by John Marco
‘Will you come to bed with me tonight?’
Sabrina shook her head. ‘I’ve made arrangements to share Jenna’s chambers. I don’t want to see you until you return.’
‘All right,’ agreed Richius reluctantly. ‘And I will return, Sabrina. Whether I save her or not. I’ll be the husband you’re worthy of, I swear it.’
Sabrina said nothing, only smiled at him again. Moments ago it was she who had been like a child, wailing for him to love her. Now he was performing for her approval. He tried vainly to return her smile, flashing her only a tired grimace instead, and watched her leave the gloomy kitchen, dropping her tear-stained handkerchief behind her.
That night, a monstrous guilt infected Richius’ sleep. It was after midnight when he finally retired, falling into a restless slumber poisoned with nightmares of Lucel-Lor. Lucyler haunted his dreams, and Dyana made appearances, too, slipping repeatedly into Tharn’s infinite fog. Occasionally he would awaken, shaken out of sleep by some nameless vision, and reach over to where Sabrina should have been, only to feel the cold emptiness of vacant sheets. When at last the dawn beckoned him, he was ready for it.
He went to his closets and chose his outfit carefully, selecting a particularly militant ensemble of brown leather armor. Light enough to ride in, it was nevertheless tough enough to withstand any rigors the Drol might have planned for him. Upon the left breast was emblazoned a winged blue dragon, the crest of the Aramoor Guardsmen, its tail coiling menacingly down the left sleeve. The last time Richius saw Edgard, the old war duke had been wearing the same uniform. Richius examined his reflection in the mirror, telling himself that Edgard would have understood. He sat on the bed and laced up his knee-length boots, the ones that were unworn and polished ebony black. Lastly came Jessicane. He strapped the sword across his back, turning to admire the dazzling scabbard. A gift from Biagio, he remembered painfully. A bribe to go back and murder more Triin. Thankfully Liss was delaying that order. Now he was getting a chance to go back for Dyana without Arkus’ aid.
For a very long time he stared at himself in the mirror, absently contemplating the man looking back at him. He was the king of Aramoor and the Jackal of Dring, but most of all he was a man in love. Perhaps it was a valueless love, perhaps Dyana had even forgotten about him. Yet somehow he knew she was waiting for him, that fate or a god or the force of Triin magic had delivered the news of her existence to him for a reason. He would find her, he promised, and if possible he would save her. If he could only get her back to Aramoor, she would be safe forever. Whatever else might happen he simply couldn’t say. He was married, and would never break his vows or his latest promise to Sabrina. Dyana would be a constant temptation but at least she would be alive, protected within the borders of Aramoor.
Satisfied with himself, he tossed his traveling pack onto the bed and began rummaging through its contents. He never had unpacked from his long journey back from Nar, and found that most of the things he would need were still within the musty sack. There were bandages and salves, a small collection of tools, utensils for cooking and eating, even some baubles he had picked up in the Black City. These he placed carefully on the mantel. They were mostly wedding gifts from congratulatory lords: a silver dagger from King Panos, a ruby-eyed serpent carved out of jade from Dragon’s Beak, an amulet from Dahaar. All interesting, expensive junk, the kind of things Arkus would have relished. Only Blackwood Gayle had had the sense not to present him with such a useless gift. Gayle had in fact given him nothing at all, a blessing for which he was endlessly grateful. The thought of penning a thank-you to the baron was sickening. Finally he retrieved his journal from the bedside and tucked it safely inside the pack, nestling it between a pack of playing cards and a sheathed knife. Then he cinched up the pack, slung it over his shoulder, and started out of the chamber. He was stopped by an insistent rapping on the door.
‘Oh, Lord,’ he cursed, tossing the pack back onto the bed. There was one person he had neglected to speak to last night, the only one bold enough to knock on his door at dawn. Jojustin’s irritated voice pierced the morning.
‘Richius, open up,’ the old man demanded. ‘I want to talk to you before you go.’
Go? thought Richius. Sabrina or Patwin must have told him. Good. It would make his good-bye all the easier. He twisted the knob and pulled the door open. Jojustin didn’t wait to be invited, but strode into the chamber as if it were his own, closing the door behind him. When he saw the pack on the bed he rolled his eyes.
‘Are you ready to talk now?’ he asked, folding his arms across his chest. Richius assumed the same hostile posture.
‘You obviously know what I’ve got planned,’ said Richius. ‘Who told you?’
‘Sabrina. When she left you last night I went into Jenna’s room to see how she was. She told me everything. Imagine my surprise. I thought we had a king here, but now I see we have only a lovesick boy.’
‘You’re pushing it,’ said Richius, hoping to avoid a confrontation. ‘Do you want to hear my explanation or not?’
‘I don’t give a damn about your explanation, Richius. I’m here to help you find what’s left of your mind. It’s really very simple, lad. You can’t go.’
Richius brushed past Jojustin and retrieved his pack from the bed. ‘I’m going,’ he declared. ‘I have to.’
‘No.’ Jojustin positioned himself in front of the door. ‘I won’t let you. You don’t understand what you’re doing.’
‘You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Jojustin. Are you so old you’ve forgotten what it’s like to love a woman?’
Jojustin’s face hardened. ‘I’ve been with more women than you’ve had dreams about, boy. But I never let one of them persuade me from my responsibilities. I’ve never turned my back on my kingdom for one. You’re riding off into a Triin trap for this whore. And even if you don’t get killed it won’t really matter. What do you think is going to happen when Biagio gets wind of what you’ve done? Arkus will have our heads!’
‘Arkus won’t know anything about it,’ said Richius. ‘He’s not about to launch his attack on Lucel-Lor, not while Liss is still standing. With luck I’ll be back long before word comes from Nar.’
‘What if you’re not? What are we supposed to tell Biagio if he comes looking for you? He’s watching us, Richius. After what your father did–’
‘I don’t care what you tell him. Tell him I’ve gone hunting or something.’
‘Hunting?’ raged Jojustin. ‘You think that will suffice? You’ve forgotten yourself, Richius. You are the king of Aramoor! You can’t just leave on your featherheaded mission. This land is your responsibility. If Arkus finds out that you’ve gone off to talk to a Triin . . .’ He waved his arms in disbelief. ‘It will be the end of us!’
‘It won’t,’ insisted Richius, praying he was right. ‘Do your part and keep this quiet, and I’ll be back before anyone comes looking for me.’
‘And if you’re killed?’ pressed Jojustin. ‘What then? You’re the last Vantran. There’s no one to follow you.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you would do this, Richius, not for the sake of a woman. And a Triin at that. You’ve lost your senses, lad, truly you have.’
‘Please,’ said Richius. ‘Try to understand. This is something I have to do.’
‘Nonsense. That’s the same foolish thing your father said about abandoning you in Lucel-Lor. Look at you standing there with your fancy uniform and sword. You’re the picture of him, brave and stupid and determined to ruin everything. God, I wonder sometimes what is wrong with your blood. What is it that makes Vantran kings so reckless? Arkus can crush us with a wave of his hand, but neither of you ever seem to realize that. Lord knows how we’ve made it this far without him coming down on us, and now you want to push him further. Why?’
‘Because we aren’t free!’ hissed Richius. ‘Do you want us to be puppets like the Gayles? I’m proud of what my father did, Jojustin. I understand it now. He was trying to save lives.’ He paused, then ad
ded softly, ‘That’s all I’m trying to do. Save a woman’s life.’
‘You’re betraying your country,’ said Jojustin. ‘By going to Lucel-Lor without Arkus’ permission you’re courting the wrath of Nar. We could lose everything.’
‘If I die, then we’ve lost nothing more than we’ve lost already. Aramoor will be under the boot of Arkus whether I am king or not.’
‘But maybe it won’t be Aramoor anymore,’ countered Jojustin. ‘Maybe it will just be part of Talistan again. Have you thought of that?’
Richius wouldn’t answer. The possibility of the Gayles ruling Aramoor again hadn’t even occurred to him, and now that it did it made him all the more anxious to leave. He walked toward the door, nudging Jojustin aside gently with his hand. But before he left he turned one last time to his steward. He knew he owed him an explanation of some sort, something more than just lovesickness.
‘Jojustin, I haven’t been whole since coming home,’ he said softly. ‘Call it guilt, maybe, I don’t know. But it’s killing me. I’m not just going to get this girl. I’m going to find the rest of myself.’
Jojustin’s face turned purple. ‘Your life is here, Richius!’ he snapped. ‘You don’t need to run off on some fool’s errand. You just need to stop being a martyr! Have some courage, man. Pull yourself together.’
‘I can’t,’ said Richius meekly. ‘I’m sorry, Jojustin. I’ve tried, but I’m broken and I just can’t seem to fix myself.’ He flashed the old man a feeble smile and headed toward the hall. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible. Look after Sabrina while I’m gone.’
‘Oh, I will,’ said Jojustin ruthlessly. ‘I’ll look after all of Aramoor. I’ll do your job for you, Richius.’
Ignoring the gibe, Richius made his way through the quiet hall, leaving Jojustin behind. Jenna’s chamber was on the other side of the castle, so he didn’t much fear running into Sabrina, and he had no intention of going to her. He would do as she had asked: leave without saying good-bye. It was an odd request he meant to honor, but there was one other he hoped to see before going. He made his way down the dim stairway and through the main floor to the small dining room. There he found Patwin, half-asleep in a chair, dutifully guarding a burlap sack. The young man’s bleary eyes sprang open as Richius entered the chamber.
‘Richius,’ he said. ‘Is it time?’
‘It’s dawn,’ Richius answered, inspecting the sack. It was filled with dried meats and bread, the kind of foods that would last on the road. Richius gave his friend a grateful smile. ‘Have you been awake long?’
Patwin nodded. ‘Most of the night. It was hard to sleep, and I didn’t want to miss you.’ He got slowly to his feet and dragged the sack across the table. ‘I packed you some food. You didn’t think about that, did you?’
‘Not until this morning,’ admitted Richius. ‘Thanks.’
There was an awkward silence as the two regarded each other. Without words to describe his sorrow, Richius merely extended a hand. Patwin took it warmly.
‘Lightning’s waiting for you outside,’ he said. ‘He’s shod and rested. You’ll find your crossbow on him, too. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’
‘No,’ said Richius. ‘It’s something I can’t explain, Patwin. I don’t know why, but I can’t let it lie. I have to go back for her. I have to at least try.’
‘I can still go with you,’ Patwin offered. ‘Just say the word.’
Richius shook his head. ‘I need you here to watch over Sabrina. Keep Jojustin out of trouble, too, will you?’
Patwin laughed. ‘That’s asking a lot,’ he quipped. Then he added seriously, ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I know you will,’ said Richius. ‘Thank you for everything.’
Patwin pulled Richius closer and embraced him. ‘Be careful,’ he whispered into his ear. ‘Come back safe.’
Again Richius found he was speechless. He let Patwin kiss him lightly on the cheek before turning away and forcing out a farewell. Then he strode out of the room and made his way into the courtyard, where Lightning was patiently waiting.
Twenty-three
Morning broke like a gentle wave over the mountains. When Richius had readied himself and breakfasted on supplies, he mounted his horse and plunged forward into the Saccenne Run.
The pass was just as he remembered it. The glacial, sheer faces of the mountains rose up on both sides of him, darkening the ground with their gargantuan shadows. Broken wheel struts and discarded food sacks littered the way, reminders of the days when Talistanians and Aramoorians alike poured through this narrow vein to do the unknown bidding of the emperor. There were older artifacts, too, remnants of the first Narens to go to Lucel-Lor – the merchants and the priests and all the others who tried to woo the Triin into Arkus’ clutches. This was the stubborn trash that age can’t waste away quickly, but must rust slowly out of existence over decades. To Richius the rubbish was like the text of a history book: intriguing, uncertain, and incomplete. It silently told the sad, violent history of Lucel-Lor to anyone keen enough to hear it.
He continued on through the passage for hours, occasionally swigging from his waterskin or stopping to give Lightning a well-earned rest. At the end of this day’s journey there would be a stream where he and the horse could replenish themselves, and he knew that they had to keep moving to make the oasis by nightfall. As he rode, Richius kept a vigilant eye on the terrain, careful to notice every falling rock and intrusive sound. He held his crossbow on his lap, the bolt ready in the barrel slot. Lightning too seemed disturbed by their surroundings. The big horse moved with purpose through the Run, as eager as his master to be out of the strange, claustrophobic place. But they had many hours still ahead of them. The plateau they were seeking was far closer to Lucel-Lor than it was to Aramoor, and they would need every minute of the three days to make their rendezvous on schedule. So they continued, wary and suspicious, and by the end of the first day through the Run they found the stream. They collapsed at its banks, exhausted.
Almost four years ago Richius had done the self-same thing, a green recruit under the tutelage of Colonel Okyle. He had been terrified then, certain that he would never return home from the brutal quest Arkus had thrust upon them. Now Okyle was dead, and Richius himself had become a leader. Since then over a thousand men had died in Lucel-Lor, and if Arkus had his way, more of their brothers would be joining them. Richius cursed as he refilled his waterskins. He had called Gayle a puppet, but they were all playthings of the emperor, even he. They were dancing on a string while Arkus whistled bloody tunes.
By afternoon of his first day in the Run, Richius was more at ease. He knew it was the dangerous, lulling silence of the mountains that had produced the calm, but he welcomed the change of mood regardless. It was good not to be looking over his shoulder at every sound. The stray calls of hunting hawks no longer made him jump, nor did the sudden flight of birds assure him that Drol warriors were just around the bend. Only thoughts of Lucyler blackened his mood. His Triin friend had not appeared to him again, and the absence set him to wondering. He was risking everything on this crusade: his wife, his kingdom, perhaps his very life. There would be no friendly chatter when he met Lucyler, he decided suddenly. He wanted only to know where Dyana was.
Lightning had taken to the mountain passage like a donkey, his sure hooves guiding him steadily along the ill-constructed road. They were making good time, and found along the way more small streams from which to drink and refresh themselves. Despite the thawing ice caps whitening the clouded mountaintops, the air in the Run was mild and comfortable. Only at night did Richius need his heavy cape to keep the chill from under his leather garments. He passed the idle hours of night with a whetstone, sharpening Jessicane’s pitted edge as he whistled, occasionally forgetting in his sleepy bliss the constant possibility of danger. The evening stretched peacefully into morning, and the day went by remarkably quickly.
Near dusk of the third day, Richius approached the plateau. He was very close to Luc
el-Lor now, knew in fact that he could see it if he dared to climb one of the treacherous peaks surrounding him. He reined Lightning to a stop and surveyed his surroundings. The plateau was little more than an outcrop really, an odd malformation of geology that made it recognizable. It was the perfect place for routed men to retreat to, the kind of place a soldier could find even with one eye. Edgard had decided that the plateau would be the place the men of Aramoor should go were the Drol ever to get the better of them. Ironically, he had never made it to the safety of the plateau, and Richius had simply passed it on his way home from the war.
‘Not much further,’ he told Lightning, recognizing the unique formation. The horse whinnied happily at the sound of his voice.
‘You ready?’ Richius asked the gelding, then squeezed his calves together to coax Lightning forward. Again he took up his crossbow, cradling the weapon in the crook of his arm. If there were an ambush waiting for him, it would be here, only miles from Ackle-Nye. His ears became acute, tuned like instruments to every sound, painstakingly aware of the crush of gravel beneath Lightning’s hooves. He watched a flock of birds circling above the hills and waited for something to startle them. But when they alighted on the rough mountain face they remained there, unperturbed by their surroundings or his noisy approach.
Minutes later he sighted the plateau: a giant shelf of weathered limestone overhanging the narrow path three hundred feet below. He slowed Lightning to a cautious crawl. From here he could see no one atop the plateau, and the trail ahead was empty. Below him the ground was featureless, the only tracks those of Lightning. Lucyler would have come from the east, he knew, but even that seemed increasingly unlikely. Today was the third day. He realized suddenly that he had expected Lucyler to rush out and greet him, the way he would if he were expecting a friend. Hurriedly he urged his mount onward, lifting the crossbow out of his elbow and letting it dangle in his hand. Above him the plateau stretched out darkly. There was no path up, he already knew that. If Lucyler was waiting for him there, he would have to climb, and that meant leaving Lightning below. Furious, he dismounted and craned his neck skyward, fighting the foolish urge to call Lucyler’s name. Not even a pebble fell from the loft.