She thought she knew the location of every Maizani. She thought she had a clear lane open to safety for herself and Ryn. She was just kicking the horse into gear when the Maizan Captain loomed up out of nowhere, so close at hand and coming so fast that Elora barely had time to recognize her danger before she was struck down, to crash in a clumsy heap through a roadside pile of compost.
By the time Elora struggled free, clothes and body now adorned by a wild variety of filth, the Maizan were past the tree line. In their wake they cast torches among the tents that lined the approaches to the main gate, and set fire to some of the wagon train as well, breaking the refugees’ livestock loose from their paddock. Of the two who’d fallen, one had managed to make his escape. His companion, though, had been tackled by a pair of wolfhounds, a fearsome shock since their size was a match for his and their combined weight greater. He knew neither mail nor any weapon would be fair protection against jaws powerful enough to tear limbs from their sockets, and so he yielded. A quartet of Sandeni troopers managed to evade the roadblocks the Maizan had set and thundered past Elora in hot pursuit. If the Commandant knew his business, and her reading of him was that he did, their orders would be to follow but not engage, to mark their trail for a larger, more heavily armed force. With all the confusion, the need to bring both fires and loose animals back under control, those reinforcements wouldn’t be leaving soon.
She sensed the presence of the wolfhound who’d adopted her before she actually saw him. He whined his concern, then lifted himself on his hind legs, making her grunt with the strain as he placed forepaws on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. He was a dog, yet standing in this position he had height on her by better than a couple of heads. She didn’t reprimand him, she knew he just wanted to make sure she was all right. She even endured a slobbery lick of his tongue because it was to make her feel better. Once, though, was enough, and with a heave she returned him to all fours.
What she wanted now more than anything wasn’t comfort, she wanted to give chase herself. Her failure to rescue Ryn, when she had him right in hand, left a bitter, angry taste in her mouth. The fact that she’d outmatched the Maizan warrior in the watchtower only made her feel worse. Winning every battle, she raged to herself, didn’t count for much if ultimately you lost the war.
She said as much to Duguay, when he found her helping fight the fires outside the stronghold walls, turning the upper-body strength she’d built at Torquil’s forge to good advantage by working the rocker bars of a water pump. It also proved a splendid outlet for her frustrations, maintaining a steady flow of water to the fire hose.
He appeared as elegantly turned out as ever, and she hated him for it, painfully aware of how wretchedly bedraggled she looked.
“Depends on the war,” he noted. “On how you define the terms of the conflict and the victory to be won. You should pay more attention to your own songs.”
“I should have been paying more attention to that mess at the gate. I was totally blindsided.”
“The Captain’s a warrior. That sort of thing’s his stock-in-trade. You’ve the beginnings of a decent bard.”
“I’m not supposed to be either, Duguay! Hey,” she bellowed suddenly as the bellows clunked on air instead of water, “get off the damn hose, you great thumping pillocks! Can’t’cha see we’re working here!” Retorts came in a blend of apology and insult as the offending wagon was shoved clear of the line that linked pump to the river. For the next couple of minutes Elora said nothing, save for some random grunts, as she worked the rocker arm all the harder to rebuild pressure in the hose. Now of course, there were cries of dismay and protest from the other direction as the spray faded fast to a trickle and then to nothing.
“Conversation’s a duet, Elora my sweeting,” Duguay prompted gently when the silence began to drag. “You have to know the right moment to come in with your part, else you’ll cock up the tune worse than any traffic accident.”
“I’m a little busy right now, Duguay,” was her pointed reply. “You could always pitch in and help, you know.”
“I like to think I am, in my own way. Talk with me, Elora, it’ll make the work go easier. I can guess partly what this is all about, the bare bones seem pretty obvious.”
“Oh?”
“A prophecy,” he said with a small smile that, despite her fatigue, she couldn’t help returning. She liked the shape of his mouth, the firm set of his jaw, the way this one infernal forelock refused to yield to any amount of styling pomade but always slipped free to curl across his brow. She had a solid sense of every aspect of his features, except his eyes. Without them, the picture was incomplete. Worse, she feared it was meaningless.
“A Princess,” he went on, thankfully oblivious to the path her thoughts were taking. “Everybody wants the prize. I’ve the distinct impression hardly anyone really knows why. Except perhaps this Mohdri fella. He’s offering a pretty penny, think he has the answers?”
“If he does, we’re all damned.”
“An old familiar face, then?”
“We’ve crossed swords.”
“Prophecy and Princess. Noble heroes, a grand and glorious villain. Must be a fable, then. An epic confrontation between Good and Evil!”
She gave him her best basilisk glare for that remark, which only made him laugh.
“What exactly does that mean, good and evil?” she wondered afterward, in all seriousness.
“Substance versus style?”
“Is everything to you nothing but source material for a joke?”
“No more or less than it should be for you, lass. We’re troubadours, we tell stories, our purpose is to entertain, am I right?”
“I bet,” she said, bypassing his question because a part of her agreed with him, “if you took a poll of our audience, a decent number would say the Maizan conquest isn’t such an awful thing. That the Daikini Realm is a better place with the doors to the Great Realms of Faery closed and sealed. Probably find as many among the Veil Folk of the same opinion.”
“House gets too crowded, Elora, somebody generally has to move out.”
“Suppose you have a pattern of glorious beauty and complexity, a weave whose whole is far stronger than the sum of its parts? When you split it into its component threads, is it then as lovely, as rich? As lasting?”
“Lovely for cloth, perhaps, but I’ve never heard of one thread having any sort of opinion about another.”
“Listen harder.”
“Oil and water don’t mix, Elora, why should every race and culture?”
“Isn’t that one of the responsibilities of sentience, Duguay, to rise above even natural prejudices?”
“Especially with a Sacred Princess to show the way?”
“Who’s to say? The job didn’t come with instructions.”
“Now who’s making light?”
“It’s true. The only person with any real clue is the Deceiver….” Her voice trailed off, as if the words themselves constituted a sudden and unexpected revelation.
“What?” came a prompt from Duguay, after she’d been silent awhile.
“Something Thorn Drumheller said…”
“That name I’ve heard before.”
“My guardian, you might say.”
“You mean I’ve a rival for that role? Heaven forfend!”
“Keep this up, Master Faralorn, I’ll have them hose you down.”
“Hmm, I’d best behave. You’re always most formidable when you call me ‘Master Faralorn.’ ”
“And you’re worse to deal with sometimes than any brownie!”
“So what did this Drumheller fella tell you?”
“That the Deceiver seemed to know everyone better than they did themselves. Cherlindrea, all the other monarchs, Thorn himself.” And especially, she thought, feeling apprehension descend her spine like a trickle of ice, me. He knows
me, and his spells can do me harm. But why? How can he alone have such power? Where does it come from, where does he come from?
“As the sages are fond of saying, Elora, knowledge is power.”
“And I have next to none. I don’t even know who I am.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“My mother was murdered the day I was born, Duguay. I have no fit memory of her, I know nothing about my father. If anyone else did”—a pause, as a vision all in scarlet and black, with haunted features and hating eyes swam across the panorama of Elora’s memory, the Demon Queen Bavmorda, who’d tried so hard to end Elora’s life before it had even begun—“they never told me. What are you smiling at?” she demanded suddenly of Duguay, tempted to clout him for his rudeness.
“Just listening, is all. I can’t speak for the whole of your destiny but at this time, in this part, it’s clear you were meant to be a bard.”
“Stop.”
“It’s the way you frame words, almost as well as I do music—and that’s saying quite a piece.”
“Thank you,” she told him, but her tone made plain that she didn’t believe. He didn’t appear to mind, which infuriated her all the more.
“So,” he said. “That elf, back at Ganthem’s, when he lay dying he named you ‘Deceiver.’ ”
“That’s not the same!”
“The accusation struck a chord, that much is plain. Do you fear some connection with your enemy?”
“It would explain a lot.”
He considered. “Think to when we were deep within the forest. Suppose you ask me what the shape of the world is and I tell you straight it’s made of naught but trees. Can you prove me different?”
“Easily.”
“How? Look about you, Elora, what do you see?”
“Trees. But—!”
“What do you see?” he asked her again.
“Trees!” she repeated with some asperity. “And if we travel a ways,” she went on, daring him with a glare to interrupt again, “we’ll see meadows.” She waved an arm to illustrate the point. “And plains. And mountains. And an ocean.”
“Absolutely right. The more you know,” he announced triumphantly, as though presenting a fundamental law of the universe, “the more you know! And you”—for emphasis, he gave her a sharp poke on the breastbone—“know damn all. Am I wrong, or am I right?”
She let out her breath in a deliberate and obvious sigh and pursed her lips. “You’re right,” she said, with a shallow nod.
“Absolutely.” He surveyed the scene, pursed his lips, came to a decision. “Come with me,” he told her. “Time you did some good.”
“And this is…?” she said, wearily indicating the pump.
“Something any stalwart soul can do. What I have in mind is for you and me alone.”
He produced a jug of mint-accented water, deliciously cool, so she could slake her thirst. She splashed a double handful across her face and head, won a nod of self-appreciation from Duguay at how well his paint withstood the night’s onslaught, and asked for something to eat. All he had to offer were road biscuits, which tasted like sawdust but took the edge off her pangs.
Then his rich baritone voice rang out in a roundelay familiar to the locals, used during harvesttime in the wheat fields, to make the cutting and threshing go more quickly. Elora came in on cue a half phrase behind him, taking the harmony to his melody.
No one paid much attention at first. The most response they got was a volley of sharp complaints from those who had to replace Elora at her pump, and by the hoseman who felt the replacements didn’t do as good a job. Elora took the challenge personally and without missing breath or beat moved back to her old position and took hold of the rocker arms. She matched the cadence of the pump to that of the song and turned it into a duel with Duguay to see who could complete each verse with more energy and panache.
The hoseman couldn’t help a laugh at the discomfiture shown by the four Elora had supplanted, who themselves were trying to figure out how this girl could outperform them. Duguay moved over to him, gestured him to pick up the next verse, only to roll his eyes in overplayed scorn at the hesitant attempt that emerged. The four pumpers took that as an opportunity to get some of their own back and took up the roundelay themselves, engaging in a four-part harmony as they accepted the handoff of the pump from Elora. Which in turn inspired the hoseman to better efforts.
And so the troubadour and his apprentice spread music through the night, easing the pain of those who’d suffered loss, energizing the spirits of those who fought to help them. Their repertoire were simple tunes that everyone knew or that could easily be learned.
As battles went, this was quickly won, and the cost was surprisingly cheap. Aside from some aching heads—drugged wine flasks—and a couple of abstemious sentries who’d been thumped, there were no casualties. While the risk of disaster had been significant, the actual losses turned out to be far less so. Scorched timbers and a roof in need of repair about the stable, a number of tents that would have to be replaced, one wagon that was a total write-off.
True, the Maizan had stolen Ryn away, but two of their number had been left behind, the one from the gate and his companion, whom Elora had clocked in the watchtower.
Elora wanted to confront them herself. To her astonishment, she found herself summoned to the Provost Marshal’s office for an interrogation of her own.
She wasn’t under arrest, or even under suspicion, she was assured, despite the fact that a couple of armed proctors had been sent to collect her. This was only a formality.
Luc-Jon sat at his scribe’s table in the corner of the Marshal’s austere office, to record all that was said. He tried to look reassuring as Elora was marched inside but couldn’t hide the worry in his eyes.
She told the truth. Just not all of it. About the confrontation at the stable and the Maizan’s determination to win back what they considered their property at any cost. Her flight from the dining hall after her performance, she ascribed to panic over the audience’s response. She’d never done this before, she didn’t know how to cope with their reaction. She wanted some time to herself, to regain her composure, and heard the commotion at the stable. She didn’t sound an alarm because she didn’t know what was happening. By the time she did, there was no more time. Her reason was simplicity itself: she believed the Maizan intended harm to that poor creature and she wasn’t about to let them have their way with him.
It was a well-told story. The Marshal made no attempt to discount it, but also made none to disguise the fact that he knew this was a bard’s stock-in-trade. It was plausible, which was why he chose to accept it. He also believed there was more.
She asked if the Maizan prisoners had said anything, received no more than a thin-lipped smile in return that told her it was none of her business. She was thanked for her cooperation and dismissed, and just as she stepped over the threshold she was informed that until this matter was fully resolved she and her companion were restricted to the fort.
As morning edged away night, after all the others had gone to bed, she sat by herself in the dining hall staring into the hearth until the last of its embers finally guttered out. Every now and again she would reach a finger, or all of them together, through the flame of the candle that stood before her on the table. Sometimes its fire was like the lick of a serpent’s tongue, at others like a caress of heat. Once, she closed her palm around it, to see if she could steal it away, but the flame slipped from her grasp and held its place firmly on the wick. Such a puny thing, yet it could ignite a blaze capable of consuming the entire fort, if not a goodly portion of forest. At the same time, it remained so fragile that she could extinguish it with a fingertip, or the smallest puff of air.
She thought of dragons, and asked how they could possibly hold a fire as hot as the world’s heart within their bellies and not be devoured themselves? How co
uld firedrakes exist, composed of nothing but molten essence, of such incredible intensity that their mere presence could vaporize steel and stone? How could she swim with them, be one with them, yet not be annihilated?
Thinking of swimming reminded her of Ryn, and that the word which came most naturally to mind when she pictured him was joyous. Life was a delight and his sense of wonder was so infectious that all who encountered him couldn’t help but be swept along with it. His features weren’t even human, when she was younger she took him for a living embodiment of her guardian bear, whereas Duguay was a heartbreaker. Without a thought as to why she measured these two against each other, she realized that she could look Ryn in the eye, and what she found there was a soul as winning and noble as could be wished for.
She ached with the loss of him and raged at her inability to find a way to go to his rescue.
The rational side of Elora told her to go to bed, that no good purpose was served by such ruminations, but she wasn’t in the mood. Her spirit wasn’t weary and her body was beset by too many angry sensations, as though all of her joints and bones had decided they were done with living in harmony. She snorted then, remembering her analogy with the cloth and wondering if all the parts of her had decided they were better off wandering their separate ways.
She puffed out the candleflame and stepped past the wolfhound onto the porch. In the early-morning silence, with the stronghold mostly asleep, natural sounds once more held sway. She could hear the wild progress of the river as well as the rustle of wind through the aspen groves that intruded upon the more numerous spruce and highland pine. The breeze brought with it a myriad of scents that weren’t so noticeable by daylight. There was no moon, but neither were there clouds to obscure the magnificent panoply of starlight overhead. Black sky she beheld when she looked up, against the blacker silhouette of the forest. Peace at last settled around her like a shawl, and she thought to go to bed.
“Elora Danan,” she heard from behind, “you’re dead.”
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