by Helen Lowe
“Ser Raven suspects treachery,” Erron told them quietly, and their attention swung to the knight.
“That’s why Manan went after you,” Raven said. He seemed so ordinary in his worn hauberk, the shadow of the rowan tree beside the steps stippling his face like old scars, but Carick saw some of the tension go out of the squires. He is used to leading men, he thought, watching Audin’s eyes meet the knight’s with almost painful intensity.
“Tell us,” the Duke’s nephew said. And then they were all dismounting, tramping into the hall and crowding around to look at the map, while Raven related what facts they knew. In the background, servants began to set up trestles and bring out food. “We understand,” Audin said finally, spokesman for the rest, “both what we must do and why. But what does this mean for our vigils, if Summer’s Eve has passed by the time we return?”
Raven looked at Manan. “A quest may be substituted for a vigil,” the lay priestess said, “although that does not happen often in these more peaceful times. And it is just custom to sit one’s vigil at Summer’s Eve, not necessity.”
Raher fidgeted. “Summer’s Eve is the most auspicious time. Everyone says so.”
“A quest is also auspicious,” Manan said gently.
“If we survive it,” Raher muttered. “Otherwise we die unknighted.”
“In Serrut’s name, Raher!” Audin was terse. “Ghis, Alli, and the others may be riding into an ambush. Let’s not waste time!”
“Besides,” said Hamar, “we could all have died unknighted anytime these past eighteen years.” For the first time, a few grins flickered amongst the squires, and even Girvase, who had been staring at the maps with a white, set expression, looked up.
“Audin is right,” Raven said, before he could speak. “Given the damosels’ start, there’s no time to waste.”
The next hour was all activity as the squires armed and provisioned themselves, not just with food and water and weapons, but also with tarpaulins and ropes, pitch torches, tinder boxes, and entrenching tools. “More like a campaign than a search party,” Raher muttered, and no one disagreed. Carick frowned, but focused on going over the most uncertain details of the maps with Raven and Herun.
“Although I can’t guarantee that any of these are accurate,” he told them. “Seruth knows when they were last checked against the terrain.”
“Better than nothing, though,” said Hamar, when the others had gone again and he was helping Audin into his armor. The young lord was very pale, his brows a single, frowning line as he waited for Hamar to finish. For the first time, Carick saw the black oak of Emer on his jupon, set within the oak-leaf circlet of the ducal house. From outside, he could hear the edge to Girvase’s voice as he organized the horses.
Those two know what’s at stake without needing to be told, he thought. Carefully, he rolled up the scrolls and lashed them into sturdy, watertight coverings: they would need to be well protected if Raven wanted them with him.
“In the yard,” Audin told him, when the job was finally done and Carick looked around for the knight. When he reached the door, Raven was already on horseback. The knight was wearing full armor and had abandoned the light Aralorn horses for one of the castle chargers. The beast rolled a restless eye at Carick, but he scarcely noticed because a groom was leading Mallow out, with a journey roll strapped behind her saddle.
“Best get whatever other gear you need, and swiftly, Maister Carick,” Raven said. “You’re coming with us.”
“Me?” Carick thought about his inglorious flight from the wolfpack. “Why?”
“Because I need someone to interpret those maps against the terrain,” Raven said curtly. “I’ll have other things to worry about.”
“Perhaps he can’t read,” Raher whispered, adjusting a stirrup leather alongside Mallow. “Lots of my father’s knights can’t.” An odd expression flitted across the squire’s face. “In fact,” he added slowly, “m’father can’t either!” He laughed, a reluctant bark of humor, before springing into the saddle. Carick shrugged, because regardless of whether Raven was lettered or not, he already knew that the knight could read a map.
“Hamar says you’ll need help to arm.” Jarna appeared beside him, holding up a brigandine. “He said this would be best, since you’re not used to mail, and that you’d better have a sword as well. You did say you’d had some lessons,” she added.
“Yes.” Carick hesitated. “But war was not our business in Ar, as it is here.”
Jarna looked away. “Hamar said to find you one. And a helmet, too.”
“I have—” Carick began, but Jarna had already disappeared. He looked around to meet Girvase’s measuring stare.
“A short sword would be better for you,” the squire said. “It’ll be easier to manage since you’re not used to fighting from horseback.”
“What he means,” Raher put in helpfully, “is that you’ll be less likely to cut Mallow’s head off.”
The look Girvase turned on his friend was level. “I meant what I said. If Jarna can’t find anything suitable, he can have the sword I used when I first came here.”
But the sword Jarna brought back was serviceable, and the weight and balance seemed right—although Carick still felt like a fraud when he finally rode from the castle with the others. Villagers came out to watch them pass, and children ran beside the horses for a few hundred yards before dropping away. Hamar waved a hand to the last of them before turning his face to the wooded hills rising beyond the village fields. “What can have possessed the girls to ride out like this?” he demanded, of no one in particular. “I would have thought Mal, at least, would know better. And Ghis is always so level-headed. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I can’t imagine Alianor agreeing to such madness either,” Girvase said, from his other side.
“Well, they certainly organized well—and kept it secret, too.” Audin’s tone was light, but Carick saw the bitter worry in his eyes and caught the shared unease of all those around him. Even Raher was momentarily subdued.
The road narrowed once they reached the woods, and they were forced to ride no more than two abreast, knee brushing knee. Their company was thirty strong and chiefly made up of squires, although Raven had included four experienced guards as well as Herun, Solaan, and Carick. The knight sent Herun and the guard called Darin ahead to scout, while Solaan rode beside him, the tattoos on her face blending into the pattern of light and shadows beneath the trees.
The damosels had traveled by the known road, and Hamar pointed out the pitch torches, burnt out and discarded, that they must have used to light their way once the village was left behind. “Did they need to reach the temple by dawn?” Carick asked.
The squire shook his head. “Only dusk to dawn is absolutely required, although dawn to dawn has become traditional for those wishing to be knights. So they only need to reach the Rock before dusk. And,” he added, “the dark of the moon.”
That part of Summer’s Eve sworn to Kan, thought Carick, remembering the conversation before Lord Falk left for the Hills. The sun was well overhead now, and he wondered if they would catch the damosels before nightfall or would have to journey back through that moonless dark. “We won’t catch them,” Hamar said flatly, when Carick asked the question. “They’re too far ahead for that. I imagine Ser Raven will wait until we get there before deciding whether to return by night or stay at the Rock.”
“Depending,” added Girvase, who was riding behind them now, “on the level of threat and defensibility of the shrine.”
They found Herun and Darin waiting for them at the first crossroads, which was little more than a glade in the woods with a lichen-covered standing stone at its center. The Normarch road ran on east to join the main road, while a bridle path snaked north and west toward the old temple. The damosels’ hoofmarks followed the second route—but something else, Herun said, had turned off with them. “Something that lay concealed in the undergrowth and followed once all had passed. But the tracks are confused
. At first I thought it was a man, but then the prints changed, suggesting a beast.”
“It only followed them for a short distance,” said Darin, “then cut away across country. Getting ahead of them, maybe, or joining up with allies.”
“Or both,” said Raven. “Is there any way we can do the same—try and get ahead of the damosels from here?”
“Not with armed men on horseback.” Herun’s face remained calm, but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes. “Not in this trackless country.”
Raven nodded. “We carry on as we are, then—but I want scouts out on all sides. We need to know everything that moves out here. Take no action on your own, though, just observe and report back.”
“Darin and I will scout ahead again,” Herun said. “Girvase is woodcrafty, he can circle back with Aymil. Hamar and Solaan, you take either side.”
Of course, Carick thought, as Girvase and Hamar dismounted and began shedding the bulk of their armor—it must be impossible to scout effectively in knight’s gear. And then all six scouts had mounted again and vanished into the woods.
The main party rode deeper into the hills, following the hoof-churned track. From time to time Herun or Darin would reappear to report that the way ahead was still clear, and Carick began to hope that everything might turn out all right. The scouts could have been mistaken, after all, in thinking there had been a watcher by the crossroads. His hope strengthened as they progressed without incident—until they rounded a bend in the track and found Herun holding the reins of a black courser.
Audin drew in his breath and Raher whistled. “That’s Sable,” he said unnecessarily, “Alianor’s horse.” When they drew closer, they saw that the horse’s neck and shoulder were covered in blood.
“Not his own,” said Herun, answering Raven’s question. The tracker’s eyes slid to Solaan as she slipped from between the trees.
“If there had been an accident,” the Hill woman said, “one of the other girls would have caught the horse.”
Raven nodded. “So now we ride hard. But keep scouting. This could be a trap set for us, as well as the damosels.”
They pressed on as fast as the terrain allowed. Carick concentrated on staying in the saddle and keeping up, aware of the heightened tension all around him. Raher’s eyes held a hard gleam, and even Audin’s quiet manner had an edge to it, now that the danger was real. Yet despite their speed, it was mid-afternoon before they came down the last, tight curve of track to reach the ford on the Rindle. Across the river, Carick could make out a vast rock outcrop through the trees and what looked like ruins above it, but there was no sign of human activity.
Darin was waiting for them, just within the edge of the trees. “No bodies,” he said, “but there’s been a melee on both sides of the ford.”
Raven leaned out of his saddle, peering at the trampled ground. “What more have the tracks told you?”
Darin rubbed at his forehead. “There are too many prints on top of each other to make real sense of what happened. But the main party of damosels stopped here, while three went on ahead.” He pointed to the other side of the river. “Their tracks climb past the bank. There’s no sign they came back, but I haven’t been up to the ruins yet. The main party was attacked from behind, from these woods here. The signs suggest the attacking party was small, maybe no more than an advance guard set to watch the ford.” He shrugged. “From the looks, there was a skirmish here before most of our girls fled across the river. Then they separated, some going upriver and some down.”
Solaan had joined them with Hamar and was frowning at the empty riverbed. “Yet there’re no dead or wounded?”
Darin shook his head. “There’s plenty of evidence of a struggle, but no bodies. Herun’s already gone upstream, but we agreed I should wait for you before starting down.”
“We need to check the ruins as well,” said Raven. “Work out which way the Countess fled.”
Selia was right, Carick thought. It does always come back to Ghiselaine. Beside him, Jarna was staring at her gauntleted hands, clasped around the saddle horn, and he wondered what she was thinking, knowing her life could well be at risk for the very damosels who had mocked her.
“Maister Carick,” Raven said, and Carick’s gaze swung back to him. “Let’s see what more your maps can tell us about this country while the scouts are gone.”
By the time Carick had retrieved the maps and unlaced their weatherproof wrappings, the scouting parties had left. Raven had sent the guards Marten and Sark after Herun, while Ado and Gille went downriver with Darin, and Solaan took Hamar and Raher across to the temple ruins. Jarna dismounted to help Carick, spreading her cloak out on the driest part of the riverbank and weighting the edges of the maps with stones.
“They’re hard to read, aren’t they?” she said, frowning at his carefully re-inked lines.
And already, Carick thought, the shadows are lengthening. In only a few more hours it will be dark—but he refused to continue that line of thought. Audin and Raven squatted on their heels, watching as his finger traced the line of the Rindle. “Downriver, the Rindle bends east until it joins the Swift. Upstream—” Carick pointed. “One tributary comes out of the hills that separate Emer from Aeris. The other seems to start here, in the mountains.”
“But surely,” Audin said, “whichever way they’ve gone, they’ll try and head back toward Normarch?”
“If they can,” said Raven. He did not need to add that the pursuers would aim to prevent that. “If the way downriver is clear, they’ll come to the main road eventually, although close to the Long Pass. Still, we might be able to intercept them by striking through these hills. But upstream.” He shook his head. “North toward Aeris is very rough country, almost impassable on horseback.”
Carick pointed again. “The second tributary flows from the high terrain to the southwest, but the contours ease here, around this village.”
“The Leas,” said Solaan. She had come up quietly behind them, still accompanied by Raher and Hamar. “Your contours are right, Maister. The land there is open meadow, although any village is long gone.”
Raven studied her face. “What did you find?” he asked.
“Three dead on the path to the ruins,” the Hill woman replied. “Shot with arrows, all of them. The horses had their throats cut.”
Not Alianor, then, Carick thought.
“Not Alli,” Hamar said, as if he had read Carick’s mind. Both he and Raher were very pale. “Avice,” the squire added after a moment, and Carick recalled a thin girl with brown hair, not one of Ghiselaine’s immediate circle.
“And Annot,” said Raher. “You know, Brania’s cousin. And her friend, the one with the mousy hair.”
“Isolt,” Tibalt said. “Her family—” He paused, swallowing hard as they all looked at him. “Her family’s demesne, it’s not far from ours. In Wymark,” he added, as though it was important they understood that. No one said anything. There was nothing to be said that would make one bit of difference for the three dead girls.
Solaan squatted beside Raven, her expression hard beneath the spiraled tattoos. “War and plague cleared out The Leas long ago. But there’s still a cart track that goes there, branching off the old northern road. That’s mostly gone back to the wild, too,” she added, glancing at Raven, “but there’s enough of it left to be useful for us, if we get that far.”
The knight leaned forward. “This dotted line, here. What’s that?”
Carick peered at it. “Probably a foot-track used by shepherds or hunters. But this map is very old. Any path could be like The Leas village and have disappeared long ago.”
“See where it runs,” said Raven, “up over this ridge—cutting almost directly from the ford, here, to The Leas.”
Carick looked at the map contour, which was very steep, and then at the sheer rise of hillside that contour represented. But potentially, if the damosels who went upriver had taken the southwest tributary, Raven’s company could use the dotted path to cr
oss the ridge and reach The Leas ahead of them. No, he corrected himself silently, if Ghiselaine has gone that way—and if the route’s still there and passable for armed men and horses. He looked again at the steepness of the ridge and shook his head.
“Whatever the scouts find,” Raven said, “the damosels are still too far ahead of us. A straightforward pursuit will never catch them in time.” He stood up. “So let’s find this track.”
Easier said than done, Carick thought, but he joined the search as soon as the maps had been stowed away. He found Solaan first, walking along the base of the ridge and studying the forested slope for places where a route might follow the natural contour. A hopeless task, in Carick’s opinion, but he followed her example anyway, and eventually felt himself being drawn into the green murmur of the trees and the warm scent of earth underfoot. He could feel wind and sunlight filtering through leaves—and almost hear the path calling to him as it curved beneath fern and bracken, climbing away from the ford toward the rugged heights.
Carick followed that call, scrambling through scrub and beneath bushes to find what was little more than a rut, twisting up the first, steep thrust of ridge. A squirrel bounded down from the tree behind him, chittering, as he turned back to where Solaan stood, her gray eyes unfocused. He saw her blink, registering his approach, and the look she gave him was long and considering. But all she said when he showed her what he had found was: “It’s very narrow, true, but you may tell Ser Raven that you have found his track.”
Yet Carick could not shake the feeling that the Hill woman had already seen it, even before he led her to the path’s beginning.
Chapter 19
Dark of the Moon
Finding the track had taken longer than Carick realized, and both the up- and downstream scouting parties had returned when he reached the ford. He stopped, registering that Aymil and Girvase had still not caught them up—but the scouts’ faces already told him they had nothing good to report.