Keeping their horses to a steady trot, the eight companions followed the scant directions provided by the monks’ message scroll. To save time, they rode cross-country cutting through the forests of Wyeth, heading for the tail end of the great southern road. A note scrawled on the bottom of the scroll urged them to haste, warning that they needed to cross the mountains before the spring thaw.
Six weeks of traveling saw the snow give way to the first green of spring. Buds appeared on the trees and an earthy smell pervaded the air. Fresh green sprouted beneath the last of the snow. For the travelers, spring came as a warning, quickening their pace. Rising with the first light of dawn, the companions pushed on well into the dark. The passes of the great southern mountains were said to be brutal in winter but it was the spring when they were at their most treacherous. Spring was the season of avalanches. They found themselves racing to beat the spring warmth to the high passes.
As the unspoken leader, Duncan set a blistering pace with Sir Cardemir riding close behind. Blaine was reluctant to risk the horses after sunset but Duncan urged them on. The leather-clad archer took the lead. Riding in a single line, they followed the archer well into twilight, adding extra leagues to each day of travel. So far there’d been no accidents.
Each day the great southern mountains loomed larger against the sky like jagged snow-capped teeth. Blaine had never seen such mountains. He was beginning to understand why there were no maps of the region; he couldn’t imagine anyone exploring the forbidding wall of rock and snow.
As they pressed south, the companions fell into a routine with Duncan in the lead, riding with his small bow in hand, searching for game. Blaine rode in the center, with Sir Tyrone and Jordan, while Kath kept pace with Duncan and Sir Cardemir. The two Navarren guards rode in the rear with the pack horses.
At the start of the journey, Jordan had been miserable, red-eyed and sad. Kath tried to cheer her but nothing seemed to work. It was Sir Tyrone who found a way to lift her spirits, spinning tales of his travels. On most days, she sought out the two knights, riding between them, asking for tales of Castlegard and the Octagon Knights.
Kath started out riding with the princess from Navarre, but as the journey progressed, she spent more time riding at the front with Duncan and Sir Cardemir. Whenever Blaine rode forward to join them, he found them deep in conversation about the history of Erdhe or the philosophy of the gods. He was surprised to find the princess interested in such scrollish subjects, but then he remembered the intervention of the gods at the Isle of Souls. It made sense that she’d turn to philosophy looking for answers. In a flash of insight, Blaine realized this trip to the mountains was all about finding answers, answers to the crystal dagger and the riddle of the tarot cards. He understood Kath’s need for answers, but it bothered him the way she was always casting mooncalf eyes at Duncan, as if the leather-clad archer was the first man worthy of her notice. Blaine watched the two of them, annoyed at how much time they spent together, always finding ways to interrupt.
Days passed and they eventually left the forest for a meadow-clad valley where the great southern road dwindled to an end. This far south, the road was little more than a rutted cart track, but at least they had a path to follow.
Spring weather dogged their heels like a relentless hound. The companions pushed their horses hard, following the track into the mountains. Steep and treacherous, the trail wound upward, shrinking to little more than a goat path. They met no travelers but came across deep ruts carved by wagon wheels, proof that others had once braved the road. On the steeper sections, they found wagons abandoned with broken axles. Judging from the bleached wood, the wagons had weathered more than one winter on the mountainside. Farther up the trail they found crude grave markers, more evidence the mountains exacted their own deadly toll. The signs of passage were grim but Blaine was encouraged. The passage of others implied there really was something beyond the edge of the queen’s maps besides dragons.
Four days into the foothills, they came across a stone marker in the middle of the trail, a three-foot tall column of gray basalt capped by a weathered bronze sundial. The sundial looked ordinary until Blaine noticed the shadow. “Do you see the shadow?”
Duncan answered, “Every sundial casts a shadow.”
“Not like this.” A dark mark was permanently fused into the bronze dial. Seeing the strange shadow, more than one companion made the hand sign against evil. “It’s as if time stopped.”
Sir Cardemir placed his hand on his sword hit. “An ill-omen.”
Duncan shrugged. “At least it proves we’re on the right track.” He reached into his saddlebag and retrieved the monks’ scroll. “The sundial marks the start of Drumheller pass.”
As one, the companions turned to stare up into the mountains. Since turning south, the mountains had loomed like a fortress guarding the sky, but the perspective of the marker revealed a deep notch etched in the snow-capped range. That notch was the key to crossing the southern ranges. Drumheller pass really did exist. Blaine grinned, feeling relief dispel his tension.
Duncan studied the scroll. “We should keep riding. We’ll make camp at the top of the treeline and then tomorrow we’ll make a push across the pass. Once across, we should have a view of the village of Haven.” Rolling up the scroll, he added, “If nothing else, we should be able to purchase more supplies from the villagers.”
Sir Tyrone brightened, “A night in a feathered bed would not be a bad thing.”
Jordan added, “While you’re making a list, don’t forget a hot bath.”
The two got nothing but agreement from their fellow travelers. Eager to be finished with the journey, they mounted their horses and urged the beasts up the steep path. The trail soon gave way to a series of switchbacks. The horses plodded upwards, blowing hard against the thin air. Alpine forests thinned to scrub and then there was nothing but rocks and scree and snow. Exposed to the chill winds, the companions slowed to a halt, watching as the sunset ignited the frozen peaks in a blaze of red and gold.
“We’ll make camp here.” Duncan swung down from the saddle. Having left any semblance of flat land long behind, the trail was the only decent place to camp. They tethered the horses in a line and gave them the last ration of oats. From now on they’d have to forage for their own food. Duncan cleaned a brace of rabbits, while Blaine and the others scavenged through the edge of the forest for wood. Most of the wood was wet, but there was just enough dry tinder to coax a smoky blaze. Sir Tyrone set up the cast iron pot and began to melt snow for a stew. Huddled beneath blankets, the companions sat around the fire, watching as the black knight added winter-thin rabbits and diced potatoes to the pot. Sir Cardemir retrieved his lute from the packhorse and began to strum a love song much to Blaine’s annoyance. He glared at the knight, seeing through his shallow attempts to curry favor with the princesses.
Once the stew was served, the seahorse knight put his lute away. Talk around the campfire turned to speculation about the mysterious monastery. Over the course of their travels they’d developed a game where each person spun an outrageous tale about the monks and their monastery. Any leftovers from dinner were awarded to the spinner of the best tale. Each companion had a favorite theory. Blaine liked to imagine that the monastery was the last bastion of dragons and any knight that found their lair could claim their mythical treasure. Jordan spun a tale of magical weapons once wielded by ancient heroes while Sir Tyrone spoke of dark-skinned beauties serving a feast fit for a king. Kath suggested that the monastery was really the home of the gods and that each adventurer would be granted their heart’s desire upon reaching the golden gates. Intrigued by her suggestion, the companions spent a good part of the evening composing their one wish and debating the wisdom of their choices. Sir Cardemir wished for a lute that would win the hearts of fair maidens, drawing blushes from the Jordan and Kath and a chorus of jeers from the men. Getting back to the game, Duncan said, “Do you want to know what I think?” The companions leaned forward, keen to he
ar. “I think the monks are really a coven of beautiful women eager to give their love to any adventurers daring enough to find their mountain sanctuary.” Male laughter rippled around the campfire. Kath and Jordan both scowled but Blaine and the other men voted for Duncan. Hefting the ladle in victory, the archer scraped the cook pot dry, taking the last of the rabbit stew.
A gust of wind rattled down the mountains, as cold as an ill omen. Everyone shuffled closer to the fire, trying to ignore the bitter chill. Farther up the pass a lone wolf began to howl at the rising moon. The eerie song startled Blaine. It was the first wolf he’d heard since entering the mountains. By unspoken agreement, the companions crawled into their bedrolls, fully clothed, their weapons at their sides. They didn’t expect trouble but they refused to be caught unprepared. Blaine took the first watch, with Kath agreeing to the second. Throwing an extra log on the fire, Blaine drew his great sword and set it across his knees. The crackle of the fire and the whistle of the mountain wind were the only sounds in the night.
Clear of clouds, the night sky blazed with stars, more than he’d ever seen before. A thrill of expectation coursed through Blaine. He stood in unexplored mountains, on the very edge of the world, with a blue sword in his hand. Surely adventure and glory lay just beyond the ice-carved mountains. He wasn’t sure what they’d find when they reached the mysterious monastery, but standing under the stars, so close to the heavens, Blaine knew he’d get his chance for glory.
68
Liandra
The Spider Queen strung her court with webs of intrigue. She tended each strand of rumor hoping to catch a traitor. Two of her counselors struggled in the traps, caught in the sticky strands of politics. One was a player, the other was not, both asked for a private audience. The queen forced her counselors to wait, letting them stew in their own thoughts, but now the waiting was over. It was time to see if her webs held predators or prey.
Liandra arranged the deep burgundy velvet of her gown, a perfect color for her petite figure. Satisfied, she rang the hand bell on the side table. A page responded, bowing low.
“You may admit the general.”
A moment later, General Helfner strode into the solar, a large beefy man gone to seed. A long gray mustache drooped over his mouth and his stomach sagged over his sword belt, a warrior defeated by age and fine living. Liandra doubted he’d fit into his armor. Peace had not been kind to the general. She extended her hand with her emerald ring of office.
He bowed, kissing the ring. “Your majesty, thank you for seeing me.”
The queen gestured for him to rise. “We always have time for our loyal men.” She watched his face but there was no sign of dissemblance. “But we wonder what needs to be said in a private audience that cannot be said in the council chambers?”
The general fidgeted under her gaze, one hand on his sword belt, the other pulling on his long mustache. “It’s the damn high constable! The Lord Sheriff recruits more men, swelling the constable force to twice that of the army!” He shook his head like a wounded bear. “Majesty, you must give more funds to the army. The constables are mere peacekeepers while the army is the sword and shield of Lanverness!” His voice turned grim with warning. “Do not neglect your soldiers.”
She watched him through hooded eyes. “But peace reigns within the southern kingdoms. What need is there for a large army?”
“Peace now, but what about the trouble brewing in Coronth? Majesty, you cannot count on peace!” His face turned red with bluster.
“We have seen the bills your quartermaster sends to the royal treasury. Even a small army eats like a plague of locusts. Why pay good golds for an army that does nothing but train?”
The general shook his head, his voice gruff. “The old king understood. Your royal father used to say that the cost of war is less if one is prepared. He ordered me to keep Lanverness prepared, but you neglect the army.” Exasperation crept into his voice, “Majesty, you have made the kingdom rich, the envy of others. We must not appear to be a ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.” He shook his head like an angry lion. “You must allow me to recruit more men.”
“Must is not a word used with princes.”
The general had the grace to blanch but he stood his ground. The old soldier had gone to seed yet he’d not lost his courage. She studied him, letting him feel her displeasure. “Whom do you serve?”
His face bleached bone-white. Dropping to his knee, he said, “My queen! I live to serve you and the Rose Throne.”
“See that you remember.” She waved him to his feet. His knees creaked as he straightened. She pretended not to notice. “We do not believe in war, it is a waste of men and golds. We put our trust in golds and guile to circumvent war…but we will consider your request. Perhaps there is merit in being prepared.”
The general bowed. “Thank you, your majesty.”
She extended her ringed hand. “You have our leave to go.”
He leaned forward to kiss her ring and then turned to leave.
She waited till he was almost at the door. “General, why did you request that we give our son, Prince Danly, a seat on the royal council?”
He turned, his eyes wide in surprise. “Because the prince asked me to.” His face turned to puzzlement. “He is your royal son, I only obeyed the wishes of my prince.”
The queen saw no guile in the man, only a straightforward old soldier. “You have our leave to go. We will consider your request.”
General Helfner bowed, exiting the solar.
The queen sat in thought, the crackle of the logs loud in the fireplace. She rang the hand bell. When the page responded, she said, “Admit the Knight Protector.”
The Lord Turner was cut from a different cloth than the general. He strode into the chamber, dapper and daring, and sure of his charm. Tall and elegant, he kept a trim figure and a neat blond mustache, one of the more handsome men of her court.
Liandra extended her ringed hand, a coy smile on her face.
The Lord Turner bowed low, kissing her ring and lingering over her hand. “My queen.” His voice was full of suggestion. He straightened and studied her with intelligent blue eyes. “I wish to thank you for the gift of the sword.”
Liandra kept her face still, studying her Knight Protector, the man charged with her royal safety.
His eyes made a quick survey of the chamber, his gaze lingering on an ornate screen set in the corner. “Of course I’ve heard the rumors but I don’t believe them.” He smoothed his mustache, returning his gaze to the queen. “I told the gossipers that the queen would not waste a blue steel blade on an old man, a diplomat, or a fop. A blue steel blade belongs in the hands of the lord uniquely positioned to protect the sovereign.”
“So you’ve come about the rumors.”
“I’ve come about the truth.”
She gave him a piercing stare. “What blade would you choose?”
“The blade of a gentleman, a rapier of course.”
“A court sword.” She smiled. “Some would say a rapier is a waste of blue steel.”
He rose to the challenge. “Only those who miss the subtlety.”
“How so?”
“Made of blue steel, the rapier will have the strength of a claymore. Strength hidden beneath grace, the perfect sword to protect the beauty who sits on the Rose Throne.”
The queen gave him a silken smile. Leaning back in the throne, her fingers traced the strand of pearls at her neck, following them down into the vee of her neckline, lingering between the cleavage. Lord Turner’s stare followed the pearls. She lowered her voice to a purr. “And you, of course, would be the perfect man to wield that sword.”
“With the skill only a queen could appreciate.” He leered down at her.
Her voice was silk over steel. “It is something to consider.” Tiring of the game, she held her ringed hand out in dismissal.
Disappointment flickered behind his eyes, quickly buried beneath a court mask of obedience. But just before the mask fell, Liandra th
ought she caught a glimmer of something else, something sinister, but she wasn’t sure. The Knight Protector was an artful player.
He went to his knee, kissing her ring, but also her hand. Capturing her hand within his, he gazed up into her face. “And the sword, my queen?”
Reclaiming her hand, she said, “We have not yet decided on the third sword.” She softened her words with a smile. “But we admit the sword would suit our Knight Protector.”
Ever the gallant, he flashed a smile full of charm. “Then I look forward to wearing blue steel in your service.” He rose and gave her an elegant bow before leaving the chamber.
She watched him go. Handsome, charming, and intelligent but the Lord Turner had far too much ambition. Ambition was a common fault within her court. Liandra stared into the blazing fireplace, considering her royal counselors.
A black-robed figure glided from behind the ornate screen. Moving to stand in the firelight, the Master Archivist bowed to the queen.
Liandra acknowledged her spymaster. “You heard them both. What did we catch in our web? Predators or prey?”
“Both men were predictable. The general was blunt and straightforward, always arguing for a larger army. The man is too honest to be sinister.”
The queen nodded. “We agree, an old soldier as straight and honest as his sword. But the man is well past his prime, perhaps it is time to find a new general.” The queen paused. “And the other?”
The Steel Queen (The Silk & Steel Saga Book 1) Page 43