Dismounting, he examined the ground. He found one wide pawprint directly in front of the dogs. Following a straight path in the direction they had been going, he found another. Then another. Gods! Even his dogs had forsaken their wits! Tarskan coursers never ended the chase until they were called off or had their quarry at bay. They certainly could not have lost the trail, it was beneath their very noses.
"Come." The hounds moved to his side, and he pointed to one of the prints that he had found further on. "Take it."
Both dogs immediately gave tongue, sending up an eerie wail that shattered the tranquility of the dripping forest. Caldan watched with trepidation as slowly, cautiously, the coursers took up the trail, pausing often to peer about themselves and taste the air. Following, the count, too, looked behind himself often.
It was no longer the elite he anticipated.
Chapter Seven
Blest be he who casts his nets
Within the pools of light,
And brings forth from those shallow seas
The wealth of man's birthright.
--fisherman's proverb
The warped steps groaned as Castandra slowly set her heavy feet upon them. The sweet and rotten stench of old blood ascended with her; the folds of her dress were stiff with it, her very shift glued to her skin.
She reeked of death. No wonder her thoughts would not leave it.
It was night, and night, even more than day, was their time. All the long hours she labored over Seabold, she had to banish from her mind the snow lion: behind a rock, atop a tree, beneath the leaves, waiting. Waiting to leap up and out, over a quarter ton of muscle, claw and fang, all guided by a lethal intelligence--an animal that hunted men. The elite had followed, but her father had already gone ahead, alone. Gods! No one trailed a snow lion alone, or no one did and lived. What if the elite did not overtake him? Or what if they found him too late?
One strike alone would kill. Seabold's survival was a rare exception. Though opened from shoulder to lower ribs, he had been caught by but a single claw and spared the concussion of a solid blow. His training must have been phenomenal for him to have recoiled so swiftly. But then, he had seen his attacker. Most victims saw nothing but the eruption of a snow bank, or the sudden darkening as of a cloud passing overhead before the sun.
And, despite their quick attention and the many hours she and the elite physician had labored over Seabold, his life still hung in the balance, and would for weeks to come.
Even so, she must not abandon hope. Her father had the hounds. Dagger and Arrow, with their sharp noses and level heads, better than ten men in keeping her father from ambush. But one man and two dogs were no match for a snow lion, and the monster would know that well. It would need no ambuscade.
Unheeding, Castandra stepped through the whorl of light that pooled beneath the doorway. Father. Father, where are you? What had… what was… that smell? It reminded her of something… something… she remembered… music. She looked down, wrestling with her memories. That fragrance… Then, she noticed the light. White as starshine, it poured out from beneath the new-hung door of the Saire's room in swirls and small eddies to play about her feet.
That familiar scent… the Saireflute… once, when Elzin had played. It had smelled of home, and her father had taken her hand.
Father. Home. Castandra smiled dreamily and opened the door.
The white light clung to the floor like a bright, heavy mist, its source a ghostly waterfall that poured from the mirror. The sorceress inhaled the sweet air deeply. So long since she had filled her lungs with the rare, clean scent of mastwood. Without caution she stepped into the flickering pools of radiance. She only had eyes for the mirror.
And the mirror had eyes for her. Except, they were someone else's.
She took a step backward, puzzled by this peculiarity, and bumped into the person whose reflection she had seen.
o0o
"Ouch," said Elzin languidly. She smiled a drowsy smile and removed the wreath of snow-white flowers she wore around her neck. She placed the wreath over the highlander's head.
The blonde put both hands over her mouth and giggled. Castandra, her eyes enormous, frowned, and Elzin turned her back toward the mirror, now a normal looking glass. Flowing like ink through hollow filaments, tracing every complex knot and twist from scalp to tips, color poured through the sorceress's hair. From ermine's coat to raven's wing it changed, as the liquid light at their feet drew into itself and vanished.
Elzin lit a lamp.
"Quite an improvement, if you ask me," she told Castandra.
But the highlander made no answer. Unblinking eyes fixed on the mirror as if still deeply spellbound, she slowly pulled the combs and pins from her hair, bringing it down, tier by tier, until the midnight tresses swept the floor to pool at her feet. Tentatively, she touched the glass with tapered fingers tinged with pink, exposed and defenseless without their rings.
"My mother…"
"Amber moon!" exclaimed Elzin. "I'd hate to have to wash all that! It must take a week to get it dry, and hours every day just to pin it up." Harumphing in disapproval, she transferred the instrument from a deep pocket to its proper resting place. "No wonder you don't have time for love."
The highland girl blinked rapidly. Her cheeks, properly pink with chagrin, darkened ominously.
"Is that all you ever think about?" she snapped. "Where is my father?"
So much for pleasant chitchat. Elzin wrinkled her nose. "Your father? Why should I know?"
The wreath of white flowers around Castandra's neck broke and clattered to the floor, where it lay coiled, now a gleaming silver chain. The silver coin the chain had held landed on its edge and rolled to Elzin's foot.
"Oh, shells," grumbled the Saire as she stooped to pick them up. The room blazed with light, then darkened as she dropped the necklace in her pocket. "I wish this thing would stay where I put it for once."
"I've no time for your vacuous maundering!" claimed the girl. "This is important--where did you last see him?"
"Hmmm… let me think." Elzin canted her head and rolled her eyes and tapped her pursed lips with one finger. "Why, sweating and moaning and all out of focus--his face was that close to mine."
Castandra deserved the taunt, and anyway, who'd have thought she'd have such a temper? But, temper she had. The sorceress slapped her so hard Elzin saw stars.
"You will remember!" The sorceress shrilled, her voice cracking with emotion. "You will --"
…remember…
… herself, a beast in a looking-glass. An alien will crowding out her own fear.
Flee! Flee or it will be too late!
Run! Run! the beast in her mind howled with her.
Hide! Hide! it echoed, ecstatic.
Wait! No! Leap! No! Kill! No!
"No! No!" Elzin covered her face with her hands, but flesh and bone proved no shield against memory.
She recalled sudden violence and blood.
"I don't know!" she wailed. "I don't! I can't remember!"
Sharp footfalls receded behind her. The door slammed. Castandra called for her horse and Elzin’s guard.
The Saire's elite were so swift that her knees, as they buckled, never reached the claw-gouged floor.
o0o
Elzin ordered them all away: Beksann, the guards, the lot. She squeezed shut her eyes and tried to remember something, anything that might help her to know where she had been and what she had done. But each image, when her mind grasped it, broke apart like smoke in a fist, until every impression had gone.
What if she had killed Caldan? Who would protect her then from the Queen? Who would guide her as she sought to form a bond with the people of Lhant that her pregnancy could not destroy? She had learned so little since her rise to Saire such a short time ago, only enough to assure her of her ignorance. Without Caldan to help her, she would be destroyed by the first person that her death would profit.
And, if she had killed him, who would be her friend? She t
hought of how kindly, how gently he had treated her. Elzin curled up on the bed, remembering the secret passage that he came by when he visited her room; how they had talked for hours there, and how intently he had listened when she spoke to him. Only he knew her secret, a secret she now realized he could have used for his own profit in his dealings with the Queen. Instead, he had risked everything to protect her.
And how had she repaid him? Blood and violence. Elzin buried her face in the pillow. Telriss, no! Goddess, tell me I couldn't do such a thing! But Telriss told her nothing, and all she saw behind her squeezed tight lids was a scarlet curtain of blood.
o0o
Castandra gathered clean cloths for bandages, a skin of water, some bread and cheese. As she hastily plaited her transformed hair, Miska retrieved her heaviest cloak, her dagger and her bow. Tacha had already gone to find bells to tie to the hounds' collars, so she would not lose the coursers in the dark.
When the sorceress flung open the door of the barn, she cursed to see her mare, Tempest, stare back at her from a stall.
"Mistress! Your hair--"
The sorceress turned on the valet. "Tarrg take my hair! Why is my horse not saddled?"
"Mistress, please, your father would never allow it, especially not at night and without an escort. Four of the Royal Elite left this morning to find him--"
"And they have not returned! The Saire has. What if the beast is now a real snow lion? A snow lion, Olkor! And my father is not prepared. He could be already be dead."
"And if so, beyond your help. Castandra, surely you realize you must not go!"
The girl slipped a bridle over Tempest's head. "You may escort me if you wish. But I will go."
Olkor turned up his palms, distress etched across his stony features. "I cannot. Your father has charged me with duties here."
"Then I go alone."
o0o
The bells clunked sporadically ahead. They were wooden and reeked of goat, and the hounds had eyed her reproachfully as she had fastened them to their collars. Castandra guided her mare in the direction of the sound, allowing Tempest to pick her own path through the trees. Leaning far over her saddle gained her scant protection from the invisible branches that clawed from the damp, velvet blackness.
They had negotiated the woods for hours. Or so she guessed. For the thousandth time, Castandra wished she had learned to judge time from the stars. Her cramped position made her muscles ache, and when her heavy eyelids fell shut, she had difficulty telling that dark from the one surrounding her.
How could the snow lion have gotten this far? The big cat could not outrun a horse, and with such a small head start, it could never have lost her father's brace. With every step, she grew more worried. A group of five trained and well-armed men would be a task, but for a snow lion, far from impossible. The cunning creatures had been known to split up hunting parties, ambushing those who became separated until the beast felt confident of escape. She could pass their bodies in the blackness and never realize it. The dogs tracked her father's scent. They would not be distracted by the carcasses of the others.
She reined up her horse for a moment, uncertain now whether to wait until daylight. No, she decided. The hounds followed her father. Only he mattered. She went on.
o0o
The sorceress wearily shook her head to clear it. She still curled over her horse's neck, still pushed deeper into the forest. Little by little, the nearer branches and tree trunks began to separate themselves from the night. Dawn approached.
The sky greyed above the stark network of the upraised skeletal arms of the trees. Ahead, Castandra could make out the dogs. Omen looked behind himself often, as if to be certain that she and the mare still followed, while Talisman concentrated her efforts on the trail. As the wood lightened, the girl pushed her tired mount into a trot.
The trail began to weave and double back on itself. The pace was much slower now, and sometimes she stared at the dogs so hard that they doubled, tripled, or winked out entirely. She rubbed her gritty eyes again, hard, willing herself against exhaustion and tears.
The forest floor erupted beneath Tempest's hooves. Gasping as she blinked to restore her sight, the sorceress seized the dagger she wore in her belt. A hand gripped her wrist. The weapon dropped from her nerveless fingers, and a strong arm around her waist pulled her neatly from her horse. Snarling, she twisted to rake her attacker's face with her long nails, then clutched them to her pulsing throat instead.
"Superior Gage!"
"At your service, Lady Val Torska."
"Castandra! Are you hurt?"
Choking back a sob of relief, the girl ran to her father, who held her by her shoulders at arm's length. "Blood. Castandra, there is blood all over your dress!" He shook her. "Answer me, are you hurt?"
"No—fine--from Seabold. Father, I--"
His slap rang like the crack of a whip. The sorceress put both hands to her stinging face, too startled even to cry.
"You will get on your horse," he said coldly. He took the dagger she had dropped and shoved it into her belt. His whisper, for her ears only, hissed like heated iron against bare flesh. "Your life is not yours to squander. It belongs, now and always, to the Kyr. Never again will you risk what is theirs.”
Chapter Eight
"The fiercest blade is blunted by a single shard of truth."
--Saire Fethzann
"Eat, Dearest. He will return soon. You'll see. Come, now, we must keep up your strength."
Elzin tried to force a smile for her handmaid's benefit. Despite Caldan's warnings, it was easy to forget Beksann spied for the Queen. She coddled her like a child, seeing her rooms were the best, her clothes fussed over, her favorite treats frequently made. Despite her age, the old nurse had insisted on accompanying her, and Elzin had heard her complain neither of cold nor discomfort on her own account. Of all the people she had ever known, only her mother seemed to have taken greater pleasure in spoiling her.
"See, I've had some tarts made just for you," coaxed Beksann with the enthusiasm she once must have spent on reluctant, royal toddlers. She set the pastries on the bedstand, where the scent of their warm apple sweetness might entice the Saire. "They'll be delicious--quite a treat this time of year! Your taster said he'd warrant these will be the best you've ever had."
"I--I can't just now, Beksann. I'm sorry." Elzin pulled the covers closer about herself. "Maybe in the morning. Please, I want to be alone, unless there's some word."
The nurse nodded and walked to the closed door, where she paused stiffly. "What happened to you yesterday was miraculous, a sign from Telriss, but surely you must be tired. Please eat and sleep, Great Lady. Worry is not good for you. It is not good, either, for your child."
Before Elzin could begin to react, to reply, Beksann left, leaving the blonde staring, shocked, at the back of the brown oak door.
o0o
Their shadows stretched long when the group rode into the yard of the inn. The sorceress, her face obscured within her deep hood, ran straight to her room the moment the innkeeper's son took her mare. Olkor lowered his eyes guiltily as the count stepped from his horse, but Caldan handed him Thunder's reins without a word and followed his daughter into the inn.
Caldan took the steps two at a time to Elzin's door, where a guard stood at attention while he knocked.
"Great Lady," he called. "If I may speak with you--"
The door opened only a crack at first; then, with a squeal of joy, Elzin swung it wide and pulled him into the lamplit room.
Trembling, she touched his face, his hair. "I--I can't remember what I did. I thought -- I prayed--oh, thank Telriss!" She flung her arms around him. "You're alive! I didn't kill you! And the Royal Elite? Did they all come back with you? And Castandra, too?"
He returned her embrace warmly. "All are here and well. Elzin--Great Lady--to see you safe…" He stepped back, frowning worriedly at her upturned face. "You have not slept."
Her head nodded against his chest. "Now both of us c
an sleep, but Caldan…"
"What is it?"
"Beksann knows," she whispered. "She's guessed about the baby. Maybe the sickness -- I don't know. Caldan, she's so good to me and seems so loyal. I can't believe she'd tell the Queen. But, oh, Caldan, she'll have to, won't she? She won’t have any choice. It's all over. Everything is ruined!"
"No, Great Lady." He tilted up her chin. "The Queen made a grave mistake, conscripting Beksann as her spy. The nurse's love for you is true. Begged to keep your secret, Beksann will surely keep silent for a time, and later plead ignorance to Her Majesty."
He took her hand. "Brave heart! You and the child will be protected. But you must do your part," her kissed her lightly on the forehead, "and rest."
o0o
Despite the great, featureless expanse of her fatigue, Elzin couldn't sleep. When she lay down, she felt the weight of all her worry, as if someone, insanely malicious as the Queen, had lowered a millstone onto her chest with the intent of slowly squeezing her breath from her body.
Sometimes I think that nothing is ever going to happen to me! It had been a child's lament, poured out to her best friend during a sweltering summer in what now seemed another life. A summer in which her only worry was the love-struck apprentice sail-maker her father had run off.
How could she have ever guessed what had lain ahead? The news of Elzmere's disappearance, the Queen's red-faced tirades. The awful, aching sadness of a physician shaking his head over a dying candidate. Shelvann. She had been only thirteen.
And then there had been the alternately wonderful and frightening gifts of the Saireflute, her Saireflute now. She smiled to herself. Her Saireflute? Hardly. The Flute belonged to no one, really. More than anything else, she belonged to it. It was part of her, and Elzin even believed that it had protected her, in its own strange fashion, by sending her the magic coin and Count Val Torska to guess its meaning. Perhaps it would protect her again, from Beksann's knowledge and the Queen. Perhaps it would protect her child, too.
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