sure you are there before this group. It shouldn’t be difficult, there’s three of you and the Gods only know how many of them, with a prisoner to slow them down. If you can, harry them—but don’t do anything foolish. Stay at the fords; I’ll go with Ward to find Kieran, or if nothing else to get some reinforcements. We’ll meet you at the fords; if we get there in time, we can be waiting for them. If not…we’ll have to trust to speed and providence.”
Kieran had put Adamo in charge of this group, and the men scattered according to his orders. He and Ward, the grizzled, taciturn old veteran, left their three companions at Calabra’s northern gates and cut east toward the river, riding hell for leather toward the Tanassa Hills and their ruined Dance—closing, had they but known it, one of the circles in Anghara’s life. One of Kieran’s secret bases lay in a cave a bare stone’s throw from the Dance where, once already, Anghara had found a friend.
They rode their beasts almost into the ground, and made Tanassa Hills on their third day out of Calabra. Adamo flung himself off his trembling horse almost at the cave’s mouth and staggered inside, his vision blurring from fatigue. “Kieran? Is Kieran here?”
“He should be back before dark,” said somebody whose face kept sliding out of focus. “Hey! Cair! Some wine! What happened to you up in the city? Faith, but you look spent! It must be serious news!”
Before dark were the only words Adamo heard. He glanced out through the cave mouth at the dim autumn day. “What is the hour now?”
“Almost noon,” came the mystified reply.
Before dark. That was too long. Adamo straggled onto his feet again. “Where did Kieran go?” he asked huskily. “Can anyone help me find him?”
Glances were exchanged over his head. “Wouldn’t you rather wait? You might miss him altogether, him coming in, you going out after him…”
“There’s no time,” Adamo said. Every hour I wait is wasted, every hour gives them the edge …
“I’ll go with you,” a young man said, already fastening a cloak over his shoulders. “Can your mount manage? It looks done in. Take a rested horse.”
Even Kieran wasn’t sure how he had become the acknowledged leader of a dedicated group of rebels who had achieved the dubious distinction of being an avowed thorn in Sif’s side. It had all started with Feor sending him out after Anghara—and then Sif had started his systematic annihilation of the Sighted. Kieran had needed to be in the right place at the right time only a few times before the dispossessed, those bereft of land or spouses or children, began to form the nucleus of his following. Whole villages were pledged to him now, less than two years after he’d started protecting the helpless and the vulnerable against Sif’s scourge—and it was as well, for Sif knew his name, and would have given much to smash him. But for Kieran Cullen of Shaymir there were more boltholes in Roisinan than even Sif could easily cover. Sif could only hope that one day soon the youth would bite off too large a morsel, engage in a conflict too big for him to finish, and be finished by it in his turn. Either that, or some traitor be found to sell the secret of Kieran’s bases, so they could be found and destroyed, smoking him out into the open where Sif could hunt him at his leisure. In the meantime, Kieran found his band swiftly growing—where Sif was still capable of winning his men, heart and soul, and knowing that those men would go through any Hell at his word, what ai’Jihaar had foretold had also come to pass. Too many in his land now hated him for what he had unleashed upon his people. And Kieran, aside from providing the leadership to do something about that, had also never stopped believing Anghara Kir Hama was alive—and if the hope of her name had taken root in her people, that could only be laid at the door of Kieran’s own unswerving faith.
He had gone to meet one of his informants on the day Adamo had arrived with the news, at the edge of a village in a valley fold on the outskirts of Bodmer Forest. There were plenty of villages where he could have ridden in openly and been welcomed with open arms. This village was not one of them, which was why he waited instead under the eaves of the forest for the man to come to him.
This was where Adamo and his companion found him. Kieran had been standing a little apart from the rest, his deep green cloak pushed back over his shoulders to reveal dully gleaming mail and allow easy access to the sword which hung at his waist. He’d turned with a half smile at the sound of approaching horses and footsteps, expecting the man from the village below, but it vanished almost instantly as he realized who his visitors were.
“Adamo!” he said, taking a swift step forward to lay one hand on the trailing rein of Adamo’s horse and steady his foster brother in the saddle with the other. “What are you doing here?”
Adamo slipped out of the saddle and gripped Kieran’s arm with the strength of the demented, not to be expected from a man so obviously on the edge of exhaustion. “Anghara, Kieran. I saw her in Calabra.”
Kieran went white at the name, and clutched at Adamo’s shoulder with an equally rigid grasp. “Where is she?”
Adamo’s knees finally buckled underneath him. “They got her. Sif’s men. I saw it, but could do nothing…they were six, and I was alone…”
“They’ll be halfway to Miranei by now,” said Kieran, through bloodless lips.
“I sent Javor with the other two…to head them off at the fords if they can…” said Adamo, and pitched forward into Kieran’s arms in a dead faint.
Kieran stood still for a moment, holding Adamo very gently. Dear Gods, he thought desperately, was it for this that she survived…that I searched for her for all those hopeless months, and was not there when she needed me the most …
But that one moment of regret was all he allowed himself. He turned, blue eyes splinters of hard steel, his voice terse. “Kel, you stay here…when our fellow arrives, make my apologies, tell him I was called…”
“Tell him the truth, Kieran,” Kel said, eyes flashing with both dismay and exhilaration.
Kieran clenched his fist. “Yes,” he said fiercely, “tell him the truth, damn it; he will understand what this means. Tell him to proclaim this on the village common if he has to; the more persistent the rumor that Anghara is alive and Sif has her prisoner, the more damage it will cause him. I must go. If they left at the same time as Adamo and rode at some speed, there is very little likelihood we can still cut them off at the fords, but I’m going to try. Once he has her inside the keep…”
“Gods’ speed, Kieran,” Kel said. He had been with Kieran from the beginning, and knew that Anghara was more to him than the lost Queen of Roisinan, who would replace Sif and bring peace and mercy to the realm. She was all that—but above everything else she was a small girl who had once wept in Kieran’s arms, who had been ready to lash out, at the risk of her own existence, at anyone who raised an arm against him.
The two men clasped each other’s arm for a moment, holding one another’s gaze, and then Kieran turned away. Adamo had regained a woozy kind of consciousness, and someone had helped him mount. He sat weaving in the saddle. “Go without me,” he said, and it was torn from his throat. “I couldn’t keep up. I’ll come after you…as soon as I can.”
“Detouring back to the cave would take too much time,” said Kieran. “Go back and rouse the men. Bid them follow at once; we’ll meet on the plains.”
“It is done,” Adamo whispered, turning his horse with a weary pressure of his knees.
“Make sure he stays in the saddle,” Kieran said to the man who had ridden with Adamo.
“I’ll get him there safely, and deliver the message,” the other said. “Then look for me on the plains.”
And they were gone, riding away through the trees. Kieran vaulted onto his own horse. “Will one of you bear another message?” he asked the rest of the men who had been with him, all mounted and waiting.
“I will,” said one, after an almost imperceptible hesitation. They’d all known what the request meant—a wild ride in the opposite direction, away from the confrontation to come. But Charo was at another secret base near Cascin, and he was also Anghara’s cousin and foster brother, who had been no less zealous in the search. He’d want to know; he’d want to ride to them, even though he would be far too late for either victory or defeat.
“Tell him what we know,” said Kieran, without repeating unnecessary details he knew the messenger was well aware of. “Tell him we will leave a message at the fords if he misses us there…”
“It is done,” the man said. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, turning the beast almost in a pirouette, and took off at a gallop toward a road that would lead him through Bodmer Forest.
Kieran gazed after him for a moment, where the under-growth he’d barrelled through still swayed, and then drew at his own reins. “The rest of you…follow me.”
They flew across the plains like eagles, but they were riding after a foe who had a head start and who would have reason to move fast. Kieran’s heart was a stone in his breast; if he failed here, then it would be all but impossible to do anything for Anghara. Not even he had challenged Sif in the shadow of Miranei Keep. No one had.
It said much for the power of Kieran’s vision, which had taken deep roots in his men, that the bulk of his force joined his handful on the plains within two days. They all pushed on, grimly intent, although Kieran, who did not want to reach the fords just in time to see Sif’s contingent slaughter his exhausted men, kept the pace just short of headlong. The plains of Roisinan vanished beneath the flying horses of Kieran’s band; they grudged the hours of darkness when they had to stop and allow the animals a few hours’ breathing space.
It was a gallant chase, but it had always been just a hope, and it proved vain. When, close to their goal, they spotted the thin column of smoke, Kieran sent a pair of scouts to investigate. One soon returned, his face gray and grim.
“It’s Adamo’s man, Javor,” he reported, reining in his horse next to Kieran.
“Just Javor?” Kieran asked sharply.
“The others are dead.” It was a blunt statement of fact, but these were seasoned men. This was not the first time death had stalked them.
“What happened?”
“There were only three of them,” the other said ominously. “Perhaps you’d better hear it from Javor.”
When Kieran reached the camp, Javor was having a none-too-clean bandage removed from a deep gash in his shoulder. The second scout, who had stayed behind to do the duties of a healer as best he might, looked up as the troop arrived.
“This looks nasty,” he said. “Where’s Madec? It ought to be cleaned, and bandaged properly, and I think he’s got a fever.”
Kieran slid off his horse and came to kneel beside Javor. “What happened?” he repeated quietly.
“Adamo told us to harry them,” Javor said, through teeth chattering from the ague shaking him. “But there is only so much three men can do…We got here ahead of them…but they were over fifty strong, and we could see her, she was in their midst…”
Kieran bit his lip. “What did you do?”
“If only there had been more of us…” said Javor.
Madec, Kieran’s healer, had arrived by this stage and was kneeling at Javor’s other side, laying him gently on his back onto a clean cloak spread on the ground.
“He’s almost delirious, Kieran,” Madec said.
“You can dose him in a minute. I need to know…”
Javor tried to raise himself on one elbow, but he chose the wounded arm, and simply buckled again. Madec bent over him, frowning, but Javor stretched out his good hand to clutch at Kieran’s sleeve.
“We tried to hold them…but they were too strong…They were here…only yesterday…yesterday morning…”
He sucked in his breath sharply as Madec’s probing fingers moved over the wound, and then his eyes rolled back in his head, his hand failing from Kieran’s arm.
“Sorry,” Madec said. “He’s fainted. You’ll have to wait for the rest; I’ll need time to get the fever down.”
“Yesterday!” Kieran said, getting up in one swift, savage movement.
“We can still catch them,” someone said. Someone who hadn’t dismounted.
“We cannot give battle to more than fifty men, not now,” said Kieran violently. “We would waste our strength, and achieve nothing. But yesterday! Dear Gods…”
“They are obviously riding as fast as they can,” said one of Kieran’s lieutenants, a man called Rochen. “They’ve got to be just as tired as we are. While they did not shy at riding down three men, they might balk at offering a fight to a group as large as us.”
“Especially if they know what they have with them, and it seems as though they do,” added another man.
“Kieran, we have a chance of catching them,” said Rochen. “I say we try.”
A fervent murmur ran through the men. The one who had spoken earlier had not been the only one still mounted. Kieran’s gaze swept over his men with a hot pride in his eyes, and he reached for his own reins. “Six of you, stay here with Madec and Javor,” he said. “Madec, you pick them.” Asking for volunteers would seem to be like asking if anyone wanted a tooth pulled. “The rest of you, follow me. We’ll give them a run for it.”
A ragged cheer went up; weariness seemed to fa
ll from them like a discarded mantle. Even the horses pricked up their ears; one or two even found energy for a spirited, defiant neigh. Men laughed.
Madec, who looked dangerously as if he would pick six volunteers to stay behind and then take off with Kieran himself, made his choice almost apologetically, and the named men dropped away from the main body with muttered oaths.
“Yesterday,” Kieran murmured, still aghast at the smallness of the margin which had cost two men their lives. Then he urged his black mount forward. “We can get them,” he said, willing himself to believe it so that the rest of his men might. “Let’s go!”
They whooped and followed him, Rochen at his elbow, an incongruous grin splitting the young lieutenant’s broad face. But their enthusiasm was checked abruptly with a simple and effective ruse not much further on. No other group had passed the fords of the Hal since the previous day; the swathe that had been left by the skirmish was still clearly visible, as were the tracks on the other side of the ford. What brought the pursuers up short was the sudden division of the main body of the tracks into several different trails. The group had fragmented into at least four or five smaller companies. At least one of these seemed to have taken off ahead of the others at a faster gallop; another had veered off toward the nearest foothills to the left of the plain, the first harbingers of the great mountain range that had given the throne in Miranei its ancient name. A third group had ridden eastward, back toward the forest. Kieran reined in, dismayed.
Rochen had also stopped, and leaned forward to study the place where the tracks diverged. “They seem to have had their own wounded,” he said. “Look, over there—traces of blood. They may have stopped to take care of their men. Helm and Merric did not sell their lives cheaply.”
“But which group has the queen?” asked Cair, slipping off his horse and squatting down for a closer look.
“The fastest, probably,” Rochen said, straightening. “They’d make straight for home.”
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