by Connie Ward
It's at times like these that I like to say something profoundly stupid. “Why did the Crusaders choose this place? Idyll, I mean. Just to rub salt in the Regent's wound?"
His expression went as hard as the granite beneath my hand. Only the light thrown by the pair of torches softened it, made it human. At the moment I was glad for the barrier of stone between us. But his voice, when he spoke, was devoid of all emotion, even annoyance. “It just made sense. We knew Bertrand would avoid it like the plague, and so far he has. It's the last place in the world he'd suspect."
I couldn't agree more. The revelation that Idyll was the Citizens Risen Up to Stand Against a Dread and Errant Regency's centre of operations had blindsided even me, the top Royalist officer. Then again, my rank probably didn't mean a thing in regard to such matters.
He started to come around the corner of the sarcophagus, then paused to lean one hip against the stone. Head tipped to one side, he studied me with those shrewd, feline-like eyes. All-assessing. All-knowing. And what he said next made my heart stop.
"Have we met before? I have the impression whenever I look at you that we have."
I assumed he was experiencing a feeling of déjà vu from Laurelac, and that was unnerving enough until I recalled where we were, and who lay between us, tucked to sleep in his crypt. With a near debilitating horror, it began to sink in that I just might resemble my cousin in some way. My gestures. My features. My voice. Sestus had even remarked that my shorn locks lent me a somewhat boyish appearance.
I tried to steal a glance at the figure carved on the lid, but the mage's shadow blocked it. Frantic, I fumbled for words, for an excuse to get out of there. “Oh, um, no. Don't think so. Ever been to Glanshayda? I have family there.” Stiff with fright that at any moment he would lunge around the slab of stone and grab me, I began to edge my way toward the door.
Long, elegant fingers scratched at the stubble on his chin. “No, but I was at Laurelac. Were you ever—"
"No. Never. Definitely not. Where? Actually, I've never heard of it."
Now one might be tempted to think that a princess, or a general, or a princess who was once a general, might demonstrate a degree more composure than this, but the man so unhinged me, I couldn't manage a straight thought, the reasons for which went beyond the fact that he was my enemy, that he was Umaji. Reasons that I pray at night will go away.
A frown further puckered the scarred face as he tried to remember, tried to recall places and people.
"I have to go,” I mumbled. “I need to water some plants."
"But ... it's raining.” He sounded perplexed.
"Not in my room.” At least I hoped not. But given the circumstances, considering my inner turmoil, it was entirely possible.
* * * *
Two weeks following my encounter with the mage in the crypt, I found myself again straddling the back of the gentle mare, only this time bound for a place called Edenwood, with both Ragsey and Ginger for travelling companions.
"Uh, Sestus, are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked the crack in Sestus's rear as he bent over my mount's front hoof, inspecting its shoe.
I had avoided the mage and his haunts around Idyll this past fortnight, afraid he'd make a connection between Ivor and me, afraid I'd fall apart and confess everything if he looked at me sideways. I was much more comfortable in his presence when he hadn't bothered talking to me at all.
"Of course it is.” He straightened and smoothed a hand over the horse's sleek neck, producing a happy nicker. “There's nothing wrong with her foot. If she's limping, its because you're such a poor rider."
He passed me a packet of rations and the dagger that Jory had dug up for me. “Now, stop dawdling."
I accepted the knife, slim-handled with a puny, six inch blade, and fastened the sheathe to my belt, swallowing my disappointment. I had hoped for a sword.
"Ginger trusts me with a weapon?” I wondered aloud. “And tell me again why he wants me along?” I just couldn't wrap my head around the mage's sudden change of heart.
"I told you already,” Sestus sighed, sounding much put-upon. “According to the messenger, the Royalists have Gregaris pinned down pretty tight in town and he's looking for some relief. His agents confirm that Fleurry has set up his command post in Edenwood, just outside Pixley, as you previously suggested. He thinks you'll be useful. He thinks you'll be able to identify faces."
This was not the adventure I had envisioned, which was a war party, armed to the teeth, riding forth to deal Fleurry the ass-kicking he deserved. Repachea, it seemed, nabbed all the juicier assignments. “Still, I wish you were coming, too."
"You know I've got to stay behind and mind the shop.” Sestus slid me a censorious look.” This isn't a full out assault, Little Red. Gregaris just needs a little breathing space. Ginger says he can handle it himself. You know, throw some chaos spells around, tamper with equipment, make a nuisance of himself."
Well, I'm sure he'd have no trouble with that last part. Needless to say, this took the wind out of my sails. Subterfuge wasn't my style, although I seemed to have developed a knack for it. Guile and stealth had always been Val's forte.
"There's a rumour going around that Valleri might show up.” He spoke this as an afterthought, a detail too minuscule to be considered.
"Valleri? I thought he was on his way to Shanasea."
"His reinforcements have already left Church Grove, but he's making a detour.” Sestus took the mare's bridle, clucked to her and led us from the stable to the yard. “The meeting will take place on the Festival of Ofaedea,” he continued. “That gives you four days."
"That's convenient,” I snorted. The Festival of Ofaedea is a spring holiday dating back hundreds of years to a pagan celebration of the Grain Goddess. In those days it was celebrated with fairs and tournaments and the ritual sacrifice of maidenheads to Ofaedea's priests. It was supposed to be one big fertility rite, beseeching the goddess to bless the soil and bring the rains in preparation for a bountiful harvest. Nowadays, it had degenerated into a celebration of the Grain Goddess's most revered crop—ale. Everyone celebrated it by getting thoroughly soused.
"For everyone involved,” Sestus agreed. “The festival atmosphere will provide so much chaos and confusion no one will notice a covert delegation of Crusaders slipping into Edenwood."
"Will Idyll be celebrating Ofaedea's festival?"
He flung me a withering glare over his shoulder. Their little uprising had seriously impeded the Crusaders access to ale. “There will be plenty of inns nearby where you can stay without fear of discovery. But you'll have to get there early to nab a room. Nevertheless, you must take care to conceal yourself. There will be plenty of Royalists roaming about who may recognize you. You might want to cover that red head of yours. It's a dead giveaway."
"I'll wear my hood,” I promised.
"Make sure you do. Fleurry's Royal is billeted near the market district, in a long-abandoned warehouse. The shops will close by sunset in observance of the holiday, but the streets and inns will be jammed with revellers all night, providing you excellent cover."
Sestus drew the mare alongside Ragsey's sturdy roan. Here, he released the bridle and passed me the reins. “Ginger will fill you in on the details. Good luck."
On impulse I reached down to grab Sestus's hand. “Tell Belvemar I said good-bye. Don't forget.” For some inexplicable reason I felt guilty for leaving in such haste, as though I abandoned him. Over these past few months, I had grown fond of the old Crusader.
Ragsey gave me a big friendly grin. “All set for our grand adventure, Ruvie?"
"Is that what you call it?” Despite my misgivings, I returned his smile. The man's cheerfulness is contagious, kind of like the plague, or to a lesser degree a mild summer pox. Just more annoying. Only Ginger is immune.
He thundered up behind me, astride his huge stallion, and skidded to a halt, dancing the fiery beast before me. His glance raked me in a cursory inspection. I shivered in the cool dawn air an
d drew my cloak tighter, partly to ward off the chill, and partly to thwart those grey mage eyes.
Irked by my stall tactics, he inquired with false chipper, “Are we ready, precious?” I don't know why he called me that. Probably because he knew it irritated the hell out of me.
He spurred his horse into a gallop and charged from the yard. Ragsey laughed, and with a whoop of maniacal glee, urged his mount after the mage. My mare followed at a more sedate gait, too dignified to kick up her heels like her fellows.
Ginger took point, which suited me just fine except Ragsey drove me crazy with his incessant chitchat. We stopped only once during the day, to rest the horses and refill our water flasks from a brook. All in all, it had started out to be a boring and uneventful journey.
Long past dusk, Ginger called a halt for the night. We made camp in a stand of elm and ate a late supper of cold food since the mage advised against a fire. It would be a chilly slumber without a blaze to fend off the evening air, but not unbearable. I curled myself in my bedroll, as far away as I could get from the men, lest either of them got the idea to snuggle. It wasn't that damned cold.
Admittedly, I was wary in their presence. People I had known well had committed unspeakable acts against me, and these two men were almost total strangers.
* * * *
I awoke with a start not an hour later thinking I'd heard a noise. Too many nights in siege camps had made me a light sleeper. I glanced across the ring of elm. Ginger sat up, but Ragsey snored on. The mage's voice drifted across to me, “Did you hear that?"
I nodded. The sound came again: a sort of whuffle and snort, creeping through the brush beyond the trees. Ginger heard it too, and reached for his sword. As it happened, he didn't have time to draw it.
Something as big as a small pony shot past me from out of the darkness. Snarling and snapping, it headed straight for the mage. I scrambled to my feet and shouted at Ragsey. He was up before I got out his name. Ginger rolled away from the hurtling beast and scooped up a fallen branch. As the monster wheeled for a second charge, the mage swung the bough like a cudgel and sent the creature yelping into a tree.
Ginger's voice was frantic, filled with rage. “Shouda!” he yelled, sounding close to panic. “Bertrand's dogs! Get off the ground!"
The dogs. Shouda, they are called, canines specifically bred to track down the spoor of spent magic and kill the Umagi responsible. Uncle had turned hundreds of them loose upon escalation of the revolt. Castle Gryphon crawled with the dogs; fortunately, they are trained to attack only practicing Umagi. As long as I'd taken my tonic, I was safe. Since I had not summoned any magic, the culprit must be Ginger. At the moment, they had sniffed out his spell and traced it to him. I had no doubt they would kill him if someone did not intervene.
Two more emerged, circling and growling, wary of the bone-crushing weapon the mage held. Ragsey had scampered up the closest tree. He watched the scene below with horrified eyes. I remained where I was, breathlessly still, and tried to recall the commands.
The Shouda are trained to obey voice commands. Originally a gift to Uncle from a desert chieftain, the dogs had been taught commands spoken in the language native to their former masters. Wracking my brain, I searched for foreign words. For obvious reasons, I'd never handled Shouda personally.
Ginger bellowed, “Ragsey, use your stars!"
But Ragsey was frozen, so petrified he couldn't even shake. He himself was in no danger. The Shouda would not attack him unless he first attacked them or tried to interfere with their quarry.
Without warning one of the pair leapt at Ginger. He bashed its snout and it sprawled, stunned. But the first Shouda had recovered to limp in from behind to rejoin its mate. Together the two advanced. Seeing no other alternative, Ginger flung his club at them and turned to climb the handiest tree.
The closest dog lunged and grabbed Ginger's arm in vice-like jaws, dragging him down. Without a thought, I rushed forward, yelling, “No!” Then, “Stop!” And finally, “Tarush ka!” I don't know what made me say that, but it seemed to have some effect.
The nearer Shouda stopped in its tracks and swung its craggy head to look at me. “Tarush ka!” I yelled again. The dog sat down abruptly and whimpered.
It came back to me then. Tarush ka meant ‘stop’ or ‘desist'. I shouted the command again, over the Shouda's ferocious snarls as it tore at the flesh of Ginger's arm. Man and beast writhed on the ground, locked in mortal combat. He had no time or opportunity to loose a spell, even if he possessed one appropriate for the situation. Belatedly, I realized the animal's killer instinct had too firm a grip on the Shouda for it to respond to tarush ka.
Another command popped into my head. “Sasha ro!” It meant ‘bad’ or ‘mistake'. “Sasha ro!"
The dog stiffened and paused in its attack, but did not release its hold on the mage. I stomped over and bellowed, “Sasha ro!” with all the authority I could muster.
Its jaws slackened just enough for Ginger to yank free his arm. But the dog remained poised above its prey. It growled menacingly, blood dripping from its enormous fangs. I gestured in a manner that I hoped appeared non-threatening to the Shouda for Ginger not to move.
"Tarush ka,” I intoned firmly, but with less harshness. The Shouda retreated in confusion, no doubt wondering what it had done wrong, wondering why it was suddenly ‘bad’ to do that for which it had been trained since puppyhood.
I pointed towards its fellow and said, “Jammi ja,” which in common tongue is akin to ‘at ease'.
The dog obeyed, muttering under its breath, and settled beside its panting companion. The first Shouda shook its daze, struggled to its feet. I flung a surly jammi ja its way, just to be safe. Then I knelt at Ginger's side to see what I could do.
He tried to ask a question about the dogs, but I shushed him and proceeded to examine the wound. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared. The punctures were not deep and no bones were broken, but he'd lost some blood and the flesh was rent in a jagged fashion.
"There were lots of Shouda on the castle grounds,” I said by way of explanation. “I learned a smattering of commands.” That seemed to satisfy him.
I turned to see Ragsey still perched in the tree, his face pale, his whole body trembling. “Get down and help me,” I ordered, annoyed by his inertia. “Get the medical bag.” Surely Biddy would have packed us some herbal remedies and bandages.
"Move it!"
Ragsey snapped out of his stupor to babble, “The dogs..."
"They won't hurt you."
He shook his head in refusal.
I wanted to set his tail alight, managing to curb the notion just in time. I tore off what remained of Ginger's sleeve and tied it around his arm, then placed his other hand atop it. “Squeeze it tight. It will stop the bleeding. You know what to do.” I stamped off to retrieve the medical supplies myself.
I calmed the frightened horses with soothing words while I rummaged through their packs and collected my necessities. On my way back I paused by the Shouda, all seeming content to relax and watch me. I praised them profusely.
"Kuka he. Good dog. Kuka he.” It was important they felt happy and secure while I was too busy to keep an eye on them. I could not remember the phrase that would make them go away.
I dug through my gear, sorting bandages, vials, and salves. “What is the matter with him?” I snarled at one point, throwing a caustic glower Ragsey's way.
"Don't be too angry with him,” Ginger said with surprising benevolence. “When he was a boy he saw his baby brother mauled to death by a pack of wild dogs. He's had a mortal terror of canines ever since. Curse him all you want, but he won't come down."
Oh.
There was no herbal potion to numb the pain, but Ginger said it was tolerable and he could use his limited healing skill to fight infection. Nevertheless, he worried whether or not I knew what it was I did.
"Relax. I've seen Biddy do this sort of thing a hundred times.” I'd also assisted on battlefields, but I couldn't tell him tha
t.
I wished aloud for a fire and some hot water. Ginger told me to do without. “A fire might attract more of them,” he said, watching the dogs with a mistrustful eye. His faith in my ability to control the Shouda was not implicit.
I cleansed the wound as best I could, then laboriously stitched a couple of the more serious gashes with needle and thread. Me—who had never even sewn a button on a uniform. Ginger was exquisitely brave throughout the procedure, holding a candle for me while I toiled.
Thinking to distract him with some chitchat, I asked, “What sort of spell did you cast back there?"
He gave me a blank stare.
"I'm not stupid. The Shouda attacked you because they picked up the scent of a magical discharge and tracked it to the source—you. It wasn't a heat spell because I distinctly recall the chatter of my teeth as I crawled into my bedroll. Nor was it one of illumination. Which makes me think it was a protection spell of some kind. If so, I'd say it needs a little work."
I'd tried to sound light-hearted, but it came out as a reprimand.
"Actually, it was a protection spell. But not against Shouda. Against you."
Really? The meek and mild librarian has the big bad wizard quaking in his boots? I could have said that and got mind-slapped for my effort, but I knew better. “So, you still don't trust me?"
"I don't trust easy. Sestus does. Repachea, too. Everyone's an enemy, Ruvie, until they prove otherwise."
Not very liberal minded for someone who claimed to be a liberator. Nevertheless, I saw his point, even if his words came several months too late for me.
I said no more as I smeared his tortured skin with a greasy concoction that Biddy often used to speed the healing process, then expertly bandaged his arm.
Ginger's belligerence seemed a good sign, though I remained concerned. The mage's face had gone an unnatural colour, at least that part of it not seared shiny with scar tissue. His normal complexion is swarthy, like a deep tan over dirt. But now his pallor was ashen and he felt cold to my touch.