“Kill me,” he said.
“No!” This could not be real—not so suddenly. Beclan looked around wildly—there must be someone, somewhere, to help.
“Do … it … save … you …” Vossik said. He dropped his own sword and staggered close enough to grab Beclan’s blade with his gloved hands and pull it toward himself. “Better die, lad,” he said. “I know you’re brave enough. Like this.”
Hand by hand, he forced the blade into his belly while Beclan, horrified, stood and watched, unable to do anything, even let go the grip.
“Gird …” Vossik said at last, and fell; the blade dragged free, and Vossik’s blood reddened the snow.
“We still have four,” one of the men said. “Enough for all …”
That horror broke Beclan’s immobility; he could at least save the other men from that fate. With a cry he whirled and cut down the others of his patrol. They did not resist much; the magery slowed them, made them clumsy, and it was like killing calves or pigs. He wanted to throw up, scream, cry … but he could no longer deny the reality: he was trapped with three killers who wanted not just his life but his body, his self.
He sent frantic prayers to Gird. Help me! Save me! Don’t let them!
But already a honey-sweet voice in his head crooned to him, stroking his panicked mind to near stillness.
He had heard of magery and its evils all his life, but he had not seen the former Duke’s magery at work; even his brother had not seen it, for Rothlin had not been in the room. He had not seen Dorrin Verrakai’s use of magery in the courtyard; he had been deemed too young to ride in the procession and had spent that part of the day with his mother and younger siblings. He expected pain, struggle, terror … not this … this gentleness.
“You are the king’s cousin … but why is he king and not your father? Why should not the crown come to you in time? It would be easy, young lord, if you have the courage and the wit …”
A voice as sweet in his mind as honey in his mouth, telling him everything he had ever thought about Mikeli and Camwyn, soothing him with every dream he had imagined for himself.
“Kings should have power—power in themselves. Your cousins have none, were chosen to have none, to be weak rulers in a realm that needs strength. You are strong and could be stronger yet … if you have the courage. You could return power to the Mahierans, power they should never have given up.”
Beclan could scarcely see, now, for the crowding visions … himself on a great charger, sword held high, himself in the Hall at Vérella, striding down the center, ranks of nobles on either side bowing low, trumpets blaring.
“Mikeli the weak cannot even open the box in which that other crown lies, but you could. You could have both crowns; you could restore the ancient lineage to its heritage of power; you could be the king … and in your heart of hearts you know that.”
He struggled to speak and croaked, “How?”
Silky and sweet that voice, gentle and coaxing. “How? You need but let us help you. Help you discover your powers, help you understand yourself better, help you achieve what you dream … what you deserve …”
But magery was evil. He’d grown up knowing it was evil; he’d been told to watch for any sign that Dorrin was misusing it … he had seen blind Stammel, Vossik’s struggles …
“Your life. Your power. Your crown …”
All those times, as a boy, he’d thought his older brother weak for deferring to Mikeli just because Mikeli was the prince, and even his father—a duke of the realm, a grown man—deferred to Mikeli …
“You are the strong one, Beclan Mahieran. You are the one chosen …”
Chosen by whom? he wanted to ask, but he could not speak now. In his mind’s images, he was even taller, stronger, more handsome, more powerful. Again the crowds bowed; light flashed from his fingers, and in front of him the crowns glittered … ruby and gold and pearl … sapphire and silver and diamond … He moved his hand, and the crowns rose, hovering in the air before him.
He opened his eyes, and there before his feet lay Vossik. Vossik dead, Vossik’s blood staining the snow. When had he moved back here? He could not remember.
“Taste that blood and see …” the voice said. “Your first kill—taste it!”
Before he realized it, he was kneeling in the bloody snow, staring at Vossik’s dead face. Without his will, his hand reached out to the wound, the blood … and there, bloody but gleaming a little in the dimming light, was a medallion. He knew it, and his hand rose to his own Gird’s symbol. As he touched it, his mind cleared a little. The stench of Vossik’s death rasped along his nose; Vossik’s courage and honor … Beclan blinked back tears.
“Taste the blood,” the voice said. “Take the crown you deserve …” Its seductive murmur continued as he tried to resist.
Help me! Don’t let me give in! But his hand was already moving back to the bloody wound. He concentrated, forcing it to reach for Vossik’s medallion. Light sparkled briefly; the medallion came off its thong as if he’d cut it, and he quickly scrubbed it in the snow, then rubbed it on his cloak. It gleamed brighter. His hand wanted to open, drop it, he longed to taste the bloodstains on his fingers, but he fought that impulse. Kill me if you must, he prayed. Don’t let me—
All at once, as if someone had closed a window, the voices in his head were silent. He rose to his feet, unhindered by compulsion. He put Vossik’s medallion safe in his cloak pocket. Two of the men now stood, swords in hand, almost in reach, watching him. The third lay still, and Beclan was sure he was dead.
“Little virgin,” one of the men said, grinning. “Did you even know you had the power?”
“I … am not a magelord,” Beclan said. “It is Gird’s power—Gird saved me!”
The man laughed. “There’s nothing like the innocence of that first time,” he said to the other, who nodded. Then to Beclan, “It would have been easier on you the other way, but we can still overpower you, boy. And we will.”
At a nod, both of them came at him, one on either side. Beclan fought with all his skill—with skill he did not realize he had, with frantic prayers for help and the wish that he could slow them the way they had slowed the others—for a time that seemed impossibly long. He could not get breath enough into his burning lungs; his arms felt heavy as logs. Surely they would tire, too—and finally one missed a parry and his own blade slid home. He yanked it out as the man cried out, dropped his sword, and fell. Beclan turned, off balance, saw the other’s blade sweeping at him, tried desperately to get his blade across for the parry, knowing he was too slow, and instinctively pushed with the hope it would miss him. The blade hung in the air, twisted aside; he could see the man’s surprise, rage, horror as the sword slid from his grip. Before he could pick it up again, Beclan hit him—once, twice, and again, wild blows. When the man finally fell, Beclan could scarcely believe he himself was still alive and darkness had not fallen.
Shaking with exhaustion and terror, Beclan cut the Verrakaien throats with his dagger, all three of them, dead as they were. Then he fell to his knees, emptied his belly on the stained and trampled snow, and cried until it was truly dark. He roused from tears to horror worse than before.
He was alone in the night, still trapped in the clearing with all these dead men, men he had killed. Who knew what their spirits might demand? Across the clearing, he could hear the horses stamping, snorting, their tack jingling and creaking. Wind moaned and hissed like angry ghosts through the evergreens that closed the trap; in the distance, a branch broke and fell with a resonant thump.
His hand strayed to his Girdish medallion, and he tried to think. If the Verrakaien had not invaded him while alive, surely Gird could protect him against the dead. The horses … the horses’ saddlebags held food for them and for him; he could build a fire. He pushed himself up and walked toward the sound of their hooves.
At first they bolted around the clearing, squealing and bucking, saddlebags coming loose from several, but finally they quieted, let him ge
t close. He soothed them, dug out handfuls of oats from one saddlebag, and gave each a small portion. They snuffled at his hands for more. Then he strung a hitch line by feel, tied the horses to it, and lit a fire, using the sticks the Verrakaien had used for a shelter. By its light, he dragged the bodies of his patrol, naming them as he did so, into a neat row. The enemy he left where they lay. He gathered the fallen saddlebags, removed the rest from the saddled horses, pulled out the nose bags and oats, and fed the horses. The sound of their munching comforted him.
By then he was hungry and rummaged in the saddlebags for food for himself. He crouched by the fire, chewing trail bread he barely tasted, staring at the row of men who had died because of him. He was afraid to sleep. He sat the night through, holding the two Girdish medallions, one in either hand.
Surely it was Gird’s power, not his own, that had saved him—had twisted that sword from a man’s hand, moved it aside from the killing strike aimed at him. He could not be a magelord; no Mahieran had the power. He did not feel different than before, the way he thought magelords must feel. He felt infinitely older and more ashamed. He could see every wrong decision he had made as if painted in bright colors on a page. He longed to be back home, once more a child in his father’s house, a child who would grow up better and not make those mistakes. He longed to be with his father now, kneeling before him, telling him, asking his forgiveness … not here alone with the bodies of men who had died because of him.
When dawn came, he tried again to leave the clearing, but he could not. He gave the horses another nose bag each of grain, melted snow for them to drink from the leather bucket among the gear, and led them around the clearing before tying them again. Though he was sure the forest was empty, he called out and then blew a blast on Sergeant Vossik’s horn. No response to either.
He had food for some days yet; he could use the other supplies to make himself a little shelter, but the thought of being trapped there quickly escalated into “forever,” and he imagined himself starving. He looked at the horses and shuddered. He did not want to kill again. Surely the Kuakgan who had made this trap would return. Surely someday he would see his home again, his family. The life he had found so confining and boring, before he became Duke Verrakai’s squire, he now remembered with longing. He promised himself, and Gird, and his father that he would never, ever, be so stupid, so selfish, again.
Sir Flanits arrived at Verrakai Steading with his troop to find Beclan had not yet returned. Duke Verrakai’s steward made the Royal Guard troop welcome and said no visitors had come since the Duke left for Harway. The next morning Flanits led his troop on, following the route Verrakai’s steward had given him.
Several frustrating days later—snow obscuring the track he was supposed to follow and no sign of the young Mahieran—his scout reported fresher marks of both foot and horse heading north away from the trail they were on. Was that the squire and his escort? If so, why had they turned instead of coming straight back as they’d been told? Flanits mentally cursed Duke Verrakai for sending him on this hunt for a boy who was probably perfectly safe when there was a war where he might actually be useful. However wicked renegade Verrakai lords might be, surely they could not overpower so many. At least with some of the men on foot, they would not travel as fast as he with his mounted troop.
The track led to another village, where more men had joined the muster, and another. Most were on foot now, no doubt slowing down the march, and he should be catching up with them. Then the track split. A larger number, mostly on foot, had headed east, back toward Verrakai Steading. A smaller number—all mounted, by the hoofprints—continued north. Sir Flanits had no idea what lay between where he was and where the Verrakai Steading was—or what was farther north. The sketch the steward had given him covered only the route Beclan was supposed to take. Had Beclan gone back east? That would have made sense, but who had continued north? The stupid boy and his equally stupid escort had not bothered to leave any clues. Flanits chewed his mustache in frustration.
Though he had seen nothing threatening so far, he could not push worry aside completely. The very silence and emptiness of the hills, the distance between the little clusters of poor huts, made it clear how easily a group of renegades could pass unseen. Beclan, the king’s cousin, fourth from the throne, was somewhere out here. Anything might happen.
Flanits looked again at the tracks. A king’s cousin wouldn’t walk—he’d ride. He’d be with riders. Perhaps he’d gotten bored with the slow pace of the others and was trying a shortcut to Harway. “We’re going north,” he said. He hoped he was right. A mounted party on the trail of a mounted party lacked the advantage of speed.
The tracks, he was sure, could not be more than a day old, and all showed a walking pace. He lifted his reins, and his mount broke into a trot. As they rode, he noticed that the broad ridge on which they rode narrowed little by little.
When they came to the next change of direction, Flanits could not repress an oath. He could not tell who had skidded down the unexpectedly steep slope of the hill first, but the dead horse at the bottom, its blood staining the trampled snow around it, was evidence enough of the danger. He looked up and back: six horses had gone down in flurries of snow, and one had tumbled. One first—the little beaten-down oval suggested that its rider had tried to clear a space for an attempt back up the slope—and others had come down after, in support. That argued for the Mahieran boy to have been the first.
“What now, sir?” asked one of the troopers. “That’s a bad slide.”
“Obviously,” Flanits said. “Though the others got down safely.” Their tracks were clear, leading away into the trees. “Jen, ride on a little and see if you find a better place to get down. I saw none behind us for the last glass or so. We’ll rest the horses.” He dismounted, as did the rest, and gave his horse a handful of oats. He disliked the look of the slope as much from the ground as from the saddle. A hard freeze overnight had put a crust on the snow; the ice he could not see would be even more slippery.
Jen came riding back and reported. “Sir, there’s no good place. Ridge gets narrower and then drops hard into a cut for a stream, steeper than this and as sharp up again on the other side.”
“Must have realized that from a map and decided to go down. Gird grant it wasn’t the squire on that horse—” He nodded downslope. “Though I think not. I think he went down first, typical bravado. We’ll have to do the same. Not a problem with any of you.” He grinned at his troop, ignoring the cold in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t matter what danger lurked below—slippery ice, rocks, some enemy—they had to go on.
No one fell. At the foot of the slope, he looked briefly at the tracks of the other horses and men’s boots. All the tracks led away; the dead horse wasn’t his concern.
He led his troop on into the forest, following the obvious track. Apparently, the Mahieran boy—or the sergeant—had chosen to angle almost straight east. Perhaps their map showed another obstacle. After a time, the track curved gently north again. Flanits hoped that meant it headed for a ford or bridge across the stream his own scout had seen. It would make sense to cross the stream farther from the ridge.
When the trees closed in, Flanits stopped and looked around. “This won’t do.”
“Sir?”
“Unless that stream you saw, Jen, turned due north to the Honnorgat, we should’ve reached it by now, with the angle of the trail. For that matter, we should’ve reached the stream that must run between these ridges. Get in among these trees, where we can’t see the sky, and we could be lost. That may’ve happened to them. We’ll get back to that little rise and try a horn call from there. Surely they’ll have a horn with them.”
The trees behind looked thicker than they had, but Flanits had grown up in forested country. Trees and their way of looking completely different from the other side didn’t fool him. He set his horse’s head to the tracks they’d made coming, and confusion ceased when they rode up onto the little rise covered with leafles
s pickoaks and beech instead of dense conifers.
“Now, Medlin,” he said. The hunting horn sent its long sweet call out across the snowy woods. Once. Twice. Again. They listened. No wind stirred the few pickoak leaves still on the tree. Then a harsher, slightly deeper tone, one long note, came back. “Again,” Flanits said.
Medlin blew again, this time the Royal Guard Assembly call. Once more they listened, and once more that single note came from a distance, this time broken in the middle with a blat that made Medlin grin.
“Not a good hornist, sir. Bet they were trying for another note.”
“Give them the same call again, Medlin.” If it had been a Royal Guard group, they’d have started for his when they first heard Assembly. Flanits found he had his mustache between his teeth again. What would a Mahieran squire do? He should know at least some of the standard horn signals, including Assembly, but what about that former Phelani sergeant? They had their own signals. Who was in charge over there?
Once more the answer was a single long note, this time fading out in a sort of stutter. It didn’t sound any closer.
“We’ll have to go to them,” Flanits said. “Though then we’ll be as lost as they are.” Despite his words, he felt better. He was sure in his heart that Beclan was somewhere near—he had found the boy in all this empty forest, and that made up for missing the war.
“Follow their tracks?”
“No. If we can get them to keep blowing that horn, we can go straight. I think they began to circle the way lost people do. Once more and everyone point where you think it’s coming from.”
Medlin blew Assembly again, and once more the answer came. Flanits pointed his horse toward the sound, at an angle to their earlier track. As they came off the rise, the conifers once again thickened before them, but Flanits turned a little more north, hoping to skirt the conifers. Heading north should shorten the distance.
Echoes of Betrayal Page 13