Elon glanced back at Jareth and they both took off at a run as the other Elf raced to find the Healers.
Injured? More than just Colath? Why hadn’t he summoned help?
The question was in both their minds.
If it had been a long run Jareth couldn’t have kept up with Elon’s long fluid strides but from the center of the vale to the border wasn’t that great a distance.
They arrived as the first of the riders emerged from the Veil, that mist that shielded and concealed an Enclave. Natural creatures could pass through it unhindered. It wasn’t unusual at all to see a small herd of deer wander through the vale without fear. Someone would chase them out or the Woodsmen would be called if they ate too much of the vegetation.
No, the mists of the Veil were a ward against the uninvited and unwelcome. They didn’t harm, they merely redirected, with the wanderer emerging unharmed where they didn’t expect to be.
Originally the Veil was a defense against the borderlands creatures. These days, as like as not, the Veil was a ward against Men.
Some among his own race were enchanted with the idea of Elves for some reason, as if they were curiosities to be examined or elevated to some higher plane of existence.
Others hated them.
A few came convinced the hot springs at the center of each Vale were fountains of youth, the source of Elven longevity, rather than the magic of the Elven constitution.
The mists deterred them all, frustrated some and sent them on their way.
To that end, a rare few of those among Men who Elves trusted were given a charm that allowed them to pass through the Veil, to come and go as they pleased. Otherwise, you had to be escorted. Jareth’s charm was a cloak pin, as many were. Something that was both useful and beautiful. Like so much of what Elves did.
The first rider to emerge from the mists of the Veil sagged in his saddle, clearly injured.
That it was an Elf was so shocking Jareth stumbled to a halt. He’d never seen a sick or injured Elf. Elves simply didn’t get sick. The same magic that made them so long-lived tended to heal them with startling speed. Jareth had known it was possible but he’d never in his lifetime seen it.
Until now.
Alic. Elon knew him immediately. Wounded. He ran across the field to meet the Hunter, taking the bridle of his clearly exhausted horse to stop it.
Raising his head was such an effort for Alic that Elon knew he was at the end of his strength.
It had been centuries as men measured such since Elon had seen such weariness in another Elf.
What had happened? It pierced him to his core. And where was Colath?
Aric’s eyes met his for a moment, struggled for clarity, and then he consigned himself to his exhaustion and slid bonelessly from the saddle, knowing he was safe.
Sending him strength through the empathic bond, Elon steadied him as the Healers surrounded them. No more than he did they show their dismay. He could practically feel the energy pour off of them as they lent Aric strength as Elon had.
Already another rider had emerged from the Veil and the horse plodded wearily across the field.
A man, slumped over his saddle and staying in it only out of sheer dogged determination.
Hunters and Woodsmen filled the field, running past him to aid the rider from his saddle.
At first the man struggled, until he realized he was among friends. Then he collapsed, as utterly and completely as Aric had.
One of the chirurgeons – the healers of men, although they had no magic – tipped a draught between the man’s lips as others lifted the limp form and hurried it away.
A mere moment behind the man was Jalila, her head held high but her lips drawn tight with pain. Her bow was still clutched tightly in her hand but her quiver was empty. She looked back over her shoulder, the motion an effort against her own injury.
Colath passed through the mists of the Veil.
He was clearly exhausted, blood visible on his side. He was the last.
There had been five.
For a moment, Elon shut his eyes against the pain of that knowledge. He was the one who had sent them out.
Then he gathered himself and moved forward.
Jalila gave him a look, tried to straighten in her saddle.
He shook his head. “I know your report is urgent but it can wait until the Healers have seen you.”
She closed her eyes a moment and then nodded as the Healers swarmed around her. He saw it now, a deep gash running down her back.
He was already moving on to catch Chai’s bridle to bring the Colath’s battered horse to a stop.
Elon stroked her nose to calm her when she started nervously. There was a score running down one flank, shallow, another on her chest.
“You did well, little one,” he said.
The horse’s great eyes looked at him and then she lowered her head with relief, blowing.
From the saddle Colath looked at him, exhausted beyond speech, slightly bent over the wound in his side.
Shaking his head, Elon said to the unspoken question in Colath’s colorless eyes, “Later.”
With a touch on the knee, Elon sent Colath to sleep and Colath, too, slid limply out of the saddle. Elon caught him and eased him down to the ground as the Healers joined them.
“We have him, Elon,” one said.
He nodded and let them do their work.
As a Healer himself, he could have done the work but recognized there was no purpose in him doing it, no necessity. For all Colath was his true-friend, these were here for this purpose, his was to guide and command.
The field emptied quickly of all but the horses, those that tended them, and Jareth.
“He took five with him,” Elon said, looking at the four surviving horses. His responsibility.
He’d misjudged.
Badly.
Jareth waited, standing in Colath’s stead as friend. Not quite the true-friend bond but friend just the same. There to listen as needed.
That Elon wasn’t offering criticism of Colath, Jareth knew.
It was Elon’s responsibility to properly judge the danger.
Like all good leaders of good people, if there was a fault to be found it was in him, not in his people, for not reading the situation aright and preparing appropriately. He’d needed information to make that assessment. Nor did Elon need him to remind him of all of that, he already knew it.
Four people, Elon thought. Four horses. There should have been five.
The deaths weighed heavily on him as such things should.
Each was valuable, each irreplaceable, no matter what some thought.
“It’s worse than I thought,” he said.
“To have resulted in this,” Jareth responded, “yes.”
Elon looked at Jareth, saw understanding.
He nodded. “Much worse. We’ll see what Colath has to say. Then I’ll have a much better idea what we should do next.”
The Great Hall was empty. Listening, Ailith was almost sure of it. Where her father was, she didn’t know but his brooding presence didn’t occupy that room, that place. Wherever he was, Tolan was likely to be. She’d considered taking the back stair but she didn’t want to make a habit of it or skulk around her own home like a thief. Lately, it had become her practice to stand on the landing and listen to tell whether either her father or Tolan was there.
It wasn’t much better than creeping down the back stairs.
Resolutely, she walked down the stairs and hoped he truly wasn’t there. It no longer broke her heart to think it. She didn’t feel his presence and she thought she would sense it but she didn’t want that kind of surprise.
She’d started to walk across the courtyard when a familiar voice stopped her.
“Ailith.”
Tolan.
A bitter chill went through her.
It was impossible to pretend she hadn’t heard him and rude to do so with the people from the castle looking on. Most weren’t really paying attention
but they would if he raised his voice. Which he would if she ignored him.
She turned and smiled questioningly. “Tolan.”
A most innocuous man and yet he raised such an alarm in her.
She hadn’t sensed him about.
Come to think of it, she never could. He always surprised her.
With an effort she remembered Dorovan’s training and his example. Other than a faint smile, she kept her face still and expressionless. After all, what harm could he do out here with all these folk about them? Why should she fear he might? She was the daughter of the King and yet…
She was afraid.
Coming closer, he studied her with his sandy brown eyes. “You are a very interesting young woman.”
A faint alarm sang through her but her tone was mild. “Am I? I hadn’t thought so.”
“Yes, you are,” he said.
There was little inflection in that voice. It was so even, a little sing-song, so even and also so reasonable. Something seemed to shiver over her skin.
“Yes, you are indeed. Very interesting.”
There was no comment she could make to that.
He stepped a little closer. “What I can’t understand is, why?”
She felt strangely short of breath, as if the very air had turned to treacle.
“Why what? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Why are you so very interesting? A lesser King’s daughter, yes, but curious somehow. I would like to know more. Your father tells me you haven’t yet reached your majority.”
It was more statement than question but she answered it anyway. “A matter of a few weeks.”
“Yes. A woman, then. Free to make your own decisions.”
“Aye. Although I would consult my father before making any rash ones.”
“To be sure, to be sure. I understand you have training with the sword.”
That was a dangerous question. She made her answer light, uninterested, with an effort. As much as she hated to lie, she could… dodge… the direct question where it served no good purpose.
“Some, with a sword-teacher here and one at my mother’s mother’s. One should know how to do battle, if one is going to order others to it.”
That was true enough, and one of her father’s favorite phrases.
But, her father wasn’t her father anymore.
“Yes, yes,” Tolan said, a little impatiently but with that same mellow, reasonable voice, that same sing song intonation. No inflection, just a measured rise and fall. Smooth and oddly seductive. “As it should be, as it should be.”
There was something odd going on here, besides his constant repetition. Tolan’s voice seemed strangely entrancing with its uninflected tones. She could almost feel it tug at her will. Her thoughts seemed a little thick and fuzzy, as if she’d drunk too much wine. The alarm she felt before increased and helped to clear some of the fog.
“I’d like to talk to you some more,” he said, so very reasonably. “Why don’t you come inside, to your father’s office, where we can talk at length?”
Alone?
The alarm bells clanged within her mind, driving that fuzzy softness away. Not alone.
Then someone dropped something with a clang, startling Tolan into glancing away.
For one small second the look on his face was of such pure venomous hate, so sharp and so piercing it chilled her and then in the next instant it was gone and the bland, mild face was back. The nondescript man with thinning sandy hair and sandy eyes. She didn’t think he knew she’d seen but it was an effort to keep her face to that Elven dispassion.
She broke it to smile apologetically. “I’m sorry, Tolan, another time perhaps. I was on my way to the village. One of the milliners has some items ready for me and is expecting me.”
It was true.
With a polite nod of her head she walked away, resisting the urge to run.
Had that odd mesmerizing voice been only her imagination run riot?
Somehow she didn’t think so. Is that what had happened to her father?
They’d been shut up in her father’s office for hours the day Tolan had arrived. So Ailith had been told.
Had he somehow entranced her father with that voice as a basilisk would its glare?
She felt vaguely…unclean…in some strange way and something inside her shivered more than a little. Was she afraid of him now? Oh yes.
Her business with the milliner finished – he was making new clothes for her majority ceremony – she walked back toward the castle. Somewhat reluctantly. Now there wasn’t only her father and his sudden tempers to avoid but Tolan as well. She’d avoided him up to now on principle but now she must on purpose.
The castle was no longer the welcoming home it had always been, but a shadow looming over her.
Perhaps she would go for a ride? Clear her mind and think things through. Or go for a swim. The day was hot and the moat reeked like the midden it mostly was from early summer through the last warm days of fall. The water from the river was starting to lower as the last of the spring flood passed. The slops buckets dumped into it throughout the day made it even more uninviting. The stench had always bothered her more than it seemed to bother others. There was a place upstream, though, where an eddy provided a good place to swim.
There was no sign of Tolan around but she found herself looking for him out of the corner of her eye as she walked to the stables.
Korin looked up as she walked in but his eyes shifted away. Embarrassed or uncomfortable.
“Hai, Ailith,” he said, concentrating on mending a spot on some harness.
That was Korin, always with some piece of tack in his hands, feeling for worn spots.
Frowning a little at his evasion, she said, “Hai, Korin. I thought I would go out for a ride.”
For a minute he continued, head down.
Finally, he said, “I’m to tell your father or that Tolan each time you ride.”
She went still.
Why? So they would know when she came and went? To what purpose? She would ride sometimes for pleasure, or to her grandmother’s lands and sometimes with the Hunters and Woodsmen. Once upon a time her father had wanted her to know what those folk did, the risks they took and the importance of that duty. She hadn’t had to ask permission in many years, coming and going as she pleased as long as her obligations were met. Those had become few of late, since Tolan had arrived.
So now they would know of her comings and goings and had set others to spy upon her. She doubted Korin had been meant to tell her.
With a small smile, she said, “They don’t need to be told, however, when I do not, do they?”
Glancing up at her, he smiled back, relieved she understood. “No, Ailith, they didn’t order me so.”
His eyes went past her and narrowed. “We have some new guards, did you notice?”
She hadn’t.
Turning a little, she saw where his gaze had been directed. Two men, standing along the wall.
“Scurvy bunch, about five in all,” he said, quietly. “It’s a good thing they’re guarding or I’d likely suspect they were here to steal.”
These two were definitely not reassuring. They had a look about them that said they were villains more than guardians. That said nothing for or against them – there was Tolan for an argument against judging by appearances. The way they carried themselves, the way their eyes shifted and examined and their careless dress said far more.
“Caradoc is beside himself, your father didn’t consult him. As Master of the Guard he should have been informed. Much has changed.”
She sighed. “It has indeed.”
“Gwillim was in a right fury when he came back from patrol and found out. He’s been asking and asking for aid. Your father told him no, there were no funds for it. Then he hires that lot.”
Korin shook his head in dismay. “It’s a bad deal all around.”
Gwillim was here? Careful not to reveal her pleasure at the thought, she nodded.
/> “I know. The Hunters and Woodsmen have been hard-pressed.”
“We haven’t seen your lady mother about much,” Korin commented, idly.
Looking up from her spot at the doors to the stables to the tower Ailith could see the narrow windows that opened on her mother’s solar.
“She keeps much to her rooms these days.”
“So do we all,” Korin said.
This was depressing. She could do little here, she could do even less there.
“I’ll see you another time, Korin.”
“Aye, Ailith.”
There was more than one way to get about the castle, more than one method to enter or leave.
It would be a poorly designed castle if there were only one exit and only one entrance. If it were besieged – which hadn’t happened in hundreds of years by the reckonings of her tutors – there must needs be another way out. If nothing else, an escape for the Lord of this place and his family.
In Riverford castle there were two.
One ran through the bowels of it, through the cellars and past the dungeons. It was a narrow, dank tunnel that ran down to a place by the river, where massive boulders concealed the exit.
A heavy iron-bound wooden door had been placed there to keep folks out, barred from the inside.
It was the outer emergency stair, that Ailith sought out.
When they’d built the outer wall, carving out part of the hill and laying out the dungeons, they’d set some stones out from the wall to form a shallow stairway. There was no rail, one stayed close to the stones of the wall if one wanted to descend. Few if any beside her knew it existed. It was hard to see even from the ground, the stones tended to blend into each other unless the light was exactly right. To reach it one had to pass through a narrow door under the stairway that led up to the top of the wall. Once on the hidden stair, the trick was merely to keep ones footing as you went down. The stairs ended abruptly far before reaching the ground. Once an iron stairway would have been lowered to complete the journey, unlatched it from a catch hammered into the wall. That part had fallen on hard times and the iron stairway now lay below in a tangled heap of rust.
As a curious and only child, she’d found this while wandering and exploring. Given the state of the iron, she doubted her father knew or remembered this was here. He’d always been a stickler for maintenance. It was unlikely he would’ve allowed this disrepair. So it had become her secret.
The Coming Storm Page 9