by Court Ellyn
Laral ran down the corridor, turned through the door of the music room, and came within a hand-span of impaling himself on a skinny blade. At the other end of the sword was a youth of no more than twenty. Startled green-gold eyes glared over the hand that gripped the haft. His bronze face was framed by black hair that fell to his shoulders in carefully sculpted waves. His glance flicked down at the sigil on Laral’s chest, then up again. “Oh. Hello, my lord.” With a flourish, the youth snapped the skinny blade back into its scabbard.
Peering in from the corridor, Drys snorted. Kalla muttered, “Good Goddess.” And no wondering why. The stranger was dressed like a king’s fool. Excessively tall boots, black and dustless, climbed halfway up the boy’s thighs and were secured to a sword belt by gaudy red satin bows. Underneath, he wore snug riding breeches of white leather that Laral suspected had yet to sit a saddle, and somewhere amid myriads of more sashes and bows were a white silk shirt with heavy lace cuffs, a broad lace collar, a red velvet doublet, and a red coat brocaded with silver. Laral had rarely seen the peacocks at court dress so flamboyantly.
“I beg pardon for entering your house uninvited, m’ Lord Laral, but I had to see if the family was still within.” The youth relaxed his stance enough to reveal that he held Wren’s lute carelessly by the neck.
Laral lunged for it, tore it from the youth’s hand. “Who the hell are you?”
“Oh,” he said, sheepish. “I thought you…” He raised his chin. “I’m Tarsyn. Tarsyn of Cayndale, first cousin and courtier to His Majesty, King Arryk.”
Tarsyn? The same Tarsyn whom Lesha had gone squidgy over? Laral let out a roar of disgust and quickly put distance between himself and this fop to whom his daughter was, for some indiscernible reason, attracted. In an effort to give his hands something constructive to do, Laral carefully secured the lute in its stand.
“Do you know what happened to the king?” Tarsyn asked, pursuing him. “We hear rumors he’s alive but unable to return home.”
“Yes,” Laral hissed, turning to face the young man, “His Majesty is fine. Perfectly fine. Able to decide for himself where he goes or stays.”
A relieved smile curled only half Tarsyn’s mouth. “Oh, that’s good. The chancellor will be pleased to hear it.”
Laral doubted that this fop had the chancellor’s ear. If Thorn’s falcon had found its target, then Lord Éndaran had already received news of the king, and he hadn’t seen fit to share it with Tarsyn of Cayndale. What in the Abyss did Lesha see in this … this …? Laral supposed the boy might appear handsome from a swooning girl’s point of view, what with his exotic high cheekbones and athletic jawline. But he was a bastard! Wholly unsuitable. Why had Arryk encouraged him to pursue Laral’s daughter? Surely the king wasn’t so naïve as to believe the match appropriate.
“I’ll understand if you’re upset with me for coming,” Tarsyn gushed. “It was bold, I admit, but when I heard the Lord Chancellor was sneaking troops from the city, I had to take the opportunity to see if my Lesha—”
“Your Lesha?”
Tarsyn cowered back a step. “Your Lesha, I meant.”
“You snuck out through the tunnels to find her?” asked Kalla, a wistful smile lighting her face.
Laral scowled at her. He thought he knew his friend better than this. She owned not a romantic bone in her body. Did she? Curse her for approving of this boy’s folly.
Tarsyn grinned, proud of his little adventure. “Yes, with Lord Haezeldale and two hundred foot soldiers and a dozen knights. Several weeks ago, after Johf—Lord Haezeldale, I mean—limped back to the palace, Brynduvh was abuzz with tales of the horror that happened at Bramoran. When he came out of the hospital last week he was mad as a hornet. The chancellor put him in command of the king’s army. We passed by Brengarra only this morning. You just missed them.”
Drys chuckled. It wasn’t a friendly sound. “And you managed to travel underground, through dangerous territory looking so … fresh.” His fingertips flicked a red satin bow.
Tarsyn scowled at the mockery. “There’s an inn across the highway. No one there, of course, but I found a tub and a mirror. What does that matter?”
“It doesn’t,” Laral snapped. “Come, we have several hours of daylight left. We need to get started. Drys, check the kitchen for food that hasn’t spoiled. Kalla, do you know where the apothecary cabinet is?”
She nodded. “I’ll bring anything that might come in handy.”
Laral started after them, hoping he might find one of his horses alive in the paddocks. The sharp click of boot heels announced Tarsyn keeping pace with him. “My lord, I know you disapprove me of, but I would like to join you. You are going after them?”
Laral favored him with a scathing glare. Tarsyn carefully placed a wide-brimmed black hat upon his head. Red and white plumes bobbed with every step. Only one arm occupied a sleeve of the brocade coat; the other sleeve trailed uselessly down his back in some sort of fashion statement. Laral assumed it was supposed to look rakish. “I have less than no use for you, boy.”
“But, m’ lord, I love her! I can’t stand the thought that she’s hurting and scared, and I can’t do anything to help her. Please.”
Take me with you, Da! How can you leave me…? I’m indispensable.
“You have no idea what we’re facing,” Laral growled. They had come to the bottom of the stairs. He stepped over a smashed table that had formed part of the barricade. “Do you realize the size and strength of the monsters who were able to do this? Do you see all this blood?” Flies buzzed about their feet. Laral batted them away from his face.
Tarsyn glanced at the destruction as if seeing it for the first time. He saw that the toe of his left boot stood in one of the sticky dark puddles. He gulped hard and scraped it clean on the bottom step.
“I don’t know how far we’ll have to go,” Laral said, “and we may not find them alive.”
Tarsyn raised his chin. “Then I’ll build her pyre with my own hands.”
Laral wanted to shake the fool. It was all he could do to keep his fists at his sides. He offered a wolf’s grin instead. “Get that out of a poem, did you? You don’t get it! If she’s dead, there won’t be anything left to burn.”
Laral hurried from the keep before he had to listen to any more romantic sentiments.
Within half an hour, he had corralled three of his best horses and moved the saddles and gear from the spent animals to the fresh ones. Drys brought three bulging burlap bags from the kitchens and divided flour, oil, potatoes, waterskins and other things between the saddlebags. Kalla emerged from the keep with a satchel clinking with small bottles of ointments, salves, and powders. While they worked, Tarsyn emerged from the stables with a stately black pony that was just as festooned in sashes and tassels. The boy mounted up, but instead of departing for Brynduvh, he sat in the stable yard, observing, waiting.
“You didn’t invite him to come along,” Drys grumbled.
“No,” Laral said, making a point of ignoring the boy as he cinched his saddle on the chestnut gelding. “But, as sure as the sun sets, he’s going to follow us anyway.”
“Damn fool,” Drys said, shaking his head. “Well, don’t worry about him. That dandy won’t last a day.”
~~~~
24
An army trundled through open fields, a long winding snake barbed with iron thorns, but no one saw it. Or so Kelyn hoped. He sat a gray warhorse on the roadside, watching the cavalry pass under Queen Da’era’s banner. An orange setting sun blazed on dark blue silk. Every face, every horse was visible to his eye. An Elari passed on foot, one of the Regulars assigned to conceal this portion of the troops within the veil. But he wasn’t chanting or using his hands in any special way. The Elari appeared no more taxed than if he were taking a stroll in a garden.
Kelyn’s brother warned him to stay on the road, and so he did, but he began to wonder if Thorn was playing him for a fool—with the intent of easing the War Commander’s fears, of course. Kelyn nudged th
e warhorse to a trot and rode past the lines of infantry. Brengarra’s gray banner swept past, Blue Mountain’s silver, and Zeldanor’s purple. Lady Ulna and Lord Gyfan hailed him, but he didn’t stop to talk. The highlanders followed the militias. Far less disciplined, they barely kept to their ranks and chatted among themselves, despite an order of silence. Alyster and his kindred refused to march alongside the highlanders from Drenéleth. They chose a place behind the Brengarra infantry, where no one knew them and no one would ask uncomfortable questions. Lastly came the medical wagons, mess wagons, and supply wagons surrounded by a rearguard of Elaran Regulars. The drivers drove the mules hard. Thorn had warned them not to straggle, going so far as to threaten the drivers like a mother warning unruly children: “Stay close, or you’ll be seen. If you’re seen, ogres will eat you—and your mules, too.”
The problem had occurred to Kelyn as he was bunking down the night before. His army had marched a day west from Ilswythe, in order to make a wide berth around Bramoran, and as the rustlings of camp grew still with the night, he’d had a nightmare of ogres descending upon them. During the day, he’d been too concerned about his ragtag army making its first leg of the march to concern himself with whether the veil was doing its job. Now, early on the second day and some thirty miles from the safety of Ilswythe’s gates, he’d worked himself into a foul mood worrying about it.
He looked for Carah among the wagon train. A tinkling of music drew his attention. It came from the lead medical wagon. Queen Briéllyn occupied the bench seat beside the driver, a pile of cushions softening the blows to her tailbone. Deftly her hands rolled bandages from a pile of linen strips laying across her lap. How ordinary she looked in a plain day dress, her auburn hair pulled back beneath a kerchief. She might have looked more like a queen if she rode in her sleek black carriage, but she had elected to leave it at Ilswythe. Only the queensguard, riding closely behind the wagon, gave her away. Dust from the wheels dulled their dark blue uniforms and shiny plumed helms, but they took it stoically. They were used to eating the queen’s dust.
She glanced up and saw Kelyn approaching. “War Commander?”
Kelyn bowed his head. “Are you comfortable enough, Your Majesty?”
She shifted her pile of pillows, as if suddenly conscious of them. “Enough. Could do with a spot of rain, though, to dampen the roads.” True, the wagons caught all the grit raised by the thousands of feet ahead of them.
“I’ll see what I can do, Ma’am.” The music changed key, and Kelyn leaned around the awning to peer inside the wagon. Byrn the Blue lounged against a chest of ointments, his legs stretched out and his feet propped up as he plucked out a melancholy tune. He noticed the War Commander peeking and bowed his head, his fingers faltering not in the slightest.
Briéllyn quipped, “Isn’t making rain your brother’s province?”
“Mmm, Thorn would think so highly of himself. I believe, however, that he only makes use of what the Goddess has already provided. Still, if you ask him—and bribe him in wine—he might try.”
Briéllyn laughed and opened a silk fan to bat the dust and heat from her face.
The queen’s laughter must’ve inspired the bard. A capering tune suited for a dance tumbled from the lute.
Kelyn took advantage of the queen’s silence to ask the bard, “Are you defying orders?”
Byrn’s fingers stopped on a sour note.
“I requested it, Kelyn, I’m sorry,” said Briéllyn.
He smiled at her. “No harm done yet, I think. But shall I confiscate the lute and the temptation?”
Byrn wagged his head. “I shall just sing for Her Majesty instead.” Without his blue hat, his hair was a wind-tossed mess of lazy brown curls. The Goddess may have seen fit to bless the young man with fair looks and a fine talent, but she had forgotten to weave in a dose of humility.
Kelyn turned his smile on the bard. “It would be a shame to lose such a voice.”
The bard’s smug grin fell flat.
“That won’t be necessary, Commander,” said Briéllyn. “Byrn? Put the lute away, and keep your mouth shut.”
Kelyn offered a weak shrug. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m the last man who wants to earn the spite of a bard.”
She reached out and patted his hand that was laced around the reins. “Nonsense. You’re trying to keep us safe, and we’re not making it easy for you. You’ve not angered him or me.” She projected her voice a bit louder, turning her feelings into an order to be obeyed. The bard clasped the lute case shut and, with a disgruntled glower in Kelyn’s direction, dug out a bag of dice instead.
“Do you know where I might find my daughter?” Kelyn asked.
“She was here a moment ago.” Briéllyn leaned around the driver to inspect the far side of the wagon. “Yes, there she is, flirting with her guard, and no wonder. If only I were younger…”
An alarm bell clanged inside Kelyn’s head. “Excuse me, Ma’am.” He wheeled his horse around and passed between the rear of the wagon and the queensguard.
Carah rode her magnificent Elaran filly. Falconeye’s cousin walked alongside her. Azhien was tasked with maintaining the veil over the wagons and guarding such important company against ogres, but his attention wasn’t exactly on the horizon. He laughed at something Carah said and shook his head emphatically. “No, no, is more soft on the tongue. Mithílë.”
Carah repeated Azhien’s word.
He shrugged, still not happy with her pronunciation. “Elaran is not so easy as to summon the fire, yes?”
Carah huffed.
“To this, Lírashel will respond when—”
Kelyn reined in beside them, and the rest of Azhien’s instructions withered.
Carah scowled. “Da? What are you doing back here with us poor sods? My teeth are full of sand.”
She’d been around soldiers too much lately. “Ladies don’t say ‘sods.’ And war is dirty business. I would speak with you. Alone.” He cast Azhien the stink-eye. “Have you something better to do?”
The dranithi’s expression stiffened. He saluted and turned to find another wagon to pester.
“Don’t be hard on him,” Carah scolded. “He was only teaching me command words. For Lírashel.”
“Behave yourself. One or both of you was flirting. Even the queen noticed.”
“Ugh, Da, really. Azhien’s nice. A bit young though. Well, not in years, but you know what I mean.” She grinned slyly. “I heard tales about you. From Lady Ulna. Seems you were quite the flirt yourself. She said all ladies of virtue knew to avoid you.”
Kelyn fought a blush. “Ulna will now have her tongue torn out.”
Carah laughed. “What did you want, really? Is something wrong?”
His voice lowered, but it wasn’t necessary. The rumble of the wheels thundered over his words. “Well, I could ask your uncle, but I don’t have a palate for insulting him this morning.”
“Goodness, ask him what?”
“Is the veil working, or is he pulling my leg to make me feel better? I can see everyone clear as day.”
“That’s because you’re inside it. Did you think we’d all disappear, yourself included? We’d be stumbling around, bumping into each other. Banners would be pointless— ”
“All right, all right, I get your point. The veil is like a bubble.”
“Exactly.”
“One I can’t see, even from the inside. I can’t express how that troubles me.”
Carah’s eyes changed focus. “The edge is about twenty yards to each side of the road. Ride out there and look back.”
To humor her, Kelyn turned his horse off the road.
“A bit farther,” she called.
He rode into a field of knee-deep grass. The warhorse shook his head and pinned back his ears. A moment later, a ringing buzz tickled deep inside Kelyn’s own ears, and his skin tingled as hair stood up. The world looked the same until he peered back. The army was gone. His expression must’ve been priceless; Carah laughed somewhere near the road.
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It was then that Kelyn became conscious of the noise. The clamor of the wagon wheels, the cadence of marching feet, the clink of metal and neighing of testy horses—it struck his ears like blaring trumpets. And the dust! That it irritated a queen was suddenly of little concern. Billowing white plumes rose sky-high like banners announcing their presence.
“What do you want me to do about it?” As Thorn promised, his effort to maintain a veil large enough to conceal the vanguard, the White Falcon, the king’s guard, and half the Leanian cavalry, had made him cranky. Kelyn let his brother’s insolence roll off his back.
“All Da did was ask if the dust cloud was a problem,” Carah snapped. She had ridden to the front of the line with him, to breathe clean air for a while.
Of course the cloud was a problem, Kelyn thought, but her defense of him was endearing.
Thorn pressed at his temples. “For our veil to reach that high, we’d need a spell as powerful as the one Madam Saeralín uses.”
“Who is Madam Saeralín?” Kelyn asked.
“She and her casters are responsible for the illusions that make Avidan Wood look unappealing from the outside.”
Unappealing? The stuff of nightmares, more like. “That’s a veil, too? You mean, that’s not its true nature?”
Carah choked on a giggle.
“I admit, I’m relieved,” Kelyn said, “seeing as taking refuge there is our last resort.” He’d wondered how Laniel and his kin could bear to live in such a place, but hadn’t wished to insult his allies by asking.
Thorn pressed ahead. “Even if we had such a spell, and enough casters to maintain it, it wouldn’t conceal the sound. I don’t know of any spell that does that, though if we had time to dig, I’m sure we’d find something to suit you.”