Prince of Bryanae

by Jeffrey Getzin

  At last, they reached the opposite end of the square. Tamlevar paused for breath once more and then took off down an alley between two buildings, took a sharp turn around a corner, and then ran a few more blocks.

  “I can’t …” he said, wheezing. “I can’t go … much further.”

  This would have to do. Tamlevar was her only ally: it wouldn’t do to run him to death.

  “All right,” said. “We can stop here.”

  Tamlevar halted and leaned against the corner of another temple. He lowered Willow onto her good foot, and then straightened, tilting his head back to better his air intake. He breathed in gulps, and he seemed almost drunk from near asphyxiation.

  He sagged against the wall. “I never … I never channeled that much before,” he said, his voice brittle. He glanced back at their path. “What are we … what are we going to do? Where do we go? We have … we have to think … fast.”

  Her mind had been spinning, trying to answer those very same questions. At last, she came up with a plan.

  Well, not really a plan. More of a shell of a plan, but it was all she had.

  “Suel,” she said. “Head for Suel’s tower.”

  Chapter 19

  Tamlevar was strong; she had to give him that. Staggering through the streets of Bryanae with an armored elf over his shoulder couldn’t be easy. She kept an eye out behind them, but so far, the streets were devoid of soldiers. That wouldn’t last; the pair of them was hardly inconspicuous.

  “We are in so much trouble,” Tamlevar kept repeating, as though grappling with the enormity of the situation. If they were caught, she’d likely be put on public display for a week or so and then hanged. As for Tamlevar, the best he could hope for would be an ignominious discharge from the Guard; but far more likely, he too would swing at the end of a rope. Perhaps that would at last satisfy his idea of romance.

  “I just laid siege to my own castle,” Tamlevar said.

  “I declared war on my own country,” she said.

  Tamlevar seemed to consider that as he ran, splashing through a puddle. “We’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Tamlevar’s pace kept slowing. It was a miracle he could even walk after what he had been through.

  “I’ll need some kind of a crutch,” Willow said.

  Tamlevar skidded to a halt, nearly throwing her from his back. “Are you insane?”

  “I’ll also need a sword.” Willow felt a sharp pang of regret. The rapier she had left behind had been a masterwork that she had commissioned about fifty years ago. Short of an ensorcelled weapon, no finer blade existed. It had been irreplaceable.

  “Anything else?”

  “I’ll have to wield it left-handed until my arm recovers, but yes, that will do for the present.”

  Tamlevar resumed his jog, but his plodding steps were spacing out further and further. He started to sway. Willow clung to his neck, fighting to stay on him.

  “I’m not going to make it,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Channeled too much.”

  Willow glanced about. They weren’t even close to Suel’s tower yet. She climbed from his back, clung to his arm as a crutch. His face was grayish and his eyes were slightly unfocused.

  “Can you hold on? We have to keep moving.” The slightest motion of her injured foot brought back nauseous waves. If she had to walk on her own, or worse, help Tamlevar walk …

  “I’ve got to rest.” Tamlevar’s words were slurred as though he were drugged. He stopped walking and leaned against side wall of a shop. “I can’t keep my eyes open much longer.”

  Terrific.

  Willow looked about, seeking a place to hide. Why did this have to be happening in broad daylight, so close to the town square? Damn that bitch of a Queen and her ineffective son.

  A diminutive figure appeared from around the corner ahead of her: Four Fingers. Stunted at birth, Four Fingers had never reached four feet tall, yet his small stature had not prevented him from forming his own criminal underworld.

  Willow had no sooner noted his arrival when two of his goons appeared alongside him. There was no way this could be a coincidence. But how in the Icy Inferno could he have found out so quickly?

  Most of the organized criminal activity in Bryanae could be attributed indirectly to Four Fingers. None of it had ever been proven. Now in his mid-fifties, Four Fingers cut a bizarre figure, with his azure silken robe and his wide-brimmed hat replete with an enormous white plume. Why he was called Four Fingers was a mystery to her. Both of his hands possessed the correct number of fingers.

  “Uh oh,” Tamlevar said.

  “In a hurry, Lady Captain?” asked Four Fingers with a bow and flourish, hat in hand, and a knowing smile at the corner of his mouth.

  “If you think you can take me, runt,” she snarled, “now’s your chance. But I’ll warn you that even now you won’t come away unscratched.”

  “You misunderstand me, Willow. I’m not here to hinder your egress. I’m here to help you.”

  Help her? The thought sent chills deep into her belly. She’d almost prefer him as an adversary than as an ally.

  “Help me?” she said. “In return for what?”

  Four Fingers grinned, and it made him look like an evil child. “Don’t be coy, Lady Captain. You know what.”

  Yes, she realized that she did. Four Fingers was a gambler of repute and that was what he was doing now: gambling on her. He seemed to think there was a chance that this catastrophic set of circumstances could somehow work out and that she would yet be able to benefit him. What he wanted was simple enough: he wanted her to owe him a favor.

  Any internal moral debate was cut short by the distant sounds of hounds barking and men shouting. She looked about for any alternatives but found none.

  “You win. Now find us a place to hide!”

  Four Fingers wagged a finger. His expression was jovial, but his eyes were cold. “Not so fast. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Say what?” She could make out the voices of her pursuers now. They were close, very close.

  “Say the price you have agreed to pay.”

  Tamlevar stumbled against a wall, his eyes half-shut. The hounds were baying for her blood.

  “All right!” she said. “I will owe you a favor.”

  Four Fingers beamed at her. “Precisely!”

  He tossed her his plumed hat. She caught it without comprehension.

  “Now,” said Four Fingers. “I and my henchmen are going to stand in your path. You are to knock us down—quite gently I implore you—and then run carrying this hat two blocks to the inn, at which point you will make a left turn. Help will find you shortly. I will misdirect your pursuers.”

  Before she could comment on how ridiculous the plan was, Four Fingers leapt in front of her, his arms akimbo like some ridiculously hero out of legend.

  “Halt right there, pernicious miscreant!” he cried. He held aloft a hand with index finger pointing skyward. “Your treasonous path of destruction is at an end. Seize her, gentlemen!”

  With that, his two henchmen lunged at her in the most ineptly staged manner possible.

  “Is this guy for real?” asked Tamlevar.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Hit them.”

  The ‘battle’ lasted only a few moments. Even as exhausted as he was, Tamlevar was able to throw enough fake punches to “dispatch” his opponents. In no time, Four Fingers and his goons were sprawled out on the cobblestone street.

  “Help us!” cried Four Fingers. “We’ve been accosted!”

  “Come on,” Willow said to Tamlevar. “We’ve got to move.”

  They hobbled down the street. When they reached the inn, they turned left as directed, and before they had taken three steps, hooded men appeared out of the shadows and threw a dark tarp about them.

  One of them put his finger to his lips. As he did this, two other men, both very tall, emerged from the shadows. The first was blond and the other black-haired. They wore cloaks of a color similar to tho
se worn by the Guard.

  The dark-haired of the two shouted, “There they go!” and then the pair ran off in the direction from which Willow and Tamlevar had come. From the rear, they were close enough impostors to fool the casual observers. Clever, yes, but how could Four Fingers possibly have prepared this diversion with such short notice?

  No matter. The hooded men were leading them down a series of seedy streets, the way getting increasingly labyrinthine until eventually even Willow did not know exactly where they were.

  Their hooded escorts stopped at a featureless hovel.

  “In there,” one of them whispered. Then he and his associates eased back into the shadows and were gone.

  Willow pushed open the door and was greeted with a billow of dust from the dark interior that made them both cough.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  It would have to do. Tamlevar was in no condition to go any further. She prodded him inside and then followed. He started to sag, but she steadied him while she laid out the tarp onto the floor. Tamlevar collapsed onto it and became an inert lump. Willow closed the door to the hovel and then lay next to him. She covered as much of the two of them as she could with her cloak.

  Tamlevar began to snore just as the pain in her foot began in earnest. She bit down on her hand to keep from screaming.

  * * *

  Discipline.

  Discipline was what kept her resolute. Severely injured, an outlaw in her own country, her career in ruins: the sensible thing to do would be to leave Bryanae and start a new life; that or kill herself.

  She intended to do neither.

  * * *

  “Do you think he’s home?” Tamlevar said as they crested a rise in the street and Suel’s tower came into view. His pallor was still somewhat gray, but his eyes were bright and he didn’t seem to notice Willow’s weight as he carried her.

  He lumbered up to the giant double-doors. The full moon in the night sky cast a pair of ghostly reflection on the brass door knockers.

  “Open it,” Willow said.

  Tamlevar glanced at her over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t we knock first or something? I mean, the guy’s a mage.”

  She didn’t reply. Tamlevar shrugged and then reached for the door.

  It yawned open.

  “Good,” Willow said. “He’s expecting us.” And for a change, he actually wanted to see her.

  Tamlevar carried Willow into the entrance hall.

  “It’s about time you showed up.” Suel’s voice echoed through the hall. Willow spied him through the hole in the upper floor, to which the stairs had once led.

  “You knew we were coming?” Willow asked.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Tamlevar quipped.

  Suel said, “I’ve learned much about the Prince’s abductors.”

  “I thought you might,” Willow said. “Are you going to come down here?”

  “No,” Suel said. “You come up.”

  Willow climbed down from Tamlevar’s back, winced once, and then hopped a short distance.

  “I can barely walk and you expect me to climb?”

  The faint traces of a smile appeared on Suel’s face. He clenched his fists, no doubt using the tiny razors in his gloves to slice the flesh of his palms. Ghoulish, yes, but unlike his predecessor, at least Suel usually used his own blood to cast his spells.

  The air seemed to flicker and condense in front of Willow. Moments later, a stone stairwell started at her feet and rose to where Suel tapped his foot.

  “Whenever it suits you,” he said, his voice cutting. “It’s not like there’s any urgency.”

  “Come on,” Willow said. “Let’s go.”

  She began to ascend the stairs, clinging to the banister and hopping up a step at a time. She winced at every hop, which brought her through a maelstrom of pain and out again. When she was halfway up the stairs, she noticed that Tamlevar had not followed. He eyed the stairwell suspiciously, biting his lip.

  “The staircase is solid enough,” she said, but Tamlevar did not seem convinced.

  “Weak bloodline,” muttered Suel.

  Tamlevar squared his shoulders and then bounded up the stairs two at a time until he reached Willow. He pulled her arm around his shoulder, and she was in such a haze of pain that she didn’t even think to argue. He helped her up the stairs, glancing at them anxiously, as though he feared their imminent disappearance.

  * * *

  “I presume you know more than you’ve let on,” Suel said.

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” Willow replied between agonized gasps. She sat cross-legged on the floor with the remainder of her boot cut away. She was fashioning a splint for her shattered foot from a handful of long iron stirring rods provided by the mage.

  Though the operation hurt her like the torments of Icy Inferno itself, Willow kept her face placid. Tamlevar stood watching over her, giving little sympathetic gasps and clicks of his tongue.

  The mage had no more of his healing potions, nor did he have the ingredients to brew another. There was a small quantity left in one of the vials—barely a mouthful—and Willow drained every drop of it.

  Suel grunted at her accusation but said nothing. He paced about the room, his eagle-like wings fluttering behind him. “Let’s make this easier: Do you know who abducted the Prince?”

  “Yes. Kards from Kardán. Feudalistic nation about twelve weeks northwest of Bryanae. Their supreme ruler is the Warlord Jabar, Ambassador Tee-Ri’s husband.”

  “So you did know,” Suel said.

  “Of course I knew,” Willow said. “Tee-Ri is my mother, and I once lived in Kardán.”

  “Wait,” Tamlevar said, placing a hand on Willow’s shoulder. “You’re telling me that these barbarians come from your homeland?”

  Tamlevar must have sensed the chill that ran through Willow’s body. He withdrew his hand as though in fear of frostbite.

  “Kardán is not my home,” Willow said, her eyes narrowed to slits. “It has never been my home, and never shall be.”

  “But—”

  “I said I lived there. I didn’t say it was my home. Now let it go.” Her hand closed on air where her rapier should have been. Dammit, she’d forgotten: she’d lost it. Her cheeks colored.

  Tamlevar removed his rapier from his belt and handed it to her hilt-first.

  “You look weird without a weapon in your hand,” he said by way of explanation.

  As Willow fastened the rapier to her belt, Suel cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice clipped. “Am I boring you with all this talk about the kidnapping of the Prince?”

  “I know where these barbarians come from,” Willow said, “but I don’t know where they are now. The attacks are coming too frequently. They can’t be returning to Kardán after each attack. They must have a base nearby.”

  “You really haven’t figured it out?” Suel glanced at her askance, his lips tightened into a grimace.

  “I’ve been otherwise occupied,” Willow said. “Where are they?”

  “Wait a moment,” Tamlevar said. “I’m worried about the Prince and all, but why are you so interested, Willow? You just resigned the guard. Hell, we’re both traitors!”

  Suddenly, the full realization seemed to hit him. His face faded to a pale gray.

  “Oh no,” he said. “What have I done? My mother won’t understand.”

  Suel snorted.

  “What?” Tamlevar demanded, indignant.

  “I wouldn’t be so certain,” Suel said. “Your raid on the castle is precisely the kind of brainless stunt Elidon would have pulled.”

  “You think so?” A hesitant smile crept onto Tamlevar’s face.

  Suel sighed, shaking his head. “It was not a compliment. Your mother is one of the most—”

  “I’m sorry, Suel,” Willow interrupted. “Am I boring you with all this talk about the kidnapping of the Prince?”

  Suel glared at Willow. He flapped his wings once, elevating himself several times h
is height into the air. He glided across the room.

  “Follow me,” he said, his voice gruff.

  Tamlevar offered Willow his arm, and she availed herself of it. Together, they limped and shuffled over to where Suel had come to rest beside a map cube in the center of the room.

  “Bryanae,” he said, indicating a small bean-shaped section of the map that glowed purple.

  “Kardán,” he said, and an enormous elliptical section lit up green a hand’s span away from the purple bean. It was easily ten times as large as Bryanae.

  “Observe,” said Suel.

  As they watched, a red dotted line traced a line from Kardán to Bryanae. Almost directly in its path was a single island, which glowed yellow when the line reached it.

  “Hey,” Tamlevar exclaimed. “I don’t recall seeing that island range on the charts.”

  “It used to be,” Willow said. “Before I had it removed. From every chart in Bryanae. Except this one, apparently.”

  “Then you know this island?” Suel said.

  “Of course, I do. It’s Ignis Fatuus, the fallen elven stronghold.”

  She met Tamlevar’s gaze, held it, and dared him to say anything.

  “That was my home,” she said.

  Chapter 20

  She wanted to kick herself for her stupidity. How could she have failed to make the connection? It was so obvious, even Lieutenant Marcus would have figured it out by now. Why hadn’t she?

  But her memories evaded her even now. An impenetrable wall of fog seemed to surround that period of her life. As much as she tried, she could only catch shadowy glimpses of nebulous incidents beyond it. Worse still, she didn’t want to remember. She had locked those memories away for a reason and it wasn’t for safe-keeping.

  “So you knew,” Suel said, oblivious to her mental exertions.

  She shook her head, cursing herself mentally. Idiot.

  “I should have, but I didn’t.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Suel’s mouth was a tight line. He seemed to have something in mind, so why didn’t he just say it?

  Willow hesitated. In the span of two days, the barbarians had reduced her life to ruins. Her reputation, gone. Her prestige, gone. And her precious discipline, hanging by a thread.