by John Marco
But his contemplations were interrupted by the sound of approaching feet. Queen Jelena’s shoes clicked on the marble floor announcing her arrival. She was alone. Biagio’s heart skipped at the sight of her. Finally, he might have his answer.
“Queen Jelena,” he said courteously. “I’m pleased to see you.”
Jelena was her typically cold self. “Biagio, I must talk to you.”
“That’s fine,” replied Biagio. “But first …” He gestured to the statue. “What is this doing here?”
The question confused the queen. “What do you mean?”
“As far as I can tell, you sold everything else. There aren’t any other statues in the entire wing, not even the small ones I had on the veranda. Yet you kept this one of Irisha, right where I left it.” Biagio looked at her pointedly. “Why?”
“Irisha,” echoed the queen. She regarded the statue, letting the whisper of a smile grace her face. “So that’s her name.”
Biagio was intrigued. “She’s an ancient goddess of youth, from old Naren myths. Just a child, really, but almost a woman.” He decided to nudge a little. “Like you, perhaps?”
“No,” said Jelena venomously. “Like my mother.”
The answer made Biagio draw back. Jelena’s brief smile had been replaced by a mask of disdain.
“I see,” said Biagio.
“She was killed in a Naren attack,” Jelena continued. “Along with my father. I was sixteen at the time.”
Biagio nodded. He already knew the story of the queen’s ascension. Again he looked at the statue. “This reminds you of her, does it?”
“Very much. I shouldn’t admit this to you, but this statue looks strikingly like my mother. She was very young when she had me, about the age of this girl, I suppose. When I saw this statue it was like seeing her again.” Jelena sighed. “That probably sounds silly to you.”
“Not at all,” replied Biagio. He remembered all the time he’d spent in Baron Jalator’s Wax Works communing with the figure of Arkus, hoping to glean some comfort from the display. Somehow, Jelena’s attachment to Irisha’s cold stone seemed sadly appropriate. “You were wise to keep it,” he told her. “It is good to have things that connect us with the past.”
Jelena glanced at him quickly. “That surprises me to hear, coming from you, Biagio.”
“Why should it? You’ve already seen my fondness for antiques. I should think you would understand me better by now, having spent so much time destroying my home.”
“As you destroyed mine?”
“My lady, I have done things you wouldn’t believe,” Biagio told her. “The rape of Liss is just one more thing on my conscience. But I have changed.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You’ll never believe that, will you? I have wasted my time coming here.”
“But I do believe you,” said Jelena.
“You do?” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
The queen laughed. “You may thank your Captain Kasrin for that. I think he is a man of honor, despite the uniform he wears. He trusts you, Biagio.”
“And that is enough for you?” Biagio couldn’t imagine what Kasrin might have told her, or even why the captain should trust him. He’d been nothing but secretive with Kasrin.
“You won’t understand this, Biagio, but I will tell you anyway. There is something about the people of the sea that binds us all together. Kasrin is like that. He is not so different from us of Liss. If he can find a way to trust you, then I can, too.”
“You’re not admitting everything,” said Biagio. “I can see the truth in your eyes, my lady. You want Nicabar.”
“Of course I do,” retorted Jelena. “I wouldn’t be helping you if I didn’t.”
“Helping me?”
Jelena nodded. “Yes. I will give you a ship, Biagio. Take it to the Eastern Highlands and find your allies.”
My allies? wondered Biagio. How much had Kasrin told her? But he was too grateful to argue. In fact, he was almost too astounded to talk.
“My lady, I really don’t know how to thank you.”
“I can think of a way,” said Jelena. “Tell me why you’re going to the Eastern Highlands.”
The demand didn’t surprise Biagio. He had expected it, for he knew Jelena ultimately wouldn’t release one of her schooners without knowing why.
“Very well,” said Biagio. “I will tell you, but not yet. First get my ship ready to depart. I must leave quickly for the Eastern Highlands, and you and Kasrin have plans to make.” He turned from the queen, reaching out a hand to caress Irisha’s perfectly sculpted leg. He would miss her. “We will meet on the eve of my departure,” he told Jelena. “I will tell you everything then.”
THIRTEEN
Alazrian sat alone in his bedchamber staring at the moon and waiting for dawn. It was another dreary night in Aramoor castle, full of lonely footfalls in the corridor beyond his door and the buzz of distant insects. A clear sky hung over the land and a northern breeze bent the tips of the giant fir trees, making them sway to its sad rhythm. Moonlight poured through the dingy window striking Alazrian’s face, giving him a ghastly glow in the nearby mirror. He sat in pensive silence, his contemplation shifting between the moon and the secret envelope in his lap. It had been weeks since Biagio had given him the letter, and in all that time Alazrian had never been so tempted to open it as he was tonight. Tonight was the eve of his ride to the Iron Mountains. Soon he might come face to face with the Triin lion riders, and before he gave them Biagio’s fateful note he wanted desperately to know what was inside.
Vantran, he told himself. This letter is for him, not me. He had been telling himself that for days now, but it never really helped. Since returning from Talistan, the letter had obsessed him, a constant, nagging reminder of the journey ahead. For three days he had been back in Aramoor, and for three days he did nothing but brood. He was frightened and lonely, and for some reason holding the letter was the only thing that gave him comfort. In the morning he would ride off with Shinn and the others. He might even be killed. This damnable letter seemed to be the key to his fate.
Carefully, he held it up to the window, hoping the moonlight might reveal its contents. It wasn’t a lie, was it? He had touched Biagio, after all. He had seen into his mind and felt the truthfulness there. If the letter were any sort of trap, then Alazrian’s strange gift was a fraud, and since he knew that wasn’t true, he was certain Biagio’s letter was just as the emperor had claimed.
“Well, almost certain,” he whispered. He went to his bed and slipped the envelope under the mattress. His clothes for the morning ride were already arranged, neatly folded over a chair. When it came time to dress, he could easily stuff the letter into a pocket. Then, when he finally located the Triin …
What? he wondered nervously. Would he just surrender to them?
Alazrian sat down on the bed. If his mother were here, she would have known how to comfort him. She would have advice for him, sound, motherly words to ease his apprehension. If she were alive, she might scold him for what he was about to do. Though she knew her father’s madness, Alazrian very much doubted she would approve of his mission.
“But there’s so much more at stake,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Mother, but I have to believe Biagio. I looked into his heart, the way I did yours. Do you remember that?”
Of course there was no reply. Alazrian opened his eyes and laughed ruefully. Lady Calida could never answer him again. All that remained was his mission and the strange promise he had made to his mother, to discover a purpose for his mysterious gifts. Suddenly, he understood that a new door was opening in his life. Tomorrow, he would cross the threshold. Once he rode off for the mountains, he would be a man.
The next morning, Alazrian rode from Aramoor castle. With him were Shinn and four Talistanian horsemen, all part of Dinsmore’s brigade, and all dressed in plain clothing; they had doffed their green and gold uniforms in favor of bland riding garb. Shinn rode at the head of the little column, his bow slung over his shoulder,
nodding at Elrad Leth as the governor bid them success. Leth said nothing to Alazrian as he watched his son depart, but merely stood like an intractable statue in the courtyard, his face unreadable. Alazrian said nothing either. He was going away, maybe for the rest of his life, and if he ever did see his bastard father again, it would be under vastly different circumstances. The soldiers he rode with were all lightly armed with swords and daggers and bows, all casually bouncing in their saddles as they headed for the mountains. Alazrian wondered why they weren’t afraid. His own stomach was in knots and his head swam with fearful ideas of what he might find in the hills. But the others were seasoned veterans and showed not a hint of Alazrian’s nervousness. To Alazrian, they seemed remarkably brave.
But Shinn was quieter than usual. The Dorian bodyguard gave orders with gestures and hand signals, hardly opening his mouth at all. He seemed distant, preoccupied with something more than their mission. His hand dropped to his side occasionally, fingering the dagger tucked into his belt, and while the others talked among themselves, Shinn stayed a pace ahead, keeping to himself as he pointed the party forward. Alazrian kept up with Shinn, never straying too far. He hoped that his father had given Shinn orders to protect him, to keep him safe if any trouble erupted. There was no safer place than under the cover of Shinn’s bow, so Alazrian was determined to stay close to the Dorian. He was not an accomplished rider like the others, but Alazrian knew enough about horses to keep up. His mother had insisted he learn to ride at a very early age, a prerequisite for every Talistanian male, no matter how frail or intellectual. And Alazrian liked horses. They were easy to predict, mostly, and they seemed to respond to his touch. In fact, he had chosen a particularly docile horse for this ride, a cream-colored gelding he called Flier.
But although Alazrian could ride, he couldn’t really use a weapon. He had never trained with a bow or sword, and so carried only the dagger Elrad Leth had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Hoping he wouldn’t have to use it, Alazrian nevertheless checked it periodically. As they trotted off into the rising sun, Alazrian’s every thought was of the mountains ahead. Soon he would discover if Biagio’s errand was worth it. Carefully he slid his hand beneath his riding jacket, feeling around for the note. The sharp paper edge of the envelope touched his finger, putting him at ease.
After three hours of riding, they came at last to the outskirts of the Iron Mountains. Shinn reined in his horse, ordering his company to a halt. Alazrian pulled up alongside the Dorian, staring at the range of silent monoliths. There was only one way into the mountains, a craggy path called the Saccenne Run. The snaking run was an ancient route cutting through the rocks and leading to the distant land of Lucel-Lor. Since the end of the last Triin war, no one but Jahl Rob and his Saints had ventured into the run, because it was guarded by lion riders, Triin warriors determined to seal off Lucel-Lor from Naren invaders. Alazrian felt a small thrill at the legendary sight. It was like a bridge to another world.
“We’ll rest here,” said Shinn. “Give the horses a break before heading in.”
The Dorian dismounted and took some food out of his saddlebags. He sat down on the grass contemplating the nearby mountains as he tore off chunks of dried sausage with his teeth. Alazrian and the others did the same, dropping off their horses for a much needed rest. The leader of the soldiers, a ruddy, round-faced Talistanian named Brex, directed his men to sit and relax, gathering them around him in a semicircle. Alazrian noticed immediately how they didn’t include Shinn. The Dorian sat apart from them, leaning back on an elbow as he spied the mountains. Even this close to danger, Shinn didn’t appear at all afraid. Alazrian grabbed his water skin and approached Shinn, sitting down beside him. He saw the bodyguard give him a peripheral glare, but only for a moment.
“What do you think?” asked Alazrian. “You think we’ll find them?”
Shinn hesitated before replying, then answered only with a nod. Alazrian took it as a good sign.
“What then?” he asked. “What will we do when you locate them?”
“We will do nothing,” said Shinn. “I will try to find out where their stronghold is without being seen.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s our mission. We are too few to do anything else. When we find their stronghold, we can return with an army, if that’s what Governor Leth wants.”
“If the Triin don’t find us first,” said Alazrian. He watched Shinn carefully for any trace of fear. Still there was none.
“Jahl Rob and his Saints have survived somehow,” said Shinn. “If there are Triin in the mountains, they are far from here, guarding the Lucel-Lor side. Otherwise Rob would not be safe. The Triin would not tolerate him if they knew he was in there.” The bodyguard looked at Alazrian sternly. “But there may be danger. You must stay close to me. I promised your father I would take care of you, understand?”
Alazrian brightened. “Yes, I will.” Maybe there was some humanity in Leth after all. A pang of guilt suddenly surged up in Alazrian, making him look away. Shinn saw his pained expression and mistook it for fear.
“You’re scared,” said the Dorian, grinning wickedly. “Do not be. I will protect you.”
“It’s not that. I’m just …”
“What?”
Alazrian shook his head. “Nothing.” He took a drink from his water skin to distract himself. Shinn took hold of his arm and roughly pulled the skin from his lips.
“Don’t drink so much. It’s a long way back and forth, and I don’t know where there’s any water in the mountains. If you waste it no one will give you more.”
Alazrian lowered the water skin and studied the mountains. They were gigantic. He had always seen them from his window in the castle, but they had seemed so distant then, like a landscape painted with soft brush strokes. Now they were behemoths, their shadows engulfing the earth. Despite the spring warmth, Alazrian shivered. He wanted to be like Shinn and the others, but he was not. He fiddled with the stopper of his water skin, realizing that everything he was doing might be a big mistake.
“When do we ride again?” he asked Shinn.
The bodyguard regarded him with surprise. “Eager to get going?”
“Yes,” declared Alazrian. “I’ve rested enough.”
“Well I haven’t,” said Shinn.
But within five minutes Shinn had eaten his fill and had ordered his company onto horseback again. Alazrian was the first to mount. He waited impatiently for Brex and the others to mount up, then followed Shinn toward the Iron Mountains, plunging into the menacing folds of the Saccenne Run.
Del Lotts sat at the edge of a cliff, his eyes closed, his face turned toward heaven, drinking up the sun. It was a perfect morning in the Iron Mountains, full of fresh air and peace, and Del felt wonderfully good. Next to him sat his brother Alain, watching the run far below, taking to heart the job Jahl Rob had given them: to look out for any trouble that might be coming. Since the murder of Dinsmore, Jahl Rob had been edgy, always suspecting an attack that never came and he constantly posted lookouts on the high ridges along the run, wary of Elrad Leth’s retribution. So far, though, there had been no response, and Del no longer shared Jahl’s cautiousness. Convinced that Leth still feared the nonexistent Triin guardians, he took his mission as lookout with far less weight than his brother, satisfied to relax on the ledge and wait for time to pass.
“Del?” probed Alain. “You awake?”
“Of course I’m awake.” Though he was groggy, Del didn’t admit it. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
Del opened his eyes. “Alain, you don’t always have to talk, you know. A lookout should be silent.”
“They should also keep their eyes open.”
“Just tell me if you see anything.” Del closed his eyes again and laid down against the ground. The bright sun splattered crimson patterns on the back of his eyelids. He yawned, loving the warmth and stretching like a cat until his shoulders popped. “Remember what Jahl said. They could come anytime.”
That should keep him quiet, he added mentally. Alain was always chirping, never giving him a moment’s rest. He was a good boy and a fine brother, but sometimes …
“Del?”
“What?”
“When we get back will you practice with me some more?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You promised!”
“All right, later then,” Del agreed. Helping his brother with his archery was becoming tiresome, mostly because Alain never got any better. For two years now he’d been practicing, doing his best to master the bow like their brother Dinadin had done, but Alain didn’t have Dinadin’s dexterity, and he didn’t have Jahl Rob’s patience either. He wanted to improve. He just never did.
“Dinadin would help me,” grumbled Alain. It was the comparison Alain always made. Del opened his eyes and sat up, pulling at his brother’s collar and dragging him backward.
“I’m not Dinadin, you little beast,” he said, driving a knuckle into the crown of Alain’s head. Alain shouted loudly, then quickly covered his mouth.
“Sorry,” he offered sheepishly.
“Yes, great lookout,” scoffed Del. “Why don’t you just send up smoke signals?”
Alain shuffled away on his hands, stopping short at the edge of the cliff. It was a long way down but the height afforded them a perfect view of the Saccenne Run. The narrow road cut a jagged knife-edge through the mountains, meandering off to the east and west. With the sun overhead and the clear sky, Del and Alain could see for miles. Anyone coming into the run would be clearly visible. Of course, Del never expected anyone to enter the mountains. Which was why it was so peculiar to see something moving off in the west.