by Robin Hardy
But as he rode forward, his heart would not go on. It knew that the trader had not lied. He had not heard of her. No one had heard of her. She was either dead, or. . . . He stopped and slowly dismounted, gazing at the palace of Corona in the distance.
He leaned up against his horse in soundless despair. How stupid, how futile this search had been. All the time that he had been searching the slave markets, she had probably been right here—in this palace. With him. With Karel, the old Surchatain, ruler of old Lystra. The man who had once sentenced him to death.
Fury surged through Roman. If I do nothing else on this futile mission, he swore, I will kill him.
Choose righteousness, pursue it more than any beautiful woman. Were those words his? They echoed from a long distant past like a warning.
Ignoring it, he mounted savagely and kicked his quivering horse toward the palace. He thundered up the path through the abandoned gates and forced open the massive doors to the vast audience hall where he had once stood with Deirdre to meet Tremaine.
It was dark and stale. The once-brilliant mosaic on the floor was obscured under debris and dust, and the chandeliers above hung empty of candles. Crude torches placed near the front of the hall betrayed habitation, however. The massive throne, stripped of its gold and jewels, still stood on the backs of four carved lions.
Roman drew his sword and warily advanced. His footfalls echoed like a drumbeat in the emptiness. He gained the throne and peered at the thick, musty curtains behind it. He had begun to draw them aside gingerly with his sword when an echoing rustle in the hall drew him about instantly.
Rollet, son and chatain of the late Tremaine, stood in the center of the hall grinning maliciously. At his sides stood four glowering soldiers. “Have you lost something, guardian?” Rollet sneered. He had heard the talk, as well.
Roman gripped his sword tighter. “Where is she?”
“Oh, how I wish she were here,” Rollet sighed sarcastically. “I would display her to your eyes before I gouged them out!”
“Where is she?” Roman repeated, louder, to drown out the discomfiting ring of truth in Rollet’s words.
Rollet only laughed and lifted his sword. As a man, the five of them advanced to encircle Roman. He backed up to the throne as his only defense. But the greater battle was already raging within him. Was he mistaken? Had he been wrong from the start?
The answer seemed to come in the fierce blows from Rollet’s swordsmen. Roman warded them off and struck back as best he could, hampered by the necessity of keeping his back to the throne. They could not all reach him at once, but as soon as he tired. . . . His thoughts evaporated in the concentration of fighting for his life.
He saw Rollet step back and allow the others to harry Roman while he rested. “Save the kill for me!” Rollet ordered. Roman lunged unexpectedly and wounded one of them. The others pressed him all the more intently.
He parried their strikes, but could not stave off his own thoughts. I have been wrong; I have been all wrong, and I will die for my error.
It occurred to him to cry out to his Savior, but he refused. He won’t help me now—I forsook Him. His own words after the battle at the outpost rang in his mind: “Lord God, my strength and my Redeemer!” No, it’s too late for me, he thought as he felt his strength slipping away.
Then Rollet motioned to the soldiers, who backed off. As he stepped up to Roman and lifted his sword, his face burned with the intensity of his hatred. “It will give me great pleasure to send your body back in pieces to Galapos,” he swore.
Roman raised his sword, hopelessly whispering, “Lord God—”
He did not have a chance to finish. The soldiers behind Rollet dropped in quick succession. Rollet wheeled to meet his end cursing.
Roman blinked to see two of his own men, Marc and Varan, wiping their blades and grasping his arms. “Commander, thank God we reached you in time!” exclaimed Marc.
Varan added, “We thought we had lost you for sure in that last trader’s tent—but you came out whole after all. So we knew we had better follow you closer after that. Then the blasted door jammed on us and we had to go around to get in!”
Roman shook his head stupidly. “How is it . . . that you . . . ?”
The men glanced at each other, then Marc said carefully, “Commander, the Surchatain instructed us to follow and watch you. We were not to interfere unless your life was in peril.”
Roman hung his head and murmured, “Thank you for the foresight of dear Galapos.” Then he raised beaten eyes to the men before him. “You have certainly saved my life. Your faithfulness has earned you a substantial reward on our return to Westford. And we must return immediately. . . . I fear I’ve already been diverted too long.”
He closed his eyes in pain, or grief, and Varan reached a hand to steady him. Roman gripped it and said, “Please return to the horses and wait for me there. I’ll be out straightway.” Marc and Varan exchanged dubious looks, but Roman insisted, “I’m all right now. There is one more thing I must do here. Go.” They saluted and turned away, their boots echoing retreat in the great hall.
Roman watched them vanish beyond the door, then he turned away from the bodies on the floor and knelt before the throne. “Lord God,” he murmured, his voice cracking, “thank you for rescuing me, though I left in disobedience, taking the word of a witch over my own father Galapos. And though I have spent these months denying you and going my own way, still you answered when I cried to you. How little I understand your mercy. . . . Forgive me for my wandering, for my wasting time. Now, Lord, I relent. I know you want me to return to Westford, and I will.” He stopped to wipe his face.
Struggling, he continued, “And Deirdre—oh, Father! If she is indeed dead—if I must live my days without her, my jewel, my dove—then—then—” he jerked up his grimy, tear-stained face to the throne and cried, “So be it! But oh, Father—you must enable me to bear it, for without you or her I would die.” Collapsing, broken, at the foot of the throne, he wept as he had never done before.
A few minutes later he stilled, then quietly rose. His mind was settled and quiet at last, the brokenness healed. He straightened, cleaning off his face, then calmly stepped over the bodies to depart the hall. Reconsidering, he paused to retrieve the good swords Rollet and his men had carried.
Marc and Varan were seated on their horses with Roman’s between them, waiting. As he approached, they eyed him with concern but did not question him. “We’re going to have a hard ride ahead of us,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’ll take these swords as payment for our provisions. I hope you’re not too weary, for we’re going to ride through the day and night until we reach Westford.”
“Is time so short, Commander?” wondered Marc.
“Yes. I may be too late as it is.”
They rode to the inn at which Roman had stayed his first night in Corona. As he entered, flanked by his men, the talk in the dining room hushed. Roman plopped the swords on the bar before the proprietor and said, “I want good stew and good ale for myself and my men, fodder for our horses, and bread and meat enough for a three-day journey. These swords are worth ten times that, so don’t short me.”
The proprietor blustered, “Yessir—certainly, my good man. Here—sit here—best seats in the house. We’ll serve you directly.” So saying, he rapidly wiped a large table and gestured nervously for them to sit. A serving girl promptly appeared at his wave and poured three large goblets full, then left the jug.
The hall was silent as the three quietly drank and broke apart the loaf of bread that had been brought them. Then a renegade near the bar turned lazily in his chair toward them. “Those swords have Tremaine’s crest,” he drawled. “Where’d you get them?”
Roman raised dangerous eyes and looked him over. The renegade shifted a little. Then Roman answered, “I took them from five men who tried to kill me.” All over the hall, eyes darted and heads cocked a little, but no one else spoke.
The proprietor brought out a large kettle o
f rich stew. The three ate until they were satisfied as the quiet hall observed their every bite. Then the proprietor returned with three leather bags stuffed with provisions. Marc looked through them and nodded. They rose to leave.
Then a stranger rushed into the hall and, not perceiving the atmosphere, exclaimed to a fellow near the door, “I just been by the palace and Rollet’s been cut up like a leg o’ lamb!”
“Dead?” startled the other.
“Dead as a rat under a cartwheel!”
A hundred eyes fastened on the Lystrans. “Why, we have the murderers right here,” said the renegade near the bar, standing. Others began to stand. “I think they ought to pay for it,” he said. “What do you say?”
Swords were unsheathed. “Yeah!” “Make them answer for it!” “Murderers!” Chairs scraped the floor and a mob came together.
“You lawless dogs!” spat Roman. “You murder and rob every waking moment and you would judge me? Get out of my way!”
The men between him and the door dropped back as Roman stalked through their midst, never having even bothered to draw his sword. Close behind him, Marc winked at Varan, who shook his head.
Outside, Varan muttered, “Oh, no.” For the thick grey clouds had opened up and begun to pour snow down upon the city like white ash. Roman noted it with a shrug and mounted. The three rode out of Corona due south.
After an hour, the snowfall lessened and then cleared away. By the time they came upon the mountains, the clouds had lightened to a creamy white. On the edge of Falcon Pass, they halted. Individually, they studied the high, heavily laden peaks. The stillness around was profound. “Doesn’t look good, Commander,” whispered Marc.
“We can’t go around,” Roman returned in a whisper, shaking a thin layer of snow from his hood. “No talking past this point until we’re well onto the plain.” The men gingerly spurred their horses and they advanced at a cautious walk, barely breathing, through the treacherous whiteness.
They had almost made the plain when a snowshoe rabbit dashed under the legs of Marc’s horse. Startled, it reared and neighed. The sound echoed up to the mountaintops, and the horrified men watched great cracks appear in the immense white slopes.
“Ride!” Roman cried. But they could not possibly outrun the avalanche. A mighty mass of snow and ice thundered down the mountainside, collecting everything in its path, gaining on them by the second. Marc shouted above the roar, gesturing toward a large crag in the Pass. The three pushed their horses desperately for the shelter of the jutting rock just as the mountain of white crashed around them.
In seconds it was over. Heaps of snow stood up on either side of them, parted at the crag which stood fast under tons of pressure. The men looked dumbly at each other, amazed to be alive, and Roman uttered, “Thank you, Father, for the rock.” They rested long enough to stop shaking, then urged the horses on through the newly settled snow.
Chapter 18
Roman had not been exaggerating when he warned Marc and Varan of a hard ride. Coming out of the Pass, they met up with a vast expanse of white that had been the plain. They spurred to a bumpy gallop, the horses seesawing through the snow. When Varan’s horse landed both front feet in a camouflaged hole, Varan did a perfect flip over its head, disappearing into a man-shaped indention in the snow. Roman and Marc reined up, looking down at the hole in astonishment.
Varan slowly rose up out of it, shaking off a coat of snow while his horse staggered up onto firmer footing. Marc snickered. “Are you hurt?” Roman asked.
“Uh . . . no, Commander,” Varan said, grabbing for the loose reins.
“And the horse?”
“He’s laughing, too,” Varan observed, shooting a frosty look at Marc.
These slowdowns were frequent. When they came to the cover of forest where the snow was not so deep, the ground was frozen and slippery. Edgy horses balked at galloping, and, when they attempted to run, went slipping into the nearest tree. After barely an hour the men were forced to rest and calm the horses.
Marc passed around a small loaf and they ate handfuls of snow while standing. Into the quiet of the forest, from some distance, came an echoing howl. The men looked up apprehensively and Marc’s horse whinnied. A second howl, closer, answered the first. The men went for the horses. “No need to gather such unpleasant company as wolves,” remarked Varan.
“That settles any question of sleeping in the forest,” added Marc. Roman nodded as if expecting it. They reseated themselves and rode in formation. As they rounded a bend, they abruptly found themselves facing an impenetrable wall of trees and underbrush.
“What—?” Roman uttered. “How did we—?” He spun around to look at the ground.
“We’re not on the road. We’ve lost the road,” groaned Varan.
“Backtrack. Carefully now,” said Roman, and they turned on their own tracks, searching the ground and trees. From very close came a hungry howl, and Marc’s horse began to hop like a rabbit.
“Easy. Easy now,” Marc soothed it, muttering under his breath, “From now on I’m leaving you home for my wife to ride.”
“Here’s the road,” Roman said suddenly. “We just got a false start.” Loosening in relief, they took it at a canter.
Throughout that day and into the night they rode, guiding themselves by instinct when they lost the road in fields of white. Time and again they were forced to maneuver around obstacles hidden by the snow or to backtrack when they could not move forward at all.
At daybreak, after they had ridden through the whole long night, they stopped in an abandoned hut to eat and sleep a few hours. But when Marc, on watch, heard the cry of wolves closing in, they stiffly roused and began to ride again.
As urgently as Roman felt the need to see Westford, he accepted the various dangers and setbacks without question or complaint. They were the natural consequences of his stubborn venture. Thoroughly humbled by the destruction he had nearly brought on his own head, he was genuinely grateful to at least be moving in the right direction. He would not presume to question Providence now.
But the relief of seeing the towers of Westford rise in the distance caused his eyes to water. He pushed his faltering horse to a gallop through the snow and plunged down the winding road to the front gates. The guards greeted him with a surprised hallo, but he hardly paused to wave as he fell from the horse and tossed off the reins.
“Galapos!” He ascended the stone stairs in leaps.
Basil met him at the head of the stairs. “Roman! You’ve come home!” He impulsively embraced the grimy, sweaty soldier in relief and joy.
Roman pulled away. “Where is Galapos?”
“He’s not here,” Basil said, sobering. “He accepted an offer to meet with Sheva at Diamond’s Head.”
“Sheva?” Roman repeated in alarm. “How many soldiers did he take?”
“One. Kam alone.”
“Only Kam? He went to Diamond’s Head and took only Kam?” Roman protested, pained. I should have been here. I should have been here.
Reading him, Basil answered, “That is what he wished. It would have been no different had you been here, for the Surchatain left instructions for you to rule Westford in his absence. If he doesn’t return, I am to proclaim you Surchatain.”
He paused to gauge Roman’s reaction, but the other’s face was hard and unmoved. “It’s good you’re here now, Commander,” Basil continued, formality masking his fervor. “I can run the business of a palace, but have no mind for defending it in war.”
Roman nodded, thinking. He had turned to speak to Marc and Varan standing behind him when a commotion in the foyer below drew their attention.
There, a young man in a well-worn, bulky cloak was scuffling with two soldiers. He was demanding, “I must speak with him! I must!” Looking up, he caught sight of Roman on the stairway and shouted, “Roman, hear me! Please! It will profit you greatly!”
Roman motioned to the men to release him and came slowly down the stairs, peering at the young man. His face wa
s vaguely familiar, but who . . . ?
The young man was saying, “For months now, ever since I came to Westford, I’ve been waiting for you and watching for you—I would speak with no one else. I know only you here, and I knew you would hear me out rather than kill me—” at Roman’s bemused expression, he pleaded, “Don’t you recognize me?” Roman shook his head. “I am Colin, son of Corneus.”
A soldier behind him snarled and he exclaimed, “Wait! Here me out! Will you hear me, Roman?”
“That is the Commander you’re addressing,” Marc said coolly.
“Yes, so I heard. An honor well deserved,” Colin said sincerely.
“You may speak,” Roman nodded.
Colin inhaled and began, “Remember last winter, when you brought my father the offer of an alliance with Galapos against Tremaine—I was there, remember?” Roman nodded firmly.
“I was so eager to be a part of it all and fight with you that my father allowed me to ride at his side, preparing our defenses and overseeing the army. He was pleased with my performance, so that he began to entrust me with greater and greater matters. Eventually, he handed over to me knowledge that he withheld even from Jason. One of the things he taught me was how to gain entry to the palace treasury. It was such a great store that even its location was a closely held secret. Only he, my mother, and I knew it.
“However, when he made that treacherous counteralliance with Tremaine, I broke with him. Completely. It so angered him that he sent scouts after my life and I was forced into hiding. But when I learned what happened at your outpost, I returned to the palace at Ooster. There I found Jason and mother—dead.
“But the treasury is there, untouched! I have brought proof of that—” and he drew out a large, heavy pouch from under his cloak and poured out a stream of gold coins at Roman’s feet. “That amounts to a thousand royals,” Colin stated, and the soldiers standing around gaped. Even Roman looked stunned.