by Cindy Dees
What had she done by her rash decision to run? Just how much trouble were she and Cicero in? The specter of a disastrous ending to this misadventure loomed close, leering down at her in the night, coming for her.
Doubt began to set in. Was all of this worth it? Was she really so determined to avoid the fate of the women in her family? If it had been good enough for her ancestors for three hundred generations, why was it not all right for her? Was she merely being spoiled and rebellious? Was it so wrong to just do what her mother and the mages wanted and then get on with her life?
Arianna seemed pretty happy to go along with the program. Of course, she was young and beautiful and got treated like a princess, and when Raina’s daughter grew up to take her place—
Raina sat bolt upright in the dark, scratching her face on a thorn painfully.
“Is aught amiss?” Cicero whispered sharply.
“No. Sorry.” She lay back down, appalled. When her daughter took Arianna’s place, then what? What would happen to her sister? Raina’s own sister had to have supplanted Charlotte’s older sister as the resident bride-in-waiting … and then the full horror of the mages’ scheme slammed into her.
Auntie Ari had left Tyrel a couple of years previously. There had been a big ceremony and feast to mark the occasion. It had taken place only days after Arianna turned sixteen. Raina remembered her aunt’s departure vividly. It was the only time she’d ever seen her mother cry. She’d wondered at it at the time. But now it made perfect sense. Charlotte and Auntie Ari had known their farewells that day were forever.
Ironic how the locals had cheered at her aunt’s departure. They’d all beamed with pride that yet another daughter of Tyrel was going forth into the world to find herself a rich and noble husband and spread the reputation of Tyrel as a cultured and civilized place far and wide. Hah.
Where had Ari gone? For that matter, where did all the Ariannas go? If a new one was born and trained every sixteen to eighteen years, there might realistically be three or even four generations of brides-in-waiting alive somewhere. Surely such educated and accomplished women would go forth and make significant marks upon the world. Yet in all her studies, Raina had never run into any reference to such women. How was it they all faded into obscurity?
Were they allowed to have their own families after they were released from their obligation? The Ariannas were bred to be extremely gifted with magic. Surely their children would inherit some of that. If they were marrying and having children of their own, then after three hundred generations Tyrel should be crawling with extraordinarily talented magic users. And yet it was not. Which meant—
Her outrage was complete as the logical explanation smashed into her.
… Which meant the Mages of Alchizzadon captured or killed the Ariannas. Prevented them from living out their lives as they wished.
Raina frowned. She’d never seen a Mage of Alchizzadon in Tyrel, never heard of one passing through except for the two at the manor house now. Auntie Ari had muttered something as she left about walking into the rising sun until the road ended. That must be where the mages did the deed.
Had she been obliquely referring to walking out into the arid Nomad plains to die? Raina had read a few references to ritual suicide in such a manner being an old tradition in Tyrel. Horror rolled through her. It was barbaric.
“What do you know of the plains that lie to the west beyond Tyrel?” she asked Cicero abruptly.
“The Arianna Plains?” he asked, surprised.
“Is that what you call them?”
His voice held a frown as it floated out of the dark. “That appellation would be how they are known to everyone with whom I am acquainted.”
Shocked, she demanded, “Why is that?”
“An old hearth tale speaks of a girl by that name being jilted by her lover and, in her grief, walking out into those plains to die.”
Raina snorted. The hearth tale was not so far from true. Funny thing. She’d never heard the name Arianna Plains or seen the area marked thus on a map. But then, it would not do to let the current bride-in-waiting know what fate awaited her, now would it?
There was no way her sister knew she would be sent away to die when she was barely into her thirties. Arianna would not be so smug did she have any inkling of the brutal end awaiting her.
She and her sister had had their disagreements over the years, but Raina wished no ill upon Arianna. And Raina certainly had no wish to see her sister die. She bloody well wasn’t passing on this cruel tradition to her own daughters, either!
A startling thought occurred to her. If she never had daughters, it would buy her sister more time to live. She would have to be kept around until her replacements could be bred, would she not? Charlotte and the Mages of Alchizzadon would have to come up with a replacement broodmare. Maybe wait for one of her younger brothers—the oldest one was barely twelve—to grow up, marry, and have daughters of his own before the family tradition could resume. The introduction of her father’s blood into the line of daughters of Tyrel would likely be a major setback for the mages, but that was the price they paid for playing fast and loose with other people’s lives.
She had to find a way to break the tradition once and for all. Not only for her own sake, but also for her sister’s.
Curse the Great Mage anyway. Who cared about some old legend—
Her thoughts derailed abruptly. That was it. The Great Mage. If she found a way to gather the magics to restore him, her sister could marry the man and the House of Tyrel would no longer have to use its daughters so sorely.
“Cicero?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you know of any source of really old, really powerful magic?”
“For what purpose?”
“I need to … power up … something very old.”
“Like an artifact?”
It wasn’t a bad analogy. Certain powerful, and typically old, magic items could retain long-term magical charges upon them. If their energy ran out, they could be recharged. Usually artifacts were named, which acted as a signal of what they were. “Yes, something like that,” she answered.
“How ancient a magic do you seek, and what quantity of power do you need?” he queried.
“I’ll need ancient magic and potentially a lot of it,” she answered reluctantly.
“The only source of ancient magic that I have ever heard of would be the Mythar,” Cicero answered.
“What’s a Mythar?”
“Who is a Mythar,” he corrected. “The Mythar was lord of all the nature guardians. The Mythar was said to be an elf who went on to become a great king.”
“How long ago was that?” she asked eagerly. “And was he by any chance a magic user?”
“How would I know how long ago it was? I am kindari; we keep our histories by word of mouth, not written documents. Details like time get lost in the passing down of the stories. “As for magic, I suppose he used it. Most nature guardians are masters of nature magic and, hence, magic casters.”
That sounded promising. If this Mythar fellow still existed, he might be able to restore the Great Mage.
“Any idea where I might find the Mythar?” she asked.
“That knowledge rests far, far above my station in life to possess.”
“Would your Black Widow know where to find him?”
“I sincerely doubt it. I’ve heard all of her stories, and none of them even hint at such a thing.”
Raina was disappointed but not discouraged. She had a name. It was a start.
CHAPTER
9
Will and Rosana crouched in the woods just beyond the crossroads. They’d been creeping through the brush and trees all night. He’d heard movement that was likely two-footed humanoids several times through the night, but never close by. Whoever had been out there had been moving fast and in force. Like an orcish war party.
To her credit, Rosana had not complained about the rough conditions or the all-night trek. And her woodcraft was not h
alf-bad for a city girl. She moved lightly and quietly for the most part.
With the coming of daylight he expected the orc raiding party would go to ground and rest. It should be safe for him and Rosana to move along the roads through the day, “should” being the operative word. They would make much better time on a road than picking their way through brambles and bushes all day. He didn’t know about Rosana, but he was too exhausted to do much more than stumble along a nice, smooth path at this point.
“Is it safe now?” Rosana whispered.
“I think so. Orcs are not known for traveling during the day.”
She cast a worried look at the broad clearing ahead of them. “So it is a choice between fast, dangerous travel and slow, safe travel.”
He shrugged. “If we take the road, we’ll see the Boki coming in enough time to run for cover. Maybe they catch us and maybe they don’t. Or we can stick to the woods, take three times as long to get clear of the Wylde Wood, and still maybe run into them.”
“What do you think?” she asked.
Straight ahead was the Southwatch Fort. A small contingent of the Haelan legion of the Imperial Army was stationed there and should, by rights, be warned of the Boki invasion. But his father had been specific. Go to Dupree. Speak to no one of the orcs except some fellow in the Mage’s Guild there. Aurelius. That path lay to the left.
And to the right … to the right lay Hickory Hollow, a burnt-out and deserted hull of a village according to Rosana.
He was the only survivor; he knew it as surely as he felt the ground beneath his feet. Maybe some in the hollow had spirits strong enough to make it all the way to Dupree to resurrect. But he doubted it. He remembered overhearing his parents discuss the capital city being right at the limit of how far a disembodied spirit might travel successfully from Hickory Hollow. He hadn’t understood at the time what it meant and was only now comprehending it fully.
It meant that all the residents of the hollow were permanently dead. And his parents, too. Grief slammed down on Will like an avalanche, crushing his chest in agony too painful to breathe against. A choked sound escaped his throat before he could cut it off. Their deaths were not fair. The dead deserved justice. But stars knew, the Empire would not serve up any reckoning for the fallen of Hickory Hollow. This world only offered up noble ideals like justice and mercy to the rich and powerful. The rest of the populace lived and died in misery and poverty, virtual or actual slaves of the Empire and its nobles.
“Castlegate Falls is to the left, and Dupree lies beyond it,” Rosana finally blurted. “I say we go there.”
He’d learned overnight that she could be entirely single-minded in her focus. And at the moment all her energy was directed at reaching the Heart in Dupree as soon as possible. But his choice was not so simple. The logical thing to do was go straight on to the Southwatch Fort. Warn the villages of the Ring. Unless he believed his father, and unless something much bigger was afoot than a simple orc raid.
Did he believe his father about any of it? About some story of a sleeping elven king? About quests and crowns and rebellion?
How much did he really know of his father? The warrior-mage of last night, boldly challenging and crushing Boki fighters, bore no resemblance whatsoever to the simple cobbler Will had grown up with. Had everything he’d thought he’d known about his father been something else entirely? What if Ty’s paranoia had good cause? What if he had been in hiding all along? Then his secrecy and insistence on never drawing attention to himself or his family would make sudden sense.
What about that suit of armor worth more than everyone in Hickory Hollow together could earn in years? The white sword his mother had called Dragon’s Tooth? As far as Will knew, there was no such thing as dragons. If he was right, then that meant his father owned a named sword. An artifact of enough power to earn a name of its own could very well be the worth of a small kingdom. Then there was the way Ty had snapped orders as if born to command and handled a sword and shield like a seasoned knight. What of all that?
And the magic. Why on Urth had Ty never revealed his skill with it and garnered a life of wealth and ease for himself and his family, unless he truly had been secretly contemplating and planning rebellion? Did Will dare follow his parents down that path? No matter how much the notion might fire his blood, it would most assuredly lead to his destruction.
Had he not seen all he had last night, he would have accused his parents of losing themselves in wild fantasy. But he had seen. And he had heard of this Sleeping King fellow, now. It was not something he could unhear or unknow. Like it or not, his parents had transferred their illicit quest and its attendant risks to him. The only question left to answer was, what was he going to do about it?
“What are you waiting for?” Rosana demanded.
“Nothing,” he answered in decision.
“Let us get going, then. We’ve far to go to reach our journey’s end.”
She was most certainly correct. A long journey lay before him no matter which path he chose. And a happy outcome was not likely at the end of any road he took. But he could honor his parents, at least.
He nodded with finality. So be it.
Rosana grabbed his hand, and he let her drag him down the left-hand turning of the path. Toward Dupree. In search of a man called Aurelius and whatever he might know of a quest to find a sleeping king.
* * *
Raina trudged along behind Cicero, tired and hungry and thirsty. But mostly tired. They had been walking all day, stopping only to hide when other travelers came close. She did not know what she would have done without the kindari. A sense of comfort clung to him. Mayhap it was because his presence made her feel slightly connected to home, still. Although taciturn for the most part, Cicero seemed generally at ease with her as well. But then, she had that effect on most people.
She chewed anxiously on a fingernail as she weighed her options. A perplexed farmer had paused long enough in plowing his field earlier to inform her and Cicero that they were in Hyland, a week’s hard march west of the city of Dupree. The hills they had walked out of overnight were the Grimshaw Hills. Not, the farmer informed them, a place anyone who wished to live for long visited. He gave them directions to the main highway between Hyland and Dupree, somewhat south of their current location.
Her mother would search for Raina up to a point. But instinct told her that part of Charlotte secretly approved of her daughter’s rebellion. Her mother would probably not give chase outside of Tyrel, which Raina most definitely was, now.
The Mages of Alchizzadon were another story, however. They would not give up the search for her anytime soon. They had years in which to find her and kidnap her for their purposes. She must do the unexpected. Keep the mages off balance and off her trail. Everyone would expect her to go back to Tyrel, or at least the Midlands, which lay just to the north of Tyrel. To places she was familiar with and where her name and rank held some weight. Dupree it was, then. They would find this main road and circle back to the east and the capital city. She’d be twice cursed before she’d go down to defeat cowering like a terrified mouse. After all, she was a daughter of Tyrel.
The outrage that had driven her from home last night had dwindled to a dull, steady ache of betrayal. Why had her mother gone along with the mages’ plan? Raina trudged on, determination to foil the mages hardening in her heart. Or mayhap it was nothing more than pure, bullheaded stubbornness that kept her moving. It wasn’t noble, but it was enough to shuffle her feet forward, one weary step after another. Away. Away from those who were supposed to love her and keep her safe. Away from those who’d failed her.
As sunset’s pink faded to gray, Cicero veered off the path. She staggered after him, so exhausted she barely spotted the thin thread of smoke rising ahead of them until they were practically upon a low sod cottage.
“I believe it would be best that you call out a greeting rather than myself,” Cicero muttered. “A female voice is eminently less threatening than an unknown male voic
e.”
“If you got rid of that sword, you’d be a fair sight less threatening,” she mumbled back.
Cicero’s only answer was a snort of never-going-to-happen.
“Hullo!” she called out over the growling of her stomach.
In a moment the sagging door opened. A crofter peered out suspiciously. “’Oo goes?”
She dared not use her own name, but hadn’t thought of a false name or cover story. She stammered, “Uh-h, travelers. Seeking board and bed for the night.”
“Ye got coin?”
Her mother or a servant had always carried money for Raina. Alarmed, she glanced at Cicero, who shook his head in the negative as well. “Nay,” she answered the peasant, “but we’ve skills to trade.”
He looked her up and down in a way that made her skin crawl. Suddenly she was entirely grateful for that lethal sword on Cicero’s hip.
A female voice floated out the door, “’Oo be ye flappin’ at, Arv?”
“Summat travelers. Offerin’ ta trade skills for sup and a piece o’ floor.”
“Wha’ skills?” the woman asked.
The man looked back Raina’s way. “Whadda ye do?”
Raina thought fast. She dared not offer Cicero’s skills in smuggling, thievery, or swordplay. As for her, teaching court dances or classical lute tunes or poetry composition would be of no use here. Nor fine needlework, illuminating a manuscript, or translating between a dozen different languages. “I can cook and clean,” she tried.
The farmer grunted, “Mag does ’at. Do ye make candles or soap or spin thread, mayhap?”
Oh, why hadn’t she paid more attention when her tutors had tried to teach her the details of such things? Desperate, she offered, “I can make a magical light that will last throughout the night.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “Slip of a thing like ye can do magic?”
The woman exclaimed from inside, “Magic? Be she an ’ealer?”
Raina replied eagerly, calling out to be heard by the woman inside, “I can do some healing!” The Heart controlled the teaching and use of healing magics very closely, but she’d been allowed to learn a few simple healing spells outside the guild because of her noble rank.