Dagnarus’s disappointment was acute. He was astonished and uneasy at the lady’s absence. It occurred to him that perhaps his mother had sent the elf woman upon some errand, to fetch more thread or retrieve a dropped handkerchief or search for a lost earring.
“I hope all went well last night,” he said. “I trust that Lord and Lady Mabreton enjoyed themselves?”
“Oh, who can tell with these elves,” Emillia returned snappishly. “Ingrates, all of them. I take this woman into my household at your father’s wish, mind you, I would have never chosen her for a companion myself, such a sullen, moping creature, who handed me the pearl necklace when I had asked for the ruby. Didn’t she, Constance? I said as clearly as I could that I wanted to wear the ruby necklace and she took out the pearl, just to annoy me, I am certain.”
“Mother,” said Dagnarus gently, “Lady Mabreton does not speak our language.”
“Oh, of course she does,” said the Queen. “All elves do. They merely pretend that they don’t in order to spy upon us. But it doesn’t matter now. She is gone and good riddance. I was quite weary of looking at her. Such a mousy, unattractive woman.”
“Gone?” Dagnarus could feel the blood draining from his face, as it emptied from his heart. Certain that his mother’s jealous nature could not fail to note such a dramatic change of countenance, he bent down to recover a comb that had fallen from her hair, hiding his face until he could regain mastery of himself.
“What do you mean gone, Mother?” he asked with affected carelessness. “Through the Portal? Back to her homeland?”
“I don’t know where the elf has gone,” said Queen Emillia, turning to her mirror, refreshing herself after her trying morning. “Nor do I care. Where are you off to now?”
“I am taking your advice, Mother, and going to the Hospitalers,” said Dagnarus. “I beg that you will excuse me. I am again quite unwell.”
“Perhaps what he has may be catching,” said Emillia, after he had gone. “Quickly, burn some sage and bring me a clove of garlic to sniff. Quickly, ladies!”
“Silwyth!” Dagnarus shouted. “Silwyth, where—Oh, there you are. Silwyth, Lady Mabreton is gone!”
“Yes, Your Highness,” replied the elf coolly. “I was looking for you to inform you of the fact.”
“Where? Why? Has she gone back to her homeland? Is something wrong? Is it her husband?”
“Your Highness, calm yourself,” said Silwyth in a low voice, glancing toward the open door of the prince’s bedchamber.
Dagnarus saw the wisdom in this and kept silent, though he seethed with impatience. He poured himself a mug of wine and drank it down. The warm wine was pleasant, seeping through his veins to his heart, replacing the blood he had lost and restoring him to sanity.
Silwyth glanced up and down the hallway, which was fortunately empty at this time of the late morning. He closed the door.
“Tell me,” said Dagnarus. “Where has she gone?”
“The Lady Mabreton left court early this morning. She has traveled to her house on the shores of the River Hammerclaw.”
“So she has not gone back to Tromek!” Dagnarus sighed in relief so great that he was forced to lean upon the table a moment for support. “Why did she leave? Was it my mother?”
“I cannot say, Your Highness—”
“No! by the gods!” Dagnarus answered his own question. “It’s me, isn’t it? She left because of me! She loves me, and she fears her own heart. Fetch my boots and my cloak—”
“Your Highness,” said Silwyth, rebuking, “you cannot act in this impetuous manner. Stop and consider. She is escorted by a troop of soldiers, she has her servants with her. You will bring trouble to her if you are indiscreet. You would never rush off to battle in this mad way, Your Highness.”
The last words made sense, penetrated the happy fog surrounding Dagnarus. This was a battle, this was war. The lady was in retreat, had fled before him, which meant that he had found the chink in her armor of ice. His first thought had been to pursue in haste and secure his conquest, but he could see now that this plan was liable to lose him the war. He needed to scout the land, learn the strength of the enemy forces arrayed against him, decide upon a course of action.
“You are right, Silwyth. I need to know the location of this house. I need to know the layout of the house and the grounds, where the guards are liable to be posted, the location of the guardhouse, how many men are with her, and where the servants sleep.” Dagnarus relapsed into gloom. “An impossible task, I fear.”
“Not so, Your Highness. A servant of the current Lord Mabreton was a servant to the former Lord. He will supply me with the answers to your questions.”
“Won’t he be suspicious?”
“Undoubtedly, but he knows how to hold his tongue. He has been doing so for many years now, at the behest of another.”
Dagnarus eyed Silwyth closely, trying to see past the impassive expression on the elf’s face. “You mean that this man is a spy upon his master.”
“Let us say, Your Highness, that this man serves a greater master than Lord Mabreton.”
“He is a spy for the Shield of the Divine. But you said that Lord Mabreton is loyal to the Shield. Why place a spy on him?”
“The Shield rejoices in Lord Mabreton’s loyalty, Your Highness. He rejoices in it so much that he never tires of receiving constant proof of it.”
“I see.” Dagnarus grinned. “I wonder what you have told the Shield about me, Silwyth.”
“I have told him that you are an excellent soldier, a brilliant commander, a poor scholar, and a follower of the Void.”
Dagnarus raised an eyebrow, leaned back in his chair. “The Void, Silwyth? What are you talking about? That’s a religion for sorcerers and witches. A dark and evil religion, if we are to believe half the nonsense the magi preach against it.”
“A religion for a prince, too, Your Highness,” said Silwyth, removing a thick, warm woolen cloak from a trunk and shaking out the wrinkles. He held it to the light to check for moth holes. “And an aspiring young magus. Do not concern yourself, Your Highness. I, too, know when to hold my tongue. I have said nothing of this to anyone with the exception of the Shield. It is only right that he knows all he can about the man with whom he one day intends to ally.”
“And when is that day?” Dagnarus asked, after a moment.
“The day when Your Highness is King.”
“And when is that day?” Dagnarus demanded.
“The day when Your Highness chooses,” Silwyth replied.
Dagnarus was silent, dangerous. “Supposing what you say is true,” he said at last. “I don’t like anyone holding such power over me, Silwyth.”
“Which is precisely why I informed Your Highness. I have informed you that I know, and I have informed you of what I have done with the knowledge. What Your Highness does with me now is up to Your Highness. I could offer you assurances of my loyalty and my silence, but if Your Highness does not trust me, then such assurances would be meaningless. And if Your Highness does trust me, then he needs no assurance.”
Dagnarus responded with the glimmer of a smile. “Oh, I trust you, Silwyth. I’ll tell you why I trust you. As you recall, I know the truth about what happened to the first Lord Mabreton. My father would not put the lord’s murderer to death for the crime, the killer being a member of a foreign government and all, but he would certainly lock up the assassin in the dungeons for a considerable length of time. To be locked up in a dark cell with no glimpse of the outside—sheer torture for an elf. I believe such an elf would find death preferable. Don’t you agree, Silwyth?”
“Indeed, Your Highness,” said Silwyth, bowing. “Your Highness knows my people very well.”
“Carry on, then,” said Dagnarus. “Go talk to your spy. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
Cloaked and booted, provided with the information he needed, a map showing the house’s location and a diagram of the house itself, both of which he had tucked into his hat, Dagnarus
set out upon his journey. He traveled alone. At first, he had considered taking Silwyth; the prince spoke no elven and a translator might prove useful. After further consideration, he had decided that Silwyth should stay behind in order to divert questions about the prince’s sudden absence.
Fortunately, Dagnarus was known to be fond of hunting. One of the huntsmen had that very day brought word of a marauding wild boar, which was terrorizing some villagers. Dagnarus let it be known that he intended to slay the beast. He took his bow and arrows and, while waiting for his horse to be saddled and readied, he and Captain Argot discussed the various methods of killing a boar and whether one should aim for the eye or the throat.
Argot wondered that Dagnarus took no companions with him. Dagnarus admitted that he was in a foul mood, a thoroughly rotten frame of mind, that he would be poor company for any man. He needed solitude and the fever of the hunt to burn away the cobwebs. Argot wished His Highness good fortune and returned to his duties.
Dagnarus galloped off just as evening shadows were snatching away the rainbows from the falls. The way was not far, the road a good one and well maintained. Many nobles and even a few wealthy guildsmen had homes along the riverbank, where they went to escape the heat of the city during the summer. Moonlight lit the road, and though not often given to poetic musings, Dagnarus imagined the road a ribbon of silver unwinding before him, a ribbon that would shortly—he hoped—tie him to the woman he loved.
Two hours’ hard riding brought him to the vicinity of the elven house. He had no difficulty finding his way. He could see the tracks made by the elven bodyguard quite clearly in the moonlight. He could even tell where the party left the main highway and entered the side road leading to the house. Dagnarus halted at the highway to tether his horse, for he planned to proceed from there on foot. He concealed the horse in a glade with grass enough for grazing and a stream for drinking, gave the horse a long lead, and continued his journey. First, he refreshed his mind by looking again at the map of the house, though he really had no need to do so, for the house—her house—was etched in fire in his brain.
He moved silently and stealthily through the forest, his bow and arrows slung on his back, his knife in his hand. He did not expect to meet any patrols in the forest; the elf servant had informed Silwyth that the bodyguards kept only leisurely watch whenever the river house was occupied. Still, he would not be caught unawares.
His precautions were needless. He came within sight of the house without meeting anything more formidable than an irate possum, who hissed at him and bared her teeth, before skulking off into the underbrush. Dagnarus was in high spirits; his desire, the thrill and excitement of the adventure proved an intoxicating combination. He wondered amusedly what sort of omen a hissing possum in his path might be. He’d have to remember to ask his orken friends the next time he went fishing.
He settled himself in the shadow of a tree to watch the house, which he could see outlined against the moon-sparkling water of the swift-flowing river. The house was large and splendid, built in the elven style with whitewashed walls and red-tile roof, surrounded by a high wooden stockade. The front of the house was dark; no lights shone inside. Torches mounted on posts at set intervals along the stockade blazed in the night. Looking through the gate, which had been left open, Dagnarus could see a densely planted garden of trees and flowers, intended to remind the elven inhabitants of their homeland. As he watched, two elven guards met at the fence’s center gate, completing a patrol that would take them around the entire perimeter. He counted no more guards than these two. The watch they kept was nominal.
The servant had said that the guards walked their patrol only once on the hour, testing the padlocks on the gates. The rest of the time, they talked and played at dice at the main gate.
Dagnarus curbed his impatience, inured himself to wait through an entire cycle to see if the elven guard behaved as predicted. Sure enough, the elves squatted down on their haunches, drew a circle in the dirt with their knives, and brought out their dice bags. Dagnarus was forced to sit through several games, watch tams change hands, and listen to their incomprehensible gabble. A bell struck somewhere within the courtyard. The elves rose lazily to their feet, stretched, and left to make their rounds.
Dagnarus timed them, counting to himself, until they returned. He noted that the two ended up on opposite sides of the gate from where they had started, which meant that they had passed each other at the back of the house. Each lock was therefore checked by two different people, a sensible precaution.
Upon their return, the elves knelt and resumed their game. Dagnarus was on his feet, slipping through the forest, heading for the back of the house, before the first die was tossed.
The stockade’s wooden poles, planed smooth to form points at the top, rose above Dagnarus, about double his height. He had been warned about the fence and now drew a length of rope from his belt. He tied a loop with a slipknot, as the orken fishermen had taught him, and flung the loop up to the top of the fence. After several tries, he finally caused the loop to slide over one of the fence poles. He pulled the rope taut, then climbed up the rope to the top of the stockade. Balanced precariously, he looked down into the garden. Some sort of thick, tall bush had been planted along the fence row. There was no way to avoid it. He dropped lightly down and landed in the bush with a rustling of leaves and cracking of twigs that he was certain could be heard back in Vinnengael.
He froze, scarcely breathing, waiting for someone to summon the guard. The elf informant had said that oftentimes his mistress walked the garden in the night, and when she was in the garden, so were her attendants.
No one called out. No one came to see what was sneaking about in the shrubbery. Dagnarus disentangled himself from the bush. Branches plucked at his cloak, leaves crackled underfoot. A twitch on the rope brought it snaking down on top of him. He coiled it up and hid it beneath the bush. Keeping to the shadows created by the flaming torches, he crept through the garden toward the house.
He moved slowly, testing every footfall, skirting ornamental fish ponds and dodging statuary. The garden was immense. He had passed well beyond the light of the torches, was in the moonlight now, and he was rapidly becoming lost and disoriented. He had spotted the house from atop the fence, but had lost sight of it once he dropped down. He had no idea how far he’d traveled or how he would ever find his way back to where he’d stashed the rope. The innumerable paths led nowhere, but meandered and wandered here and there, sometimes going in circles, once dumping him in a grotto, and twice leading to dead ends, where he was apparently supposed to admire some stupid tree.
The servant had not thought to tell him how to make his way through the garden maze. Dagnarus, having no experience of elven gardens, had not thought to ask. Hot and sweating, scratched, and half-suffocated by the perfume of the night-blooming plants, he began to be extremely frustrated. It seemed he might spend the rest of his days wandering about this gods-forsaken place.
He had just accidentally stepped into a pond and at the same time narrowly avoided braining himself on a huge bell hanging from a tree limb, when he looked up and saw Lady Mabreton.
She walked in a large cleared area, walked upon a large round patio made of some sort of magical white stone that mimicked the moonlight, for the rock shone beneath her feet with an eerie pale radiance. She was clad in a diaphanous silken robe, her long black hair was undone and hung about her shoulders, falling to her waist. The moonlight from above and below illuminated her body, which was naked beneath her robe. She wore only the turquoise pendant, his pendant, around her neck. He knew then that she loved him and he would be victorious, and he trembled with the enormity of his longing.
She was not at ease. She was not strolling in the garden admiring its beauty. She paced feverishly, her hands clasped tightly together as if in distress, never once looking about her. She murmured to herself something in elven, which Dagnarus could not understand. She was too distraught to have heard the noise he’d made.
Dagnarus stood with one foot in the fish pond, the chill water seeping through his leather boot, and never noticed. His desire was a physical pain of such magnitude it came near stopping his heart. Yet how to win her? How to confront her? What was she to think of a man suddenly rising up out of her garden? She would suspect him of being a thief or worse. She would cry out for the guards.
He considered seizing her from behind, clapping his hand over her mouth, warning her to keep silent. But she would resent such rough treatment, nor could he bring himself—now that he saw her—to touch her unless she consented. He did not want her by force. He wanted her loving and languishing in his arms.
In her restless pacing, she had walked away from him. Now, she turned and was moving back in his direction.
Dagnarus stepped out onto the moonlit patio, his booted feet ringing on the rock. She lifted her head in astonishment, stared at him with wide and fearful eyes.
Dagnarus sank to his knees before her, spread wide his hands, gazed up at her. “I will not harm you, Valura. I come to you out of love,” he said simply. “If you choose, summon the guards and have them slay me on the spot.” He did not hope that she understood him, yet surely his gesture was plain.
She stared at him, her breath coming fast, her hands clasped tightly before her. She did not scream for the guards or cry out for her women. She walked toward him, her steps faltering, and reached out a trembling hand.
“I dream,” she said in a hushed whisper, speaking Elderspeak. “You are not real.”
Joy surged through Dagnarus’s heart. He rose to his feet and clasped her hand. At his touch, she gasped, started, and shrank back, tried to pull away. He detained her, clasping her soft and slender hand.
Well of Darkness Page 27