Except this horse.
She was no doubt calling him all kinds of hateful names, for she whinnied and snorted any time he came near, her whines sounding unpleasantly similar to the laughter of the highborn girls he’d tried to talk to once at the palace while upon an errand for the Lord Commander.
The five men who’d man-handled her into the small corral had long abandoned him—truth be told, she’d struck down two of them in their attempt to unsaddle her and the third said it wasn’t worth trying anymore—but they hadn’t even managed to get her tack off, and the Lord Commander was sure to want to know what his latest prisoner carried in his packs. There were ways to break a horse to a man’s will, of course, and some of them weren’t so cruel that their own horsemaster hadn’t used them on rare occasion, but no horseman worth his salt would think of waging such methods against a Hallovian.
Everybody knew Hallovians were nigh on magical beasts and had to be coaxed where they couldn’t be convinced. They only went with a man if they deemed him worthy, and no manner of prodding or beating might change their mind. A story was told of a Hallovian stallion that stood his ground whilst his would-be rider beat him til he bled, but still he moved not one inch. Dozier knew he wasn’t worthy of riding this horse, but he thought maybe he might convince her to go with him into the stables for her own sake.
He tried again to coax the horse close enough to get a lasso around her neck, if not to make a grab for her trailing reins. “Come now, pretty girl,” he murmured. He pushed his hand into his pocket where he’d stuffed some grain and offered it to the mare. She snorted and spun away, running a circle in the corral, her long flaxen mane streaming like moonlight behind her. Dozier stood in awe of her beauty. It made him wonder yet again about her owner, the one they’d brought in with that pirate.
What kind of man must he be to ride a magic horse?
***
“Well, if it isn’t my old friend the Lord Commander,” Carian greeted amiably as he brandished his cutlass in front of him. “Come for your good-bye kiss?”
The Lord Commander looked pained as he regarded them. Trell couldn’t tell if it was due to the pirate’s comments, his unfathomable ability to produce weapons out of thin air, or because of Trell. “Mon seigneur,” said the Lord Commander, clearly addressing Trell, “I beseech you to stand aside and let us deal with this unsavory rogue who has too many times thumbed his nose at Her Majesty’s justice.”
Curiously noting the man’s change in manner, Trell replied, “I am honor-bound to complete my accord with the pirate, sir, else I would gladly stand aside for you.”
Carian turned Trell a bland look, which he then extended to the commander. Just then a man dressed in an emerald cap and courtly robes pushed through the masses of guardsmen and stopped at the Lord Commander’s side. He was an older man in his middle years, grey-haired and droopy-eyed, but his gaze remained wise. He took one look at Trell and blanched with his eyes pinned on him like a ghost from the dead. He grabbed the Lord Commander’s arm. “It cannot be! Trell? Is it truly you?”
The Lord Commander looked ill. “Please, mon seigneur,” he entreated Trell one last time. “The magistère has come to speak with you—only to talk, you understand? We hold no charges against you.” His blue eyes shifted icily to Carian, whereupon he added, “I cannot abide this treacherous pirate, but I do not wish to see harm come to you.”
Trell stood momentarily speechless—here was a man who undeniably knew him, for he’d given no one his true name. He stared at the Veneiseans, dumbfounded by their words, suddenly uncertain.
Abruptly Carian grabbed him around the neck and pressed a blade to his throat. “That’s funny,” the pirate remarked. Trell felt cold steel against his flesh and the pirate’s breath warm in his ear. “Because I’d love to see you kiss the gunner’s daughter one of these days, you bilge-sucking, poxed son of a whore. But alas, today I have pressing business elsewhere.” He pushed the blade further into Trell’s neck, making him flinch.
Both the Lord Commander and the magistère gasped in dismay, and the magistère reached forward as if to halt the pirate with the gesture alone. “Now stand aside,” Carian warned, “or this man dies.”
“Move aside! Move aside!” shouted the magistère with surprising urgency.
The men did so, though the Lord Commander’s face was dark with fury. Carian half-dragged Trell past the men, who all turned to follow at a safe distance but with malice in their eyes.
As soon as Carian turned a corner of the hallway, he released Trell and grabbed his wrist instead, dragging him in a flat run down an adjoining passage and right through the wall at its end. Trell instinctively threw up his hand as the Nodefinder jerked him across the leis, only to find himself blocking empty air on the roof overlooking the stockade. The horns were still blaring.
Carian turned him a grin. “Balls of Belloth, if you weren’t a chase they would’ve ransomed the kingdom for! Would that I could hang around to discover who they think you are, but we’ve overstayed our welcome as it is.”
Trell felt agonized. It had never been clearer to him that these men knew who he was—or at least they suspected, and certainly the magistère had seemed to recognize him at once and had even called him by name! If he but stayed, if he surrendered…the Lord Commander had sworn he was free of any charge.
But the moment he looked at Carian, Trell knew he could not forsake their accord. What care have I for a name if I’ve no honor to back it up?
“You might think about whistling for your pretty mare any time now,” Carian prodded lightly, but Trell saw the tightness around his eyes and sensed the urgency in his voice.
“Right.” He whistled for Gendaia.
***
Dozier was pleased. The mare had suddenly quieted, despite the blaring horns—Dozier would have a thing or two to say to the watch about that once he got the horse stabled—and was now standing still as a statue in the middle of her corral. Surely this meant he was making progress.
Moving slowly so as not to frighten her, he readied his lasso in his right hand and worked the latch on the corral gate with his left. Carefully then, he moved inside the corral, pulling the gate shut behind him but leaving the latch undone so he might leave easily with her in tow.
“Easy girl,” he soothed. “There now, that’s a good girl—”
Abruptly she tore past him like the wind and was out of the gate and across the yard before he could even find voice to yell after her.
Defeated, Dozier swore an oath and threw down the rope and grain. He wasn’t worthy, and that was just Raine’s truth. Apparently even the damned horses knew it.
***
Trell stood in the shadow of a chimney and whistled for Gendaia again.
They’d made a harrowing descent from the roof, with Trell mustering incredible self-control to follow the pirate as he scaled bare-handed down a four-story wall. Now, as he crouched in the shadows next to Carian, Trell admitted that if there was one thing he could say for the pirate, it was that his life was not lacking for adventure.
The horns continued to blare, a monotonous overtone that Trell found himself becoming less aware of as the sound wore on, though the yard was no less frenzied than when they’d left it. Groups of soldiers rushed to and fro, while others organized search parties both for the pirate and the escaped thief, Kardashian. Then a combined shouting drew his attention, and the pirate elbowed him happily, saying, “Here she comes.”
Sure enough, Gendaia came barreling around the corner, a streak of moonlight pinned to the earth. Trell rushed out to grab her reins with Carian right on his heels, and then they were mounted and Trell turned her to face a long line of soldiers who had amassed in her wake.
“Where is the damnable node, Carian?” Trell demanded through clenched teeth.
“Ride for the gate,” the pirate murmured into his ear.
“You expect they’ll open it for us, do you?”
“No need.”
Trell set his heel
s to Gendaia, and she leapt into a canter, bowling through the center of the line of men, who scattered like broken pins. Trell saw the main gate, and he leaned close to her neck as she extended her gait to new proportions in a ground-eating gallop.
The islander clung to Trell with his head close enough that his hair kept flying into Trell’s eyes. “I forgot to mention,” Carian yelled over the blaring horns and shouting men. “This next exit might be a little hairy!”
Forty-seven
‘Faith is not the question. I have simply seen enough to trust in what I have not yet seen.’
– Ramuhárikhamáth, Lord of the Heavens
Ean’s company set out from Chalons-en-Les Trois beneath an overcast sky, following the Mondes as it twisted through the Eidenvale. The days passed smoothly and by the second day, they had climbed in elevation and were traversing the river gorge a thousand feet above the Mondes. The wind was blustery and cold in the gorge, and the high peaks above them were white from recent snows, but the pass was clear and the road remained good.
With the exception of a few caravans and the errant trader headed to Chalons-en-Les Trois, they had the way to themselves, for most people preferred to travel the faster river route; the waterway, in contrast, was busy with sailing craft, ferries and barges on their usual commute between Chalons-en-Les Trois and the Veneisean capital of Tregarion. From the ridge trail so high above, even the larger luxury schooners seemed like toys—which didn’t stop Fynn from staring longingly at them.
The weather remained fair, if cold, as they journeyed. The way was clear, the sun was high and provided some small warmth along the blustery trail, and there was firewood aplenty for their campfire each night. For the most part, the company stayed in good spirits—with the singular exception of Fynn, who didn’t seem to get on well with nature in general and bears in specific, and maintained his affronted ill humor even after Gwynnleth had chased the beast away. Still, all seemed marginally well. Gwynnleth assured the prince that the Tyriolicci would not send another assassin so soon, if at all, and thought they should be safe enough in the mountains.
With every new day, Ean became more grateful for his companions. Rhys, Bastian, Dorin and Cayal were all capable men, doing multiple duties as guards, scouts, hunters, wood-choppers, cooks, and even story-tellers around late campfires. Alyneri and Tanis pitched in to help like true boon companions, never complaining about any task assigned them no matter how menial, and Gwynnleth was an irreplaceable aid to them, spending her days flying high above to warn of anyone approaching on the road long before they met them, her avian eyes always watchful for those that might bring harm.
Ean was never more grateful for her than on their fourth night.
Because a storm was rising in the west, they took shelter in a cave that seemed to be a favorite among travelers upon the gorge road, for inside they found a woodpile that had been restocked by the cave’s last occupants and several fire circles waiting and ready. There was room enough for the entire company, and the single opening meant only one man need stand watch. After eating a satisfying stew of potatoes and lamb from the comte’s stores seasoned with some of Alyneri’s thyme, Ean wandered outside with Alyneri in tow.
He’d had little time to speak with her alone since leaving Chalons-en-Les Trois , but he wanted to very much. Though initially he’d dismissed Gwynnleth’s words about Alyneri as nonsense, the idea had become a splinter that worked its way deeper into his skin instead of out of it. Could she really have such feelings for me? he’d begun to wonder, and if she did, what did he feel in return?
While Cayal kept watch from a polite distance, the prince and Alyneri found a spot on a rocky outcropping with an unimpeded view of the western range. The sun was setting in fiery splendor behind bulging storm-clouds heavy with rain, though the sky above the cave was still clear. Far to the south, the rain was already falling in great ashen sheets, blotting out the snowcapped peaks. Ean wondered how Mother Nature knew his mind so well as to create in nature what he battled within.
“Tumultuous,” Alyneri murmured from where she sat hugging her knees.
Ean glanced at her. She seemed different after Chalons-en-Les Trois, troubled in a way she hadn’t been before. Some of the lightness had left her manner, and because of Gwynnleth’s declaration, Ean couldn’t now help but wonder if it was because of him. He looked back to the view. “The realm seems truly alive when you see it like this, don’t you think?”
She cast him a sideways glance. “I’d never thought of it like that, but yes,” she admitted as she focused back on the view. “There’s something about seeing all of this—the sunset and the storm—that makes all the world seem like…well, like a living thing.”
“They are alive in some way aren’t they?” Ean asked. He glanced to her, clarifying, “I mean, all of this we’re watching tonight is the fifth strand at work, isn’t it? The wind and its storms, the ceaseless motion of the seas, our sun and stars, the earth beneath us. The living realm?”
Alyneri smiled softly at him. “I think maybe you understand it better than some Adepts. The fifth strand is so…foreign to most of us. It doesn’t govern life as we understand it, yet as you said, how can anyone look at a view like this and not believe the realm is alive?”
Ean nodded his agreement. They watched the sun setting together then. A dark crimson disk was just disappearing between two far mountains whose peaks tore at the blue-black clouds massing above.
After a moment, Alyneri glanced at him and then dropped her eyes. “Ean, I didn’t mean to imply just then that you weren’t also an Adept—”
The prince turned with a quick smile to reassure her. “I wasn’t thinking about that.” He took her hand and twined her fingers within his, remembering days as a boy when they’d sat upon the cliffs together in much the same position; younger days, innocent days, before Death claimed those they loved, one by one. “I was thinking how oddly the scene before us seemed to mirror my mind right now,” he said. He shot her a rueful grin, adding, “Tumultuous, I think you called it. That sounds about right… I might say conflicted, also.”
“Over your power?” she asked quietly.
He cracked a grim smile. “Over my path.” When she offered no input, he asked, “What, no words of wisdom?”
She shook her head.
It was so unlike her not to have an opinion that it actually disturbed him. What had happened to her in Chalons-en-Les Trois? Wasn’t he the one who’d almost died? Why then did she act as if hope had been stolen from her?
“Alyneri,” Ean said, leaning forward to capture her gaze with his own, “if I ask you a question, will you promise to answer me truthfully?”
Immediately he saw a little furrow appear between her brows. “That depends upon the question.”
“There should be no secrets between us as betrothed,” he said lightly.
But she dropped her eyes again. “Ean…”
Ean held her hand tighter. “I just need to know how you really feel, Alyneri.”
“Why?” she asked, biting her lip and staring at her lap. It was both protest and plea in one.
Her question caught him off guard, but he knew she deserved an honest answer. “Well,” he said, thinking it through, “so that…so that I can know how I feel.”
She looked to him then, and he saw tears welling in her lovely brown eyes. “But you see,” she said, forcing a gentle smile, “if you don’t already know how you feel, then it really doesn’t matter.”
Ean didn’t fully understand that logic, but he didn’t want to press her too hard because he could already see that she was upset. “Gwynnleth…” he began, turning to look back at the sunset, which was now fading from red-violet to violet-grey, “she made it seem like I was torturing you.”
Alyneri laughed and quickly pressed the tears from her eyes with one hand, but Ean saw with a pang of guilt that she laughed because of the truth in his statement, not because of its absurdity. His expression fell. “I’m sorry,” he whispered
.
She shrugged and gave him a brave smile. “You have enough to worry about without adding my ridiculous feelings into the mix.”
He looked at her with concern. How could she think him so insensitive to her affections? “Alyneri, you are one of my dearest frien—”
Abruptly she touched her fingers to his lips to pause him and then pressed them to her own, her expression stricken. “Don’t,” she begged, her face a display of emotion. “Don’t say it.” Swallowing, she looked back to the view. A clump of menacing storm clouds now raced overhead, and all the light seemed vanished from the world.
Ean was about to ask what was so bothering her, when he heard the screaming cry of a hawk and spun his head to the sky instead. The Avieth speared down out of the heavens in a headlong rush, missing their heads by mere inches as she streaked past.
Ean stood and helped Alyneri to her feet, turning just as Gwynnleth left the form in a rush of brilliance. Her face was a mask of horror when she turned and yelled, “Hurry—into the cave!”
Ean grabbed Alyneri’s hand and ran with her, understanding nothing but the terrified look on the Avieth’s face and the urgency in her tone.
Cayal met them at the entrance. “What’s wrong?”
“Inside!” Gwynnleth hissed, shoving him before her as she ran. “Inside!”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 79