by M. C. Elam
Gram finished the milking and set the bucket just outside the shed while she shoveled the stall and spread a layer of fresh straw over the floor. She caught sight of Billy off to one side, eyes fastened on her and that wicked glitter in them that spoke of mischief. “Get your eyes off my backside you devil. Butt me and I’ll crown you.” He snorted and pawed the floor with one delicate little hoof while considering the options, a rousing good charge at the old woman, or a warm bed in clean straw.
“Aye, I thought as much. You’re all bluster when a body’s back be turned.”
Finished with the chores she started for the cottage. She stopped just inside the door and looked over her shoulder. Billy munched happily away at the timothy in his own rack. Satisfied she turned again toward the cottage. At that exact moment and as though he had planned the whole attack in his puny brain, Billy swung clear of the feeding rack, gave a snort, lowered his head and rushed straight at Gram. He was only an average size goat and not much bigger than the nannies, but he was a sturdy little fellow and Gram eighty years old if she was a day. When he charged, the full force of his energy sent her sprawling. Her head knocked against the corner post and a huge gash opened her scalp. In seconds, her white hair turned crimson. The bucket of warm milk spilled and froze on contact with the ground. Billy cocked his head to one side, eyed the woman on the ground, and then sought a place between Little Em and Tula in the fresh straw.
***
Porridge stuck fast to the bottom of the small kettle that hung over the fire inside the cottage Most of the liquid had bubbled away and a stink of scorched oats permeated the room. Chinera poked her muzzle under the coverlet beside Evan. She nosed the little girl, and pawed at the worn old quilt until she pushed it off the pallet. Evan tried to snuggle against her side, but the wolf ran to the door. Gram had closed it, but the small latch did not secure it the way the crossbar did. Chinera jumped at it repeatedly. A few lunges and the latch gave way leaving the door ajar.
The gluey oat mixture began to turn black. It crusted over the bottom of the kettle until smoke drifted through the room, gathered in corners and rose to the ceiling. Pulled by suction from the open door, tendrils dropped from the ceiling, crept across the floor and grew in volume until it engulfed the whole room. It reached the pallet where Evan slept, caught in her dark curls and clung to the soft folds of her linen nightdress.
Chinera ran to and fro from the door to the little girl, whining. She seized Evan’s nightdress between her teeth and dragged the child off the pallet. Evan sat up and peered through a thickening haze that stung her eyes. It burned her nose and made her cough. Tears streamed from her eyes and she couldn’t get her breath. A step at a time, Chinera inched her toward the door.
“Gram is?” Evan started to cry. Her breath came in short gasps that drew more smoke into her lungs. She rolled onto her knees and stood up. Her nose ran and phlegm gathered in her throat. She choked on the thick mucus.
A step at a time Chinera used her body to maneuver the little girl around the table toward the open door. Smoke burned the tender membrane inside her nose. It would be months before she healed enough to scent the wind and hunt. Her inner eyelids closed protecting the fragile cornea. Images turned to a maze of shadows. Light from the growing dawn peeked through the doorway. Evan noticed the change in the quality of the air the closer Chinera pushed her to the door. Despite the frigid temperature, she tottered onto the stoop.
***
“Give it another go, boys,” Marcus called to the eight young men standing in the open field behind the barracks. “You be thinking old Marcus a bit daft practicing far shots in the face of a wind, but truth be if you learn to cast an arrow in a windstorm, none can best you.”
He stood behind them measuring the windblast. Klea had brought this group in just today. Not a one over fourteen by the looks of them but full of energy and chomping to shed the mantle of foot patrol for a chance to rise in the ranks. Raw and young but set on wearing an archer’s patch, he wondered how many of them would see it through. He had them take a few practice pulls with the long bow and watched the surprised looks that spread across their faces.
“Aye boys, firing a long bow takes a strong arm,” he told them and watched their faces go red with the effort. Those that held out today were sure to have sore arms on the morrow.
They faced a huge mound of raised earth humped up in the distance. Marcus had planted a banner smack in the center of the mound. Despite the snow, they could see it whipping round in the wind.
“Listen up, now. Nock your arrows.” He watched waiting for them to find and hold the position. “You must aim high for a far point. See it in your heads lads. See the arc of your arrow slicing air.” The line of young men wavered a bit. “Stand firm lads. Takes a strong arm and a true eye.” When they had the stance, he called out once more. “Hold now. Hold steady.”
One of the boys lost his grip, and the arrow dropped to the ground.
“Try her again lad.”
“Captain,” Klea called.
Marcus kept his eyes on the lads and waved one arm at Klea a signal to leave off. Knew better he did, calling out like that when the lads be intent on making a shot.
“Captain, better you have a look see here.” Klea said. He saw Marcus stiffen a bit and knew he had riled him for sure. Still what he had to show him warranted he keep on until he got his way.
“Have you lost your senses man?” Marcus shouted. He turned full on Klea, one hand resting on his hip the other holding the practice bow he had used to demonstrate stance for the recruits. The linen mask that hid his face blew askew revealing his mouth. His menacing expression turned into astonishment when he saw Chinera.
“Captain, I come as soon as she showed up. Men be taken a bit off guard, what with the wolf growling every breath.” Klea ran a hand through his hair and stepped from one foot to the other. He shivered not so much from the cold as the wolf he had seen fit to restrain with a leather strap looped around her neck. “Told the men to lay off coming at her, but Beamus Rutledge turned a deaf ear. Said as how that pelt be fine enough for his lady friends hearth. Clay took him down flat. Way I figure it, Rutledge be owing Clay a thank you. Chinera’s got her a mad on. Right riled she be. Got the men jittered up and jumpy as hop-toads with her sniffing around their stores.”
The recruits had abandoned their positions and milled around together behind Marcus.
“Where be your wits boys. Form ranks,” Marcus half hissed at them. If a mere wolf turned the whole barracks chaotic, no wonder King Ian didn’t raise a force against Lawrenzia. And Beamus Rutledge, thick headed fool.
“Humph,” Marcus snorted. He took a knee and clicked his tongue. The wolf turned her head toward him. “Drop the lead Klea.”
Klea let go of the leather strap. When she realized nothing restrained her movement she made straight through the snow to Marcus. She pushed her muzzle under his hand and leaned hard against him thumping her tail.
“A right girl what be stirring your gizzard?” He knew Chinera would never come into Falmora let alone into the barracks without something driving her to it. “Gram send you, did she?” He eyed Klea. “She’s got the stink of smoke about her. Mind these boys, Klea.” He tossed the practice bow in Klea’s direction and headed for the stable at a fast trot.
“Want I should come with you?” Klea called, but Marcus was already out of earshot.
***
Snow swallowed horse and rider in a vortex of swirling white. Wary of what lay ahead, Baron slowed to a walk. Somewhere ahead Chinera howled. Marcus followed the sound. He knew when they reached the end of Market Street. A cross wind had caused monstrous drifts outside the Emporium. A little farther along he spotted Levon’s Tavern. The sounds of lute and tin whistle broke through the whine of the wind and brought along with them a sad lament in a soulful tenor voice.
“Oh, they dug deep his grave on the Ascallan plain
And carried him there through the storm and the rain…”
&n
bsp; He glanced toward the tavern and caught sight of a man in a long robe coming around the corner.
“Melendarius?”
“Aye, Marcus.”
Chinera had backtracked to find them. She saw Melendarius and ran to him.
“I be headed home, old man. The wolf came to fetch me.” He clicked his tongue and started on, but Melendarius raised his staff.
“Nay, ‘Tis no the way. You must give me your trust now and do as I say. Right you are to get home. The wolf came to fetch you true enough, but take the path I offer instead.”
He walked into the alleyway beside the tavern and beckoned to Marcus. “Watch now, lad and keep secret what I show you.” He raised Lunarey and the blue crystal began to glow. The luminance radiated from its core growing wider and wider. Not ten feet in front of Marcus a ripple appeared and spread from the center outward in widening circles. It looked the same as the surface of water when he tossed a pebble into a quiet pool except in the center he saw a clear space devoid of the indistinct ripples. On the other side the alleyway disappeared. He saw Steeple Road and the cottage off to the left of the track. The door stood ajar and the glow of a peat fire shone against a blanket of new snow.
“Come, lad.”
Melendarius approached the portal and stepped through to the other side. He left no footprints in the deep snow. To Marcus it appeared that he hovered a few inches above the frozen ground. The old man clicked his tongue and Chinera crossed to him.
“Come on, lad. I cannot hold it so forever.”
The edges of the portal began to shrink. Marcus didn’t like that the opening wavered or that it grew smaller while he watched. What if he started through and it closed with him half on one side and half on the other? What if it closed and chopped Baron in two? He tasted fear, swallowed and felt a prickle in his gut. Melendarius had never lied to him. At least not that he could recall, and the wolf trusted him. Gram put a heap of stock in his word. So why couldn’t he? He urged Baron into the portal. The horse reared and sidestepped. The rippled boundary squeezed closer. He kneed Baron until the horse leaped forward, cleared the expanse and halted in front of the cottage.
***
“I’ll not be having such as that, boy. Crating me up like I got no say and hauling me into Falmora.” Gram, her foot splinted and a bandage wrapped around her head, grew touchier by the moment.
“Aw Gram course you got you a say. What of last night? Didn’t the Queen’s own messenger come to you with news there be a fine set a rooms right near to her own waiting for you and wee Evan? You saying as how Evan might school some with Prince Hawk,” He sighed.
No one to blame he supposed save that wee bugger in the shed still chewing his cud and looking innocent as you please. A quick slice across the throat with his dirk had come to mind when he found Gram bloodied up and wee Evan half frozen beside her. A look at the little girl’s eyes tearing up and Melendarius shaking his head as if he knew just what he thought to do quelled his hand. Truth be, he blamed himself for not seeing to the goats in the first place. If he had, Gram might have hollered some about it being her chore, but she’d not be laid up now. He hefted a heavy chest into the cart and looped a rope around it to steady the load.
“What about them,” Gram nodded toward the shed. Her voice had softened a might, resigned to leaving the cottage.
“Sold off to Horace Runderly. Reckon he and Annabelle be by tomorrow or the next day.”
Gram nodded. “Good folks, they be. And wee Evan? She be our girl, orphaned with none to claim her?”
He nodded, “Our girl. Done like the old man said. But she might have some claim did we tell the truth of it, Gram.”
“She be one of the people, boy. Special, with special ways. Things this child can do. No one’ll suspect if they think she be an orphan you come across in the mountains. A child of Baline be good enough. I spect you be telling that or questions be raised, but none need know she be of the healing line.”
“ Shadow people just stories, Gram. Stories,” he repeated for emphasis.
“Marcus, shadow folk be real as the moon and the stars.”
He leaned his elbows on the side of the cart and took one of her small hands in his own beefy paw. It felt so fragile as though with a single squeeze he could crush the bones to powder. He wanted her last days to be easy, and living in the palace was a good move for her and wee Evan. Gram knew the truth of that. It was a chance for the little girl to learn things the two of them could never teach her. He couldn’t quite get his head around Gram’s talk or that Evan had some kind of special ability, but he supposed it didn’t matter. She’d know her letters and how to read. She’d read the place names on the big wall map in the great hall. He thought of all the leather bound volumes in King Ian’s library. Mayhap one day she be telling him the stories and words in those books. He patted Gram’s hand again then tucked it under the blanket.
“Gram,” he said, his voice tender, “it be the best way.”
“Aye, boy, the best way.”
6 - The Queen’s Pearl
“Stop, stop at once,” Hawk watched the rider glance at him over one shoulder. He applied a touch of whip to his horse’s flank, but her labored breathing gave evidence that she ran at the top of her game. He knew the impossibility of overtaking them in the open. Slighter of body, the culprit rode a large stallion, and the distance between them increased as they raced along the edge of the river. Had he waited while the blacksmith finished shoeing Peruseus instead of picking the little mare, he might have caught them.
“Stop,” he shouted again, more on impulse than any idea the rider might actually obey. Obviously, the blighter ignored him. Never matter, he told himself, when the chase finishes, we shall see who ignores whom. He pressed his lips together in a determined line and concentrated on a capture plan.
When the rider turned north and headed for a narrow peninsula that jutted into the water, Hawk could hardly contain his jubilance. Cornered, he thought, I have you now. In dryer weather, that neck of land meant an easy crossing to the opposite shore—but not today. A wetter than usual rainy season meant the river ran high. Turbulent water had churned-up mud from the soft bottom and transformed the serene flow into a deceptive hazard. No one would dare risk a crossing on horseback.
Entering the peninsula left no escape route, and Hawk smelled victory. Color blazed across his cheeks, and his breath came in excited bursts. When the rider disappeared through a growth of giant oaks, he recognized the maneuver as a possible trick to make him think they backtracked. Stay quiet and once the pursuer passes, slip away in the opposite direction. Clever but not clever enough to fool him.
Near the top of a low rise, he slowed the mare to a walk. He scanned every inch of land, and except for a group of giant willows that grew at the tip of the isthmus, nothing but empty shore stretched along both sides. He searched for hoof prints and found them. Smart like a fox, you are, he thought, and headed for the willows. The big trees with their trailing fronds grew atop a cut bank that jutted far enough over the river to obscure the shoreline.
“Down there a—good, very good indeed.” A shrewd smile trailed across his lips. A few feet from the apex of the slope, more hoof prints marked the ground. They pointed back the way he had come then followed a muddy trek that led to the shore below. He dismounted, left his horse and began a decent that wrapped around the cut bank. At the base, water covered most of the narrow flat. Here the river crashed against the point where a tangled mass of exposed roots struggled to find a home in the dark earth. Land birds, mostly crows and a few starlings, picked at the white bellies of hapless fish thrust from the water and trapped in little pool when the river receded. Here, filled with bottom mud from the constant movement of water, the hoof prints disappeared. He had been so sure he would find them beneath the cut bank.
Above the discordant music of the river, he heard a horse whinny. At first, he assumed it was his own but dismissed that idea. He had left her a good distance away at the top of the path.
He heard the whinny again—different from his horse—deep and full-throated. He put fingers to his lips, whistled and waited. Seconds later, the big stallion came to him, trotting around the point. Its trappings dripped water. He reached for the reins, and it sidestepped snorting clouds of steam in the chilly air.
“Easy now, big fellow, easy.” He stroked the warm muzzle, and the horse pushed against his chest. “Sugar is it? Aye, I’ve a bit here.” He reached inside his leather tunic, produced two cubes and offered them on the flat of his hand. “Where’s your rider, fellow, playing another of those clever tricks? Been in the water, have you?” He ran his hand over the horse’s neck. It came away wet. “Come, shall we have a look.”
He covered the full expanse of shore from which the horse had come as far as a rockslide that blocked access to the rest of the coast. Except for the stallion, he was alone. Anxious now he had to consider the idea that the rider attempted a crossing and failed. The thought made his throat go tight. He scoured the wide expanse of water, squinting when tears blurred is vision. A strong swimmer might have reached the opposite shore. He wanted to believe that but knew how impossible it sounded. Sweet breath of heaven give him a single glimpse, and he would be into the water. He ranged along the narrow strip of land, calling out every few seconds. The stallion followed making waffling sounds, snorting, and resting its big head across his shoulder whenever they stopped.