by Robin Hardy
She stared ahead in stubborn denial, so he leaned forward and took her fingers. “Deirdre.” He turned her face toward him. “Look at me. While you have grown up, I have grown older. Don’t you realize this spring made eleven years that we have known each other?”
“Eleven years . . . ?” Could that be? She was now twenty-one, and he thirty-three.
“Soon, you’ll be mistaking me for Basil!” He sat back with a laugh. She smiled too, until the inevitable end of that thought struck them both. “And soon, Deirdre, Ariel will take up my sword and shield—”
“No,” she pleaded. “Don’t start on that again, not now. Please—let’s just watch the games.” She stretched her hand to him. Relenting, he kissed it while cheers went up from the crowd below at a long stone throw.
Chapter 21
Two days later, in the midst of the games, Roman was standing as observer at the archery lines when an errand boy tugged on his shortcoat. “Surchatain, the Counselor sends for you. He says it is urgent.”
Roman turned with reluctance. “Where is he?”
“In your chambers, sir.” That raised Roman’s brows. It must be important for Basil to intrude into the Surchatain’s chambers.
When Roman opened the door to his receiving room, he saw Basil standing over a winded messenger. “Surchatain—” Basil met him and closed the door in one swift motion.
“What is the urgency?” he asked, looking at the messenger. He was Lystran, but not a man Roman knew.
The soldier stood and saluted, but the Counselor answered for him, “Surchatain, this man is from Outpost One. He reports the spies you sent to Polontis arrived at the outpost early this morning.”
“This morning! From Eledith?”
“Yes, Surchatain—er, no, Surchatain.” The man swallowed to catch his breath. “They didn’t make it to Eledith. On the way, they encountered an army marching due west, toward Corona. The vanguard carried Bruc’s banners.”
In a fit of anger, Roman slapped a nearby table so hard that the messenger jumped. “When I catch Bruc, I’ll—” He broke off to open the door and tell the boy outside, “Have Fidelis readied for me.”
Basil advanced a step as the boy ran off. “Surchatain, we can send to have done whatever you wish.”
“We must intercept that army before they reach Corona. And I need to hear the scouts’ report firsthand at the outpost.” So saying, Roman belted on his sword, took up a money bag, and concealed a small dagger in his belt.
“Will you take the Commander with you, then?” Basil asked.
Roman paused, then shook his head. “Nihl has a good chance of winning at the pugil sticks today. I don’t want to take him out of it.”
“I’m certain he would consider this a higher priority,” Basil insisted, his voice rising slightly.
Roman all but ignored him, striding out the chambers, but Basil and the dazed messenger followed. “Be certain to tell Deirdre where I have gone,” Roman added over his shoulder.
“Surchatain—who shall go with you?” Basil demanded.
“I need no escort to the outpost, Counselor,” Roman returned testily. He stepped into the foyer as the guards opened the great doors to him.
“Roman!” Basil shouted. “This is foolhardy!”
Roman glared back at him, and the messenger behind the Counselor wilted, but Basil stood his ground. “I am not yet infirm to the point of needing someone to protect me,” Roman said coldly.
At this point Fidelis was led up to the steps and Roman mounted with a vigorous leap. Basil grabbed the reins, groping for an argument, but Roman merely nodded to him and kicked in his heels. He passed the inner gate instantly and was through the outer gate before the echo of hoofbeats had faded.
Sighing and muttering, Basil retraced his steps to the interior of the palace, where he stopped a passing maid. “Where is the Surchataine?”
The maid bowed. “Counselor, I believe she is on the balcony overlooking the archers.”
He found Deirdre there, leaning on the stone rail as she watched the competition. She turned, smiling, at his approach. “Basil, did you know I used to be rather good at archery? I wonder, if I practiced, how long it would take to get back into form . . . ?”
“Surchataine, I’m afraid I have news that will not please you,” he said with an air of resignation.
“What?” She gave him her full attention.
“We have received a report that Lord Bruc is advancing to attack Corona. The Surchatain has just departed in haste—alone—for Outpost One.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned, leaning heavily on the railing. “Must he handle every problem himself?”
“Evidently, yes,” he shrugged. “Please excuse me, Surchataine.” She nodded, and he went to the pugiling ring to find Nihl.
But Basil was stopped on the way by Olynn. “Counselor—come arbitrate for us.” The Captain took his arm and started toward the stone-throwing arena.
“In a moment, Olynn. First I must find the Commander,” Basil began, but voices were rising in the courtyard.
“Silence!” Olynn shouted. “The Counselor will make a judgment, and his decision is final.” Then three contestants began presenting their complaints all at once.
Basil waved his arms distractedly. “Stop, stop. I can’t possibly understand you. You, first—what is your trouble?”
“He’s using a different stone that throws easier,” the man protested, pointing to his fellow.
“They’re the same weight and roughly round, as the rules require,” argued the second.
“But it’s smaller. It hefts better.”
“You should have used it then, when you had your turn,” said the second. The other responded angrily to this and they began shouting again.
Basil interjected, “You will all throw again, using the same stone. In the future, you will throw only stones that have been matched fairly by the judges. Now, Olynn, excuse me. I must find Nihl.” Basil took his leave of the contestants, who were still arguing, and walked through several yards to the pugil ring.
Commander Nihl had just stepped into the ring and taken up his pugil stick, as had his opponent. Basil gained the ringside as the match began, but he merely watched from there. It was best to let them finish, once started. If he attempted to interrupt and call Nihl aside, his opponent could legally take advantage of the distraction to deliver a winning blow. With purses at stake, that kind of thing happened. Basil could not help smiling, however, when he saw Izana on the other side of the ring, watching anxiously.
The two contestants circled, gripping their oaken pugil sticks, which had thick leather pads on each end. The men were well-matched, about the same height and weight. For a time they just gauged each other and feinted, then Nihl followed an upward feint with a sharp lower blow. His opponent narrowly caught it, using the impetus to return a blow, which Nihl deflected smartly.
The other tried an upward lateral to the throat and Nihl ducked. Spinning, he caught his opponent in the back with the right pad. He staggered, but managed to jab his pole in between Nihl’s feet, tripping him. Nihl fell, rolled, blocked a blow, and swept his pole to bring the other down with him. Meanwhile, the spectators cheered and hissed lustily at solid blows and feints.
Basil shifted. The match was drawing out to be a long one, due to the skill of the competitors. His eyes flicked to a portion of the north market road visible beyond the palace walls. Roman was probably justified in his confidence traveling it alone, but Basil was never one to take unnecessary risks, especially in light of the weaver’s warning. Nihl would likely agree.
A sudden shout from the onlookers around him brought his eyes back to the ring. Nihl had delivered a sound blow, but the other recovered to continue fighting. As it went on, Basil grew decidedly edgy.
Finally Nihl solidly decked the fellow, who raised a hand in defeat. As Nihl sagged out of the ring, Basil pushed through the crowd to take his arm, urging, “Come immediately.”
Nihl followed, panting and wip
ing his face on a cloth thrown to him. “. . . Counselor?”
“We have received a messenger from Outpost One who says that an army has been sighted traveling due west from Eledith,” Basil told him in low tones.
“To Corona,” Nihl remarked dully, shaking his head. “I feared it.”
Prodding him toward the palace, Basil continued, “The Surchatain has just left for Outpost One. If you ready yourself quickly, you may catch him on the road.”
“Why did he leave without me?” Nihl asked, starting inside.
“Pride,” Basil answered immediately.
Nihl glanced at him before racing up the stone stairs to his chambers.
Within a quarter hour Nihl was astride his Arabian, waiting as the great front gates swung slowly open for him. It was almost a full hour after the Surchatain’s departure, however. As Nihl spurred out into the roadway, he suddenly yanked his horse to a stop, staring down the road.
Baffled, Basil ran out of the gates to look down the road himself. And his heart went cold as they watched Fidelis, riderless, leisurely trot up to the gates. The horse allowed Basil to take the reins and stroke him numbly. He was unmarked and uninjured.
Nihl said, “If the Surchatain has had an accident, he cannot be far. I will look.” He spurred off without further conjecture.
The Counselor sent Fidelis to be stabled, then stood at the front gates to wait. He stood as the clouds passed by and the sun moved westward. He stood as the night sentries came on duty and a query came from Deirdre: Was he going to eat tonight? He sent back a polite request to be excused.
Then, one rider galloped up: Nihl. He dismounted at the gate and wordlessly gave the reins to an errand boy. Reluctantly, he brought his eyes up to meet Basil’s. “I found nothing,” Nihl whispered in defeat. “Nothing.”
Basil gazed at him, sick with despair. Without replying, he motioned the Commander to the banquet hall where Deirdre and her guests were eating. As the Counselor and Commander solemnly entered, Deirdre turned and said, “Well, will you eat now?” Then, “What’s wrong?”
Basil bowed. “Surchataine Deirdre, Surchatain Roman has disappeared. In his stead, until he is found, I appoint you to rule Westford.”
Deirdre paled to a sickly grey. “What . . . what has happened to him?”
“We don’t know, Surchataine. He left, as I told you, for the outpost, but his horse has returned without him. The Commander was able to find no clue as to what befell him. The first action I suggest is to have searchers comb the forest along the highway.”
Kam stood. “Surchataine, I will see to that right away.” He left without waiting for her nod, Olynn with him.
“Surchataine,” said the Commander, “when you are done with your meal, there are matters we must lay out before you.”
“I am done now,” she said quietly, putting her cloth aside to leave the hall with Basil and Nihl.
After Roman had ridden out the palace gates, he intercepted the paved market road and took it north. He had traveled this road so many times that he hardly paid any attention now, being preoccupied with such pressing concerns. There was, however, one section of the road that was a bane to travelers, running as it did through thick trees which often hid wolves or robbers. Roman unconsciously sped Fidelis down this stretch, for faster travelers make harder targets.
As he rounded a curve, he came upon something small and white lying in the middle of the road. It was just a dropped neckerchief, but it brought Fidelis to a dead stop. Muttering to himself, Roman was urging Fidelis around it when his ears caught the telltale whiz of a flying arrow behind him.
He ducked, but too late. The head of the arrow pierced his shortcoat and planted itself in his back. He fell from the saddle to the brush at Fidelis’ hoofs, and there he lay.
PART THREE
CALLE VALLEY
Chapter 22
Roman lay face down in the dirt at the side of the road, the arrow that felled him protruding from his back. Fidelis stood nearby nosing in the grass.
The slender shadow of a man fell across the Surchatain’s still form. The man stuffed a white neckerchief into his pants, then reached down and ruthlessly jerked out the arrow. There was no cry in response.
He bent to touch the body, but was startled by a not-far-off sound in the bushes. So he quickly gathered the Surchatain’s leather money bag and ebony-hilt sword and grabbed for Fidelis’ reins.
The horse shied away. Cursing under his breath, for the rustling was nearer now, he chased after the horse. But Fidelis kicked out his hoofs and trotted off.
With a last glance at Roman’s form, the man departed.
Moments later, a peasant girl carrying a bread basket stepped out of the forest onto the road. She was about thirteen years old, with a heart-shaped face and wide-set brown eyes. A dingy scarf covered her thick brown hair.
She took to the road and began walking along it, approaching Roman. She did not see him, however, for those wide-set eyes were hazily focused on daydreams rather than the road ahead. So it was only when her foot caught under his knee and she fell sprawling across his body that she discovered him.
“Ugh!” She scrambled up, wiping his blood from her arm. Then she looked down on him curiously. “Must be one of the soldiers. Good thing he’s dead.” But seeing that blood was oozing from a wound in his back, she bent her ear to his mouth, then jumped up. “He’s not dead—he’s alive.”
This discovery made her scowl. “I have to finish him, then. That’s what Pax would do. That’s what I should do.” She had no weapon, so she searched around him for one, but failed to find the dagger hidden in his belt.
“Well. . . .” She rose uncertainly. “I’ll just leave him here to die, then. No one cares for those awful soldiers. They just live like rulers and lord it over regular people. Pax will be glad to hear about him, dying in the road like a dog.” She picked up her basket and began walking away.
“Dying like a dog,” she repeated to herself, as she took a step.
Involuntarily she looked back at him. “You can just die,” she said spitefully, and took another step.
But with each step her feet seemed to grow to the ground. She cast another glance back at him, and could not turn away again. The pressure was not eased until she came to stand over him once more.
“I can’t leave you here,” she said suddenly. “Someone may find you and help you. I have to make sure you die. I have to take you to my brother Pax—he’ll make sure. He’ll be pleased to make sure.” So she took his arms and dragged him from the road into the forest.
She dragged him a ways, though he was heavy and she had to often stop and rest. But she kept at it, over briars and poison ivy, through woods where there wasn’t even a sheep path. Finally, panting, she brought him to a mean little hut in the midst of the trees. A small garden in back and a thatched overhang for animals were all that distinguished it. She dragged him through a gaggle of curious geese, then through the main room of the hut to a crude lean-to attached to the back wall. There, she maneuvered him into a face-down position on a rough cot.
She checked his breathing again, thinking that the rough trip might have killed him. There was breath in him yet, though it was short and fast. “Pax will be home tonight,” she announced to him. “You’ll be a dead man for sure when he gets here.” He made no more response than any dead man would.
His blood-soaked shortcoat glistened in the afternoon sunlight which spilled in through a tiny window onto his face and back. The girl regarded him quietly, studying his strong features and thick black hair. He was pale under a normally brown complexion. She touched his hand, and found it cold. She moved her fingers to touch his face, then jerked her hand away as if caught in a wrongdoing.
She sat beside the cot, chewing her lip and watching him bleed. “If you die before Pax comes home, he’ll be angry,” she said. “He would want to do it himself. I had better keep you alive till tonight.” She quickly stripped off his shortcoat and shirt. She daubed the shirt in a n
earby bucket of water and washed the blood off his back to find the wound. It was in the middle of his left shoulder blade. It must not have opened his heart, but how it bled!
Folding the leather into a compress, she stood over him and pressed it onto the jagged puncture. She held it there, pressing down with all her strength to stanch the flow of blood.
After a few minutes, her arms grew tired and she let up on the compress to see if the bleeding had stopped. No—the blood poured out again as soon as she released pressure. She quickly replaced the compress and leaned on it, longer, until she had no strength left and had to ease up. The blood flowed again. She pressed on it once more, feeling a rising apprehension as the sun dropped in the sky. Her brother would be home soon. She had to finish this before he came home.
She lifted her feet from the floor to lean her full body weight on the compress. She leaned, pressing steadily on his back, as the sky grew steadily redder. Finally, she carefully removed the compress, sure the bleeding had stopped by now.
Breathlessly, she watched the small wound stay closed. Then it opened to release a trickle again.
“Blast!” she shouted. Frustrated and panicky, she slapped the compress back on the wound and threw herself on it, trembling with the fatigue of effort.
Seconds later she heard her brother’s voice outside the hut: “Effie!”
Her insides wrenched in distress. She lifted herself up and threw a coverlet over the injured man, spilling out in a passionate whisper, “You’re going to die and there’s nothing I can do about it!”
Pax entered the hut just as she came into the main room. He was a strapping young man, maybe nineteen or so, with unruly brown hair like hers and hints of a straggly, immature beard. “Effie, you worthless snip, where is my dinner?” He slumped onto a stool at a crude table.
“It’s just warming up, Pax,” she whispered, running to the kettle on the hearth to stir the long-forgotten stew.