by Tad Williams
Eolair idly noted the emblems on some of the wagons and the fetishes and pennants carried by many of the riders. He saw Bison, Fox, and Grouse clans, all from the High Thrithings as he remembered, but saw signs of Crane and Polecat too, clans he thought were from the Lake Thrithings, closer to Nabban.
A large and well-decorated pair of wagons caught his attention, the back one tied to the front, the whole drawn by a double team of horses. The sides of the wagons were decorated with a painted golden horse, a totem he recognized from the Hayholt’s throne hall: Clan Mehrdon—the Stallion Clan, Prester John’s old allies from the first grassland war. As he watched, one of the women riding on top of the double wagon leaned forward to shout something to the driver. Her gray hair was cut so short it almost looked as if it had been a punishment, but there was something about her handsome, spare features that seized him and would not loose its grip. Eolair leaned out from behind Hotmer to get a better look, but already the great wagon was trundling away and trees were blocking his view. He had seen that face before, or something much like it, he felt sure.
“Bagba bite me!” he said, suddenly and loudly enough to startle not just Hotmer but even the bandit’s horse, which whinnied and did a little quickstep. “That is Vorzheva herself—Josua’s wife—or I am a blind man! Hotmer, follow that wagon!”
“Are you mad, Hernystirman?”
“No, I know that woman!”
Hotmer did not even look. “We follow Agvalt, not some trollop who tickles your fancy.”
How could he explain? What could he say that would make them even care? Still, even after twenty years and more, he was as certain as he could be that he had just seen Vorzheva alive and well, less than an arrow’s shot away. “Agvalt!” he called. “Agvalt, please! Tell Hotmer to take me after that woman who just passed! It is important to all of us.”
At the head of the company, the bandit chief looked up in annoyance. “Why, Hernystirman? Do you think that we must feed you and help you to dip your skeem in the local waters?”
“I tell the truth! It is a matter of great importance—the king of Erkynland will reward you beyond your dreams!” He was shouting now, conscious that with every moment the big wagons were carrying her farther away, deeper into the horde of grasslanders. Perhaps they were even leaving the Thanemoot entirely! “I order you to help me in the name of the High Throne!”
Agvalt nudged his horse in the ribs and it trotted forward until they had caught up with Hotmer and Eolair. Agvalt leaned in, his young face strangely calm and considering, then slapped the count across the side of the head so hard that Eolair fell from the saddle and onto the ground. With his hands tied, he could not soften his fall, and struck hard on the trampled ground, squeezing all breath from his chest.
Agvalt climbed out of his saddle and crouched beside him as Eolair gasped. The chieftain’s face still seemed unconcerned, but Eolair saw that his eyes were flat and lifeless. He had not seen Agvalt like this, and was suddenly reminded of how precarious his position was.
“Do not ever seek to tell me what to do.” Agvalt’s voice was not much more than a whisper. “I am sure your king will still pay to have you back even without your hands and feet. And you are a clever fellow, too, I’m sure, able to write and read, so you could give him your news even without a tongue. If you speak that way to me again, even once, you will go back to your king a whimpering remnant of a man. Do you understand me?”
Eolair still had not caught his breath, but nodded. A moment later Agvalt’s knife was out and the tip was on Eolair’s cheek just below his eye. “I did not hear you, Herynstirman. Do you understand me.”
“Yes.” He did not have the wind for anything longer.
“Good.” Agvalt swung himself back into his saddle with the nimbleness of a cat and turned to the rest of his men, who had been watching Eolair’s chastisement with interest and even pleasure. “The road is ours again. Ride on.”
* * *
In the end, the plan of escape went more smoothly than Aelin could have guessed, and with the help of Skyfather Brynioch and all the gods, without any bloodshed.
The Aedonite soldier Fintan agreed to Aelin’s proposal, and when he was next on guard duty, while the rest of the Silver Stags took their midday meal, he gave young Evan the signal. Aelin and the rest quietly loosened their muscles against the weary lassitude of confinement and waited. When the other guard slipped off down the corridor to the privy, Fintan quickly unlocked the door to the great storeroom and passed them the key to their shackles. Once freed from the chains, Aelin hid behind the door with his squire Jarreth, just out of sight of the iron grille, while the rest of his men moved to their assigned positions.
When the other guard returned at last, complaining loudly about a second night on duty during mealtime, Fintan brought him over to the door on the pretense of one of the prisoners looking ill. As the guard squinted into the darkness—the storeroom was lit by only a single, guttering torch—Aelin suddenly shoved the door open and, with Fintan pushing and Jarreth pulling, they dragged the struggling guard inside. While Aelin stood over him, he was swarmed by the others, then held on his back on the floor with several hands clapped over his mouth—and at least a couple of fingers poking his eyes, which was only to be expected after the harsh treatment the prisoners had suffered.
“Bind him tight. And gag him tightly too, at least until we have the others. He will have time for breathing later on.”
“Do not hurt him,” said Fintan, who was already beginning to show signs of second thoughts.
“Nobody will be hurt who does not try to harm us,” said Aelin. “Not even Samreas, though I would gladly put my sword through the traitorous bastard. Go on, shove that one into the corner and tie him to something—I do not want him working that cloth out of his mouth and raising the alarm. Then follow me. Quiet as the Fair Ones, all of you. Not a sound.”
The guard secured, Aelin and his men moved out into the narrow passage, then down to the armory with Fintan’s keys to recover their weapons.
In the main hall, they paused outside the door. Aelin knew there would be no more than half a dozen men there, and two more on the battlements keeping each other company through the windy evening, but the odds were still too close for his liking, so he signaled his men to hang back along the wall and wait. Before too long one of the other Stags came lurching out into the passage. He wore no helmet and his armor was half undone. He was still jibing drunkenly at the men in the hall as the door fell shut behind him, and he realized too late that the shadows were full of armed men. Aelin did not bother to try to capture this one carefully, but instead, even as the man opened his mouth to cry out, lifted his sword and dealt him a hard blow in the middle of his forehead with the pommel.
The Stag made no noise, but Aelin’s sword scraped against the stone wall. He and his men stood and listened, but nobody else seemed to be coming.
When they had tied the senseless soldier’s hands behind his back, Aelin listened until he heard their captors’ voices rise again, laughing and shouting.
I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal, he thought. Because it is the last one you will like much for some time. He lifted his hand and gave the signal.
They were through the door and into the hall in a heartbeat. Curudan’s men sat at the long table, the bones of rabbits and small birds piled high before them, the fire muttering and flickering in the large fireplace. Their hard-faced leader Samreas was quicker than the rest and had risen to his feet, sword already out of its sheath, when an arrow splintered the back of his chair, quivering between his arm and his belly. From the corner of his eye Aelin saw Evan nock another arrow.
“Put your blade down!” he told the Stags. “Put up your weapons and you will all live. Show us steel and you will die. A simple choice.”
Samreas glared at him, his eyes quickly taking in the odds. Half his soldiers were still sitting, dumbfounded, and Aelin�
��s men hurried forward to surround them with long billhooks, each of which ended in a spearlike point of sharpened steel. Samreas scowled. “This is treason against the king of Hernystir.”
“Is it?” Aelin moved closer, sword lifted toward the man’s throat. “I have nobody’s word for that but yours. In truth, I think many in the court would be interested to hear what you were doing.”
Samreas remained imperturbable. “We do the king’s bidding.”
“You do Curudan’s bidding. I saw no royal seal saying the baron could take us prisoner while I was on a lawful errand for the High Throne.”
“The High Throne is a lie!” cried one of the other Silver Stags. “Foreign dogs have no right to rule us!”
Aelin shook his head. “So that is the tune of your treason? It makes little difference. Will you put up your weapon, Samreas?” Beside him, Evan moved a couple of steps closer, arrow on bowstring.
Samreas saw the young Stag Fintan and his lip curled. “So the tales were true, you bastard Aedonite—you are a traitor to the king and to the old faith, both.”
“Don’t speak to him,” Aelin said. “Sheathe your sword or die, Samreas.”
After a moment more, the hawk-faced man let his blade fall to the floor. “You will all be hanged for this.”
“Or you will all be burned for giving aid to the White Foxes,” said Aelin, then turned to his men. “Tie them all in turn, two of you for each prisoner.” He returned his attention to their enemies. “Since you were kind enough to give us accommodation, we shall return the favor.”
When the Silver Stags had all been restrained, Aelin and his company leveled their billhooks and prodded the new captives down the stairs and into the storeroom, where the guard they had captured still lay, struggling with his bonds. Only Samreas was left out in the passageway as Evan and Jarreth shut the storeroom door and locked it with the heavy key.
“You might do your brother Stag a favor,” Aelin called the prisoners, nodding toward the first guard, “and take the gag from his mouth. He can then explain to you how he wound up in this sad condition. Meanwhile, we will be on our way.”
“What, you will leave us to starve?” cried one of the Stags. “Kinder just to kill us now!”
“Oh, you will not be left here long enough to starve—not if Samreas truly cares about you.” He poked Samreas with the tip of his sword. “Off we go, Lieutenant, or however you style yourself. You will accompany us, at least for a while.”
The shouts of the prisoners echoed in the passage as they went out again.
“So, the nephew of high-minded Eolair is a murderer but does not want to admit it,” Samreas sneered.
“Do not judge me by what you would do.” Aelin smiled. “You will have time enough yet to comprehend my vengeance.”
* * *
• • •
If Samreas was outraged at being captured and bound like a common pickpurse, he was almost apoplectic when he was lifted up and unceremoniously dumped, belly-down and arse-up, across the back of Aelin’s saddle. “Fintan,” Aelin said, “it seems you are with us now. Take your fellow Aedonite, Evan, and fetch the rest of the Silver Stags’ horses and harness them together. Even if the Stags escape somehow, they won’t catch up with this troop on foot.
“And shut your mouth,” he told the upside-down Samreas, who was still making bitter threats. “Unless you like swallowing dust.”
They made their way out into the valley, headed toward the main road. Aelin wanted to put distance between his company and Dunath Tower, so he urged them to ride swiftly. When they reached a main road he led them north toward Earl Murdo’s castle at Carn Inbarh.
“Still running your uncle’s errands?” Samreas jibed, breathless as he bounced up and down on the saddle. “Little good his schemes will do him. King Hugh has not trusted him in a long time.”
“Then King Hugh is getting bad counsel. I suspect Baron Curudan is to blame for that.”
Samreas did his best to laugh, though it was undercut by the inelegance of his position. “You know nothing. You have no idea what is going on—what is to come.”
“Nor do you,” said Aelin. “I may still decide to cut off your treasonous head, so I suggest you make yourself right with the gods while you can.”
His captive fell into a sullen silence.
When they had been riding for a good two hours and the sun was beginning to settle into the western sky, Aelin called the company to a halt. He helped Samreas off the saddle, none too gently; the hawk-faced man fell to the ground like a sack of wet laundry and lay cursing. Aelin gestured to his squire Jarreth to remove the prisoner’s bonds, and after a doubtful look at his lord, Jarreth complied. Samreas got up, rubbing his wrists, eyes roaming to the trees on either side of the road as he prepared to run for his life.
“Here,” said Aelin, and tossed Samreas the heavy ring of keys. “You may walk back to Dunath Tower, and—if you have any fellow-feeling—release your men before they starve. We have your horses, so unless you all prefer to march back to Hernysadharc, I suggest you wait for Curudan to return. I’m sure he will be pleased to see you all.” He waved to his men to ride on, then pulled at his reins to turn his horse.
Something flew past Aelin’s head, missing him by inches, then caromed off a tree branch and rattled into a broad spread of blackthorn. He reined up and turned back to Samreas, who stood glaring.
“And now you have thrown the keys into the thorns.” Aelin shook his head in mock-sadness. “I cannot imagine you will enjoy fishing them out again, but so be it. Farewell, Samreas. I cannot say ‘Give my best to Curudan’, because I will reserve my intentions for him until we meet face to face.”
“I will kill you myself, long before you see the baron again,” Samreas called.
Aelin waved to his men to continue, then fell in behind them.
11
Bucket of Eels
The duke and duchess had given Miriamele the largest set of chambers in the newer wing of the Sancellan Mahistrevis. As a makeshift throne room, where she could receive visitors, she chose the pretty solar with its high, wide window and its carved and gilded furniture made of southern walnut.
“It is lovely,” said Count Froye, admiring the blue and gold wall hangings. “I hope you are comfortable here, Majesty.”
“I am, my lord, thank you.” She liked Froye. Those who did not know him well thought him fretful and distracted, but she knew him for a shrewd observer of the complexity of the courts at both Sancellans, the duke’s Mahistrevis and the lector’s Aedonitis—“two squirming eel buckets of intrigue,” as Froye had once memorably named them. The High Throne’s envoy was a philosopher at heart, and observed both palaces as a studious alchemist might study a new and unusual mixture, more interested in learning new things than in being right. But he was clearly worried about the current state of affairs in Nabban, and that worried the queen in turn.
“I think I have imposed on you long enough, Majesty,” the count said. “I imagine nothing I have said is completely new to you. It is only that I would rather err on the side of too much rather than too little, at a time like this.”
“Do you really think things are at such a dangerous pass?”
“I’m afraid I do, my Queen. Which reminds me—ah! I have been negligent! I have left a friend in the antechamber who wished a few words with you. He is Viscount Matreu, a good friend to the High Throne, and since he could not be here when you arrived, I think you have not met him.”
Miriamele nodded. She remembered that Pasevalles had mentioned the viscount as a useful person to know if ever she felt herself endangered. “Of course. I have heard good things from the Lord Chancellor about him.”
“I can only echo his praise. Matreu has been a good friend to the High Throne.”
A servant was sent and a few moments later the viscount came in. “Your Majesty is very kind to see me,” h
e said with a sweeping bow. He paused at the finish, appearing to accidentally strike a statuesque pose, then kneeled and kissed her hand.
You like the way you look, don’t you? Miri thought. Still, she couldn’t say he was wrong to do so. Matreu was quite a handsome man, tall and well-built, with strong, even features and skin the warm color of chestnut wood. He had made some effort at tidying himself, but there was no hiding the fact that he still wore his traveling clothes: the hem of his cloak was spattered with mud. She wondered if his casual carelessness was for show.
“Rise, please, Viscount,” she said. “No need to be overly formal. We have heard good things about you back in Erkynland.”
“Thank you, Majesty,” he said. “I am a devoted servant of the High Throne.” He stood. “In fact, it is that which led to me asking for this audience.”
“Then speak, Viscount, by all means.”
He nodded. “You are of course aware that I am an ally of Duke Saluceris— a very committed ally.”
“As am I,” Miri said, smiling. “I see nothing controversial in that.”
“I am certain that Count Froye—and others—have already told you at length about the tensions that divide us here in Nabban. And I believe the duke has done everything he can to keep the peace, especially when it is his own brother Drusis who most threatens it.”
Ah, Drusis. Miri sighed inwardly. Holy Elysia, give me strength! As if I had not heard that name enough today. “And do you, too, have something to say about him, lord?”
He smiled, shaking his head. She imagined a lot of young women had felt flattered to be offered that smile. “Not about Drusis, Majesty, or at least not him by himself.” His face turned serious. “My worry is that I do not think Drusis and Dallo Ingadaris are alone in this.”