by Deborah Hale
The woman glared at Maura so hard her tiny eyes almost crossed. “Keep a respectful tongue in your mouth, stranger-miss!” She hesitated a moment. “Stranger? Are you the one rode into town last night claiming to be Exilda’s kin?”
“I did arrive here last night,” Maura admitted, though she wondered if it was safe to do so. “But I made no claims of kinship. I came to Prum looking for Exilda. She was a friend of my guardian. Did you know her well?”
“Just lived near is all.” The woman backed off, as though Maura’s innocent question were a threat. “I’ve never had no truck with her sort!”
Those words reminded Maura of Windleford, but not in a good way. What a lonely life Exilda must have led—shunned by her neighbors except when they needed healing, with neither spouse nor ward for company. All to protect a map she’d believed would one day lead the Destined Queen to the Waiting King.
Thoughts of what Exilda had sacrificed in her cause emboldened Maura. Fixing the querulous woman with a forceful gaze, she tried to echo Langbard’s tone of authority. “Did you see what happened the night of the fire? Did any of Exilda’s neighbors come to her aid?”
“Too many strangers!” The woman went into full retreat. “Too many dangerous folk abroad. She brought it on herself—and on us, curse her!”
“What dangerous folk? Did you see someone here that night... or since?” Maura called her last question after the woman as she scurried away, her elbows flapping like a fowl in panic.
With a sigh, Maura turned back toward the cottage, pushing her homesickness into a deep corner of her heart and locking it there. She could take it out and wallow in it at her leisure once she accomplished her task... or her time ran out. For now, there were things she must do.
Searching the property for a start, noting anything out of ordinary that might provide a clue to the whereabouts of the map. Only there was nothing out of the ordinary.
In a small vegetable patch much like the one Maura and Langbard had kept, green sprouts pushed their way out of the moist spring earth. Exilda’s garden was overgrown with weeds, though, and the tender young shoots had been nibbled by animals. Maura took the opportunity to refill a few of the pouches on her sash with fresh herbs, including the rare but precious quickfoil.
Near the garden patch, she discovered a mound of earth sparsely stubbled with young grass. Though Maura knew it was weeks too late, something made her drop to her knees beside Exilda’s grave.
“If you can hear me,” she whispered, “I have come for your map. If it still exists, please help me find it... in time.”
A soft fluttering sound made Maura start. She opened her eyes to see a tiny brown pinefinch perched atop the mound of earth, its head cocked at a quizzical angle.
Maura smiled. For a moment the twin burdens of danger and duty weighed lighter upon her shoulders. “I do not suppose you have anything useful to tell me?”
The bird gave a jaunty chirp, as if laughing at her foolish question. Then it flew to light on what was left of Exilda’s garden shed. The fire that had destroyed the cottage had not touched the small structure. But something else had.
Something even more violent than flames. The boards had been splintered, as if smashed by a giant fist. Some had been hurled a great distance. Rakes, hoes and spades lay strewn about—one spade driven so deep into the ground that only its long handle showed.
The pinefinch flew up to perch on the end of the spade handle, all the while keeping a curious eye on Maura.
“Someone buried her,” Maura looked from the spade handle to the mound and back again. “I wonder who?”
She recalled the night Rath had dug Langbard’s grave, while she had observed the passing ritual. “Whoever it was, perhaps they can help me find the map.”
Perhaps they could help... but would they?
The sound of hurrying footsteps made Maura turn.
“Your pardon, mistress.” A stooped, grizzled man beckoned her. “You’d best come away from here, ’fore night falls.”
Another villager intent on running her off. Maura fought to curb her temper. “What harm am I doing anyone by being here?”
Her sharp tone seemed to take the man aback. “Why, none at all, mistress... except to yourself if they catch you here.”
“They?” The breeze had shifted to the northeast. It whispered over Maura’s skin redolent with the scent of danger.
“Them as came that night,” said the man, “and have been keeping watch on the place since. I marvel you have escaped their notice this long.”
So someone had been watching her... trying to penetrate the subtle but potent protection of the hundredflower spell.
More of the man’s warning penetrated Maura’s alarm. “That night? Do you mean the night...” She nodded toward the black skeleton of the cottage then at the mound of earth under which Exilda’s body lay.
“Aye, that night.” The man backed off as if hoping she might follow him. “Now come away before worse happens to you.”
Curiosity drew Maura with a greater power than fear. “Did you see what happened that night?”
“Some.” The man kept walking in the direction of the tannery. “After it was too late to do aught but dig.”
“You dug Exilda’s grave?” Maura walked faster to keep up with him. “Did you sit with her, too?”
“For the ritual, you mean?” The man shook his head. “I had my work cut out just to get her buried.”
He answered Maura’s next question before she got it asked. “I bid old Gristel Maldwin come sit with her, but I don’t reckon Gristel saw to any rites. Her and Exilda never had much use for one another.”
“Where might I find this Gristel person?” Maura asked.
Even if she had not been on good terms with her neighbor, the woman might be worth talking to. Langbard had taught Maura that, if a passing spirit had enough power, it could still convey messages without the ritual. Exilda might have left some hint of the map’s whereabouts.
“She lives yonder.” The man pointed to the last in a row of dwellings that backed onto Exilda’s little plot of land.
The narrow house looked too tall for its base. A number of stout trees crowded around it with outstretched branches, as if ready to catch it in the event a strong wind knocked it over. That house had already been pointed out to Maura once that day. By the disagreeable woman who had tried to chase her away from Exilda’s well.
“If you mean to call on her,” added the man, “mind you do not look for a civil welcome. Old Gristel has a disposition sour enough to curdle new milk.”
Maura cast him a wry look. “We have met.”
The prospect of a third encounter with such an obnoxious person dismayed Maura. Still she thanked the man for his warning and the information he had given her. Then she mustered her resolve and headed for Gristel Maldwin’s house.
Off to the west, the sun sank nearer the tall, jagged peaks of the Blood Moon Mountains, which thrust up like fangs to devour their evening meal. Every step Maura took in the direction of the tree-girt house, the walking boots Sorsha had given her seemed to grow heavier. The cloak fastened around her neck seemed to grow tighter.
There was danger nearby, and no ordinary danger, either. Maura recalled how the Hanish arrow had whistled over her head the day she had rescued Rath. And how the outlaws had grabbed her in the middle of the night. Neither had stirred this chill of approaching peril.
From the pockets of her sash she pulled a handful of fresh dreamweed she had collected from Exilda’s garden. With the herbs in one hand and the last of her spider silk in the other, Maura approached the house with the soft, cautious tread she had so often seen Rath use.
She was still a few steps away when she heard the voice. Though not loud, it had an unsettling resonance unlike any Maura had heard before. As she moved closer, in spite of every instinct that urged her to turn and run, she could tell the words were not Embrian.
Then she heard Gristel Maldwin reply in Comtung. Out of the rap
id, high-pitched gabble, Maura recognized the word no. She could guess what must be going on inside, but she needed to see for certain. The only window on this side of the house was half-shuttered, and too high for her to peek in. Perhaps if she climbed the tall bristlenut tree that grew nearby, she could get a better look.
Knowing she would need both hands free to climb, Maura reluctantly returned the dreamweed and spider silk to the pockets of her sash. Then she sank to the ground and pulled off her boots and stockings. Long ago she had discovered bare feet were best for tree climbing.
Once back on her feet, she hoisted herself onto the lowest branch. From there, she was able to scramble higher until she could peer in through the unshuttered half of the window. What she saw confirmed her fears.
One Hanish soldier held Gristel Malkin’s scrawny arms behind her back. The angle of the woman’s shoulders told Maura they were being stretched painfully far. Though she could not see whoever was questioning Gristel, Maura did catch a glimpse of a second soldier farther back in the room.
How many of them were in there?
The strange voice asked another question, in a tone so quiet Maura could barely hear. The words made Gristel flinch. Her answer came pouring out in a jabber of Comtung and Embrian while she shook her head with frantic haste. The torrent of words grew ever more shrill and fast, until the frenzy of it penetrated Maura’s chest and set everything inside her churning.
Then Gristel’s words all merged into a tight, desperate mewl of pain and she twitched as if her head and limbs were trying to tear themselves from her body. Maura clenched her eyes shut and her mouth, lest she surrender to the urge to cry out in sympathy.
After a moment that stretched on and on with no hope of relief, the wailing subsided into a spent, terrified whimper. Maura forced her eyes open to see Gristel slumped forward, her arms still pinned by the Hanish soldier who showed no sign of being moved by her torment.
The interrogator spoke again as he moved into Maura’s line of vision. She swallowed a gasp and clung to her perch in the tree branch. This was the first time she had ever seen a member of the Xenoth with her own eyes. If she never saw another as long as she lived, she would be grateful.
The death-mage wore a dark robe and billowing black cloak. A close-fitted black cowl covered his head and the upper part of his face, with two narrow slits behind which his eyes roved restlessly. The lower part of his face was unnaturally pale, with skin pulled taut over sharp bones and a tight, cruel mouth.
In his gloved hand he clutched a wand of burnished copper set with a fire gem. Bending over the whimpering woman, the Xenoth thrust the tip of his wand beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him.
Maura could watch no more. Gristel Maldwin was an ill-tempered busybody and she had been no friend to Exilda. It galled Maura to think of putting herself in peril for such a person. If their places had been reversed, she doubted Gristel would lift a finger to help her. And if, by some slim chance, Gristel knew a scrap of useful information about Exilda’s map, she would have told her Xenoth inquisitor long before this.
For all that, Maura could no more leave the women to her fate than she had been able to leave Rath Talward to his.
Slowly, so as not to rustle any branches against the house, she crawled back along the bough of the tree until she reached the trunk. All the while her thoughts spun with possibilities. The dwindling supply of plant and animal matter in her sash were a pitiful match for the malignant power of the Xenoth sorcerer and his copper wand.
But they were all she had. She must find a way to put them to their best use. And soon. The Xenoth were notorious for many things, but patience was not one of them.
Any moment the death-mage might decide to give his victim a more lingering taste of the fire gem’s hungry power. Or perhaps he would have her hauled down to the garrison for a more thorough interrogation. Maura’s best chance was now, while they were inside the house.
Best chance for what, though?
As Maura considered her prospects, her gaze roved over what she could see of the house, from bottom to top. At last it came to rest upon the narrow chimney from which a feeble wisp of smoke rose. Maura recalled a story Langbard had once told her, about an enchantress dropping magical gifts down a chimney.
Well, she had a magical gift for the Han!
Staying close to the thick trunk of the tree, Maura began to climb from bough to bough. When the screams began again, she battled to maintain her concentration and keep climbing. At last she reached the proper height and found a branch that stretched out over part of the roof.
She hoped it would be sturdy enough to bear her weight. The evening grew darker as Maura inched her way toward the roof. The wind began to gather force, making the branch beneath her sway. Was it too late to think of another plan—one that carried less risk of breaking her neck?
A sudden hard gust of wind shook the tree. Behind her, Maura heard a crack and her branch drooped. Clenching her lips to keep from crying out, she sent a silent plea winging through the night for the Giver’s help.
As abruptly as it had begun to fall, the branch came to rest and Maura felt the reassuring bulk of the roof beneath her. The frantic hammering of her heart eased, but only a little, as she crept toward the chimney. She rummaged in her sash for every scrap of dreamweed she could find.
Warm air caressed her hand when she held it above the chimney. Sounds rose upon that air, echoing off the hard interior of the tall stone column.
Gristel’s shrill keening had subsided and the death mage was speaking again, in Hanish this time, words that sounded like an order to the soldiers. Was he telling them to investigate suspicious sounds on the roof?
Murmuring the sleep spell, Maura opened her hand to let the dreamweed leaves flutter down the chimney. The last particle had just left her palm when doubt began to prickle in her mind. What if the spell-laden smoke all wafted back up the chimney without making the Han do more than yawn?
Finding nothing else handy to stop the chimney, Maura scrambled up and sat on it. Then she pulled a quickfoil leaf from her sash and chewed on it while chanting the stimulant spell.
It took effect at once, lifting the weight of fatigue that had burdened her all day. It sped her pulse—not in the shallow, erratic flutter of fear, but strong and steady. It sharpened her senses.
But the quickfoil also made it a struggle for her to sit still and wait. Her limbs itched to move. Her thoughts raced with questions and plans.
Maura made herself count to a hundred. Whenever the numbers began tumbling too fast, she forced herself to begin again. By the time she reached the end of her count and rose from her perch, her body was trembling with stifled movement.
Pulling the edge of her cloak over her nose and mouth, she inclined an ear to the chimney opening and listened. All was quiet below. Now, if only she could get back to the ground with all her bones in their proper places!
With the mountains so much closer to Prum than they were to Windleford, the sun seemed to set more quickly, here. As Maura tried to find her way off Gristel Maldwin’s roof, she had just enough light to make out the vague shapes of branches.
She did not dare use the one that had cracked. But out near the eaves she found a pair of boughs, the lower on which she could walk, while she held onto the higher one for balance and to bear some of her weight. As quickly as she dared, Maura scrambled down.
When she climbed past the window, she glanced inside. Though the room was dimly lit, Maura could see no one stirring.
With only one more branch between her and the ground, she took a wisp of spider silk from her sash, just in case. Then she dropped the last few feet and froze, her binding spell ready in case someone reached out of the darkness to grab her. No one did, but that only soothed Maura’s fears a little.
She groped about for her boots and stocking and pulled them back on with fumble-fingered haste. Then, pressing herself close to the wall of Gristel’s house, she crept to the corner and peered around i
t, expecting to find one of the Hanish soldiers standing guard at the door. Instead the front of the house appeared deserted.
Maura inched forward. Upon reaching the door unhindered, she eased it open and peered inside.
All was quiet and still in the house. At least five people slumped in different parts of the main room, not moving. The scent of dreamweed hung in the air like the warm, soft pungency of fleece on a winter night.
The tightness in Maura’s muscles began to ease. Her breathing grew deeper. The beat of her heart slowed.
The time for caution had passed.
Pulling the edge of her cloak back up to cover her nose and mouth, she charged into the room, pausing only long enough to cast the binding spell on each of the Han. Hopefully it would buy her a little time if they woke before she got away.
Finally she turned her attention to Gristel Maldwin, lying on the floor beside the Hanish soldier who had held her arms. At least the poor woman was no longer in pain. Looking down at her limp, slumbering form, Maura realized she had not given no thought to how she would get Gristel out of the house.
“Drag her, I suppose,” Maura muttered to herself.
If only she had not used up all her essence of bear. It would have come in handy just now. As would some means of keeping her nose and mouth covered when she needed both hands to shift the sleeping woman. Since she could contrive nothing at short notice, Maura resolved to hold her breath for as long as possible. She hoped it would be long enough.
Stooping, she wedged her hands under Gristel’s arms and hauled the unconscious woman toward the open door. Fortunately it was not a long distance, for the scrawny creature was heavier than she looked.
A gust of night wind blew into the house, whipping Maura’s cloak. She turned her face toward it and sucked in a deep breath. The scent of dreamweed was making her dizzy and awkward in her movements. But the fresh air, her earlier dose of quickfoil and her determination to resist the sleep spell all combined to keep her awake and moving.