by Doug Niles
“Well, sure,” Dram replied, smiling through clenched teeth. “Um, welcome to the neighborhood, neighbor.”
Jaymes crouched in the shrubbery outside the abandoned house, watching the file of horsemen make their way down from the low ridge and disappear into the apple grove. He had seen several scouts come out a few minutes earlier, reporting to their captain, then leading the rest of the party into the congenial shelter of the clustered trees.
He was certain the scouts had discovered Dram and the gnomes—even if his companions had tried to hide, the campfire would have given them away. Still he was confident that Dram would keep his mouth shut as to Jaymes’s whereabouts, and his companions would not come to any harm at the hands of a band of Rose knights. He was in no hurry to test the knights’ goodwill, and now their unwelcome presence would keep him from a dinner of fresh fish. Even the apples were out of reach, he realized, as his stomach rumbled. He dared not emerge from concealment, for the knight captain would have posted lookouts on the periphery.
Staying low, he made his way back through the thick bushes to the base of the old house. Evidently the former domicile of a minor Solamnic noble—one who had perished during the War of Souls—it was only about half the size of Lord Lorimar’s wrecked manor, but it had been a grand enough structure in its time. He had been inspecting it when the knights had arrived, making his way through the low outbuildings, which held several large presses as well as a variety of vats and bins. He assumed that the owners had made cider, or perhaps apple wine, there.
Now he would have to make himself comfortable somewhere. He found a storage shed attached to the rear of the house, a place where the roof had remained intact and where there didn’t seem to be any annoying vermin. He arranged some clean straw into an approximation of a bed and forced himself to ignore the pangs of hunger and thirst that were beginning to render him fidgety. He stretched out on the pad, watching through the crack of the door as the afternoon’s light faded toward dusk.
The whole area was very quiet, though he could hear skunks rustling around on the ground floor of the adjacent house. He willed himself to sleep, but his fatigue wasn’t enough to bring slumber. Sitting up, leaning against the wall, he resigned himself to boredom.
Abruptly he caught his breath—a shadow moved past the door’s edge! Slowly, he rose to a crouch. His eyes remained fixed on that doorway. Was this one of the knights, come to inspect the buildings with the same curiosity that had brought Jaymes here? The warrior remembered with chagrin that he had left his sword back at the camp—he was armed only with his short dagger and one small crossbow. He drew the knife and set the missile weapon to the side, hoping that the one who had cast the shadow would move on. He tried to ready himself for anything.
Even so, he was startled when the door suddenly opened, and he couldn’t help but blink at the sight of another person in the fading daylight. Equally startling was the gasp of the person standing there, an intake of breath that indicated that she had spotted his hiding place.
That gasp of surprise—feminine and a little breathless—proved that this person was, beyond a doubt, a woman.
Sir Powell strolled around the fringe of the pond. His men had made camp, and now some of them rested on the soft grass, while others explored the waters of the pond. A dozen small campfires flickered and crackled among the trees, and the weather was lovely—dry and cool, but not too cold.
Selinda’s memory of good fishing had been correct. Powell’s men had pulled out dozens of trout before the sun set, and the fish—wrapped in weeds and steaming in the coals of several large fires—now sent a tantalizing aroma through the evening air. The captain passed several of his men as they lounged easily with fishing poles, nodding genially in response to their greetings. These were good boys, his company, and every one was like a son to him.
He was happy that they had found such a pleasant place to camp, an oasis of water and fresh food amidst the generally barren expanse of the Solamnic Plain. Actually, this whole journey was turning out to be a rather enjoyable diversion. Lady Selinda was a pleasant companion, bright and good-humored and willing to share the discomforts of the saddle, the lash of the wind and chill of the rain, with a fortitude that would have made any knight proud. Indeed, she was probably the most uncomplaining woman it had ever been his pleasure to know. She certainly didn’t fit his impression of a pampered noblewoman—if anything, she seemed grateful for the chance to get away from the luxury that had cocooned so much of her life.
What a contrast to her father, the captain allowed himself to reflect. Lord Regent du Chagne was a dour and bookish man, squinty-eyed and meticulous in details, as physically unimpressive as his daughter was beautiful. Still, du Chagne was his lord, Powell reminded himself sternly and as such deserved the respect due to his station.
Of course, the knight captain had initially balked when the princess had insisted on an overland journey back to Palanthas, but in his secret heart he was glad to have the excuse to avoid the tedious sea voyage back to the north. Selinda had been right. The goblin menace was hundreds of miles away, in the shadow of the Garnet Range, and her suggestion that they follow the Vingaard Mountains back north had been a good one. While there might be an occasional bandit or gang of thieves lurking on the plains, the presence of a hundred armed knights was enough to keep even the most rapacious highwayman far, far away.
Still, she was a headstrong lass, stubborn as a mule and a little more feisty than Powell’s ideal female. Even tonight, she had insisted on going off by herself, visiting the old house that she remembered from childhood trips. Since his men had already had a good look around, the captain had sent her off with only a show of protest. In truth, he felt that she could take care of herself.
Powell came to the small camp of the dwarf and gnomes, nodding to his fellow wayfarers as they offered him wishes for a good evening. A strange lot, that trio, the captain reflected. He had never known dwarves and gnomes to have so much to do with each other. Ah well, each to his own, he told himself, strolling past their backpacks. It was a surprisingly large assortment of baggage, he noted idly, feeling a little sorry especially for the two diminutive gnomes at thought of them carrying all that stuff on some undoubtedly lengthy trek.
He stopped and looked back at the equipment. There were four backpacks there, you dolt, he realized. That wasn’t surprising in itself. Yet he had chatted with the dwarf earlier, and indeed they had been camped nearby for several hours now. Why hadn’t the fourth member of the party shown himself by now?
That fourth backpack was a large satchel suited more to a human—a tall human—than to any dwarf or gnome. The Captain of the Rose turned about and knelt beside the pack. Yes, indeed there was a long object there, something wrapped in a cloak.
“I say there, Cap’n? Is there something you want?” asked the dwarf, rising to his feet with hasty politeness.
Powell was already pulling aside the cloak. He saw the gilded hilt, the gold-engraved L as he revealed a weapon that he recognized instantly.
It was Giantsmiter, the sword of Lorimar. That meant the worst possible thing: the dread Assassin was nearby.
Probably hiding out in the ruin of the old house.
The old house where the Princess of Palanthas had just gone for a stroll.
Coryn’s left hand clenched the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned as white as her pristine robe. Angrily she exhaled, a snort of sound startlingly loud in the silent chamber, then shook her head, a toss of black hair momentarily obscuring her view of the bowl of sparkling wine.
She had to watch—she knew that much—even if she hated what she was now gazing upon. In her right hand, clutched so tightly that it was bending, was the miniature golden swordsman—the talisman of Jaymes Markham, the man most of Solamnia called Assassin. She could see certain events transpire in her bowl, but they were events beyond her influence, or her will. There was destiny at work here, a future affecting all the lands of the north.
I
t was more than luck that brought the Princess of Palanthas to this place, she thought with a pang. It was indeed destiny, a fate woven into the very tapestry of the world. Coryn had dreaded this moment, known it might come, had known this for a long time. It was a meeting that had been foretold in certain of her auguries, even abetted by her own plans and schemes.
If not her desires.
Of course Selinda herself had made the choice to go exploring among the buildings where Jaymes had secluded himself. Coryn knew her—she was proud and inquisitive, smart and confident, but also naïve.
The wizard was startled by the flash of anger she felt. She recognized the emotion, in an intellectual sense, as jealousy even as she was startled by the flaming heat it raised in her breast.
“She is too damned beautiful!” snapped the wizard, shaking her head once again.
The image of Selinda du Chagne, lit from behind by the setting sun, glowed in her viewing bowl. Jaymes was dumbstruck and confused, staring at the gorgeous woman who had just discovered him, had him trapped like a cornered rat. He had a weapon, he had strength and speed. He could be past her, away from this place, in seconds.
Coryn remembered his roughness. She wanted him to use it now against Selinda, but Jaymes wouldn’t, didn’t. He stood there, stock-still.
In disgust Coryn waved a hand, and the image faded from the mirror, leaving the Scrying Room in darkness. The white wizard stood and paced through the chamber, knowing the exact dimensions even though she could not see the walls, the table, or her chair in the lightless confines. With a single word she could have illuminated the place as bright as daylight, but she was unwilling to utter that word.
She would have to let things happen, she knew, let destiny take its course, but she didn’t have to suffer the watching.
“You bastard,” she murmured, before composing herself and slowly, carefully, opening the door.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CONFRONTATION IN THE CELLAR
Who are you?” demanded the woman. She held the door wide, allowing the full intensity of the setting sun’s rays to fall upon the warrior, illuminating him like an actor on center stage. Jaymes held up a hand to shade his eyes, squinting but made no reply.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone blunt.
The swordsman could tell that she was young, probably not yet twenty, and while obviously startled, was unafraid. Certainly she made no move to run away. Instead, she stood in the open doorway, peering at him through the darkness of the shed.
Jaymes shrugged, lowering the hand in which he held his dagger. “Just a wanderer,” he said. “I thought this would be a comfortable place to spend the night. I was getting ready to go to sleep—I’ve covered a lot of ground today, and I have to admit I’m tired.”
“You’re lying,” she said calmly. She surprised him by stepping into the shed and, even more shocking, pulling the door shut behind her. “You’re traveling with that dwarf and those gnomes, the ones camping in the apple grove, aren’t you?”
He peered at her silhouette against the faint steak of daylight coming through the crack in the door frame. He could make out a halo of golden hair. Beyond that he could discern few details: She was taller than average for a woman, and though she had a cape hanging off of her shoulders he guessed that she was slender.
She was courageous. Foolish, perhaps, but also very brave—of that there could be no doubt.
Her voice was confident, even arrogant and a little amused. It was the voice of a person who was used to issuing orders without having to worry whether or not those commands would be obeyed. It was the voice of a noblewoman.
Jaymes guessed she was traveling with the company of knights he had earlier observed. It occurred to him that she might be the reason for that large company, that she was important enough to warrant a sizeable and well-armed escort.
But she was still youthful, and acted as though this was some kind of thrilling adventure for her. She was overconfident in the way of one who had never experienced anything terrible. She conveyed a sense of secret delight, as if it pleased her mightily to be away from her escort, and to have discovered him here.
It was altogether confusing, and he felt at a loss. A part of him wanted to rush past her, throw open the door, and race away into the gathering dusk. He wasn’t entirely sure why he declined that course of action, but the greater part of him felt no urge to run.
With what he hoped was a subtle gesture, he slipped his knife through his belt at the small of his back and held out his empty hands, palms displayed, before him. Still, he said nothing
“I asked you, what are you doing here, why are you hiding?” she said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied. “Is it so incredible that I’d simply prefer a roof over my head?”
She sniffed. “There are lots of roofs around here. Why would you choose a place that smells so bad to make your bed? Or is that you I smell?” she added.
He blinked. “My turn. Who are you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Just a traveler, like you. I know this place—my father used to send me here when I was a girl. My mother and I would take trips to the plains. We would come here to the apple farm, then go to Lord Lorimar’s estate to stay for a fortnight at the end of summer. Of course, that was a long time ago, but when we came back through here and made camp in the grove, I felt a pang of nostalgia and decided I wanted to have a look around.”
His vision, temporarily obscured by the brightness when she first opened the door, had begun to make out a beautiful woman with rounded cheeks and large, inquisitive eyes. The sunlight striking her hair colored it like spun gold. The swelling of her bosom beneath the cape suggested a pleasing form. Her head was held high as she stepped toward him.
“You said your father would send you from your home to the plains? From where is that, may I ask?” he asked.
“I live in Palanthas.”
“He did not bring you himself? Why not?”
She shrugged, and for the first time there appeared a slight fissure in that self-confident façade. “I don’t know. He had important business in the city—he always has work that keeps him busy. That didn’t prevent me from doing some traveling. I had a good friend who lived in a manor on these plains. I would visit Dara Lorimar every summer.”
“You are more than a mere traveler, Lady,” Jaymes ventured. “You carry yourself like royalty. You are certainly brave—for all you know, I could be a robber, a common thief, or even worse.”
“There are some who say you are worse. Much worse,” she said dryly.
Jaymes shifted warily. Somehow she knew who he was, though how she had made that identification was beyond him.
“Oh, I recognized that dwarf,” she explained. “I saw him before, in the Gnome Ghetto of Caergoth. I was watching through a spyglass when the knights tried to capture you there. When Coryn the White whisked you away. When you killed that knight, cut off the hand of another one. They say it was you who killed Lord Lorimar and his daughter—my friend. Oh, I know exactly who you are or who you are supposed to be. You are the Assassin.”
“You know all that, and you’re not afraid?” Jaymes asked. “What makes you think I won’t kill you then?”
She stood blocking the door. Every muscle in the warrior’s body was twitching, urging him to make a dash, attack, hide, do something. Yet he stood there like a trapped deer, quivering, nostrils flaring. The woman before him was a slender reed, beautiful, truly, but obviously he could overcome her. Yet the warrior was unwilling to shove her aside and make his escape.
“Maybe you will kill me yet,” she said, her voice even, still unafraid. “Then we will surely know, won’t we? We’ll know that you’re a cold-blooded murderer who would shed the blood of a woman with no regret. Who will do whatever he needs to do to get what he wants. ‘This is the Assassin,’ they will all cry, and Captain Powell and his men will hunt you down and kill you.”
“That would be a little late for you, do
n’t you think?”
She shrugged. “I say to myself, what if they are wrong? What if you are not the one who killed the lord and Dara?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Lady Coryn. I know her, and I saw her help you in Caergoth, help you escape the very knights who serve the nobility of Solamnia. For ten years she has been an ally of our noble houses, helping to make this land strong and righteous again. She has risked her life many times to drive the Dark Knights out of Palanthas, to banish the beasts of Khellendros from the northern coasts. I have wondered why she would help you.”
“Well, she was my lover, once,” he said harshly, more harshly than he intended. “She has a tender spot for me.”
“Oh.” Finally something seemed to take her by surprise. Those large eyes widened, then narrowed. Her voice, when next she spoke, was cold. “Except I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want,” he said. “I don’t care.”
He was eyeing the door, again considering the notion of pushing her out of the way and making a run for it, when loud male voices reached them. Many knights were approaching.
“Lady Selinda!”
“Your Highness?”
“Princess! Where are you?”
“What, you’re the daughter of Du Chagne?” he asked, astonished. “You are the Princess of Palanthas?”
She looked around in alarm then fastened her large eyes on the warrior. She was still remarkably unafraid. He stared back at her, waiting to see what this surprising creature was going to do next.
“Come here!” she said, pulling open the door and gesturing to him. “I know a place where you’ll be safe—trust me.”
Jaymes hesitated. Why should he trust her? The answer was obvious: With a single scream, she could bring doom down upon him.
“This way,” she said urgently. “Hurry!”
With those words to prod him, he followed her through the door. They emerged from the shed to see that none of the knights had reached the rear of the building yet. “This way!” she said, ducking her head and running. She moved with speed and grace in her leggings, and the warrior had to hurry to keep up with her.