by Eric Flint
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
She dropped her voice to a whisper. "Exactly what is your ambition? Will you be content with a position of responsibility and respect or . . ."
"Majesty?"
"Or will you not be satisfied until the crown is yours?"
He glanced once toward the room in which his guard waited, but his moment of uncertainty passed quickly. "Majesty—I have no ambition. True, my family, the succession . . . But I am a man of middle years. The Prince is young with many years ahead."
"Has he, lord? I believed the same for Richard."
"A terrible accident, Majesty."
"Yes, an accident."
His face flushed. "Have you evidence that it was not?"
"Evidence, lord? Not evidence." If she had evidence that could be presented, he would already be in irons.
He stepped toward her, not enough to stir the suspicions of the Guardsman, but enough to force her to look up at him.
"There were many witnesses to the accident, Lady." His voice was a tight ribbon of ice. "Anyone who speaks against what so many saw must be using an unnatural source of information."
That Hefger's argument was faulty made no difference. People were seldom concerned with logic when they had fear to substitute for thought. The charge he implied would be enough to endanger her, endanger Garrick.
Witch. Witch's son.
She met his eyes. "What is it you want?"
He raised a hand as though to touch the narrow black lace of her neckline, then, with a shift of his eyes toward the hall guard, let it drop. "Since you press the issue, Majesty, I want a queen who will listen to the council of her husband in all things."
Husband. She wanted to shudder, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction. What he lusted for went far beyond the marriage bed. She was just a stone to be walked over in his path. "And Garrick?"
"Ah, Garrick. I'll be his guardian then, won't I?"
Her mask of composure pushed against the shattering point. "If you believed I had Powers, lord, you would not dare this."
"It is what the people believe that is important." He stepped back into a mocking bow. "Your Majesty. I suggest you begin plans for our wedding; I am ardent as a youth." In the blink of an eye, mockery turned to threat and the ice in his voice turned to one cutting crystal. "If you have not announced our engagement within the week . . ." He summoned his guard and bowed once more. "Accidents do happen, Lady, sickness does befall."
* * *
She tucked the folded paper deep under her pillow, where only Freida would find it. It was wrong to leave her this way, but she was too old for hard riding, and there were many miles to be traveled where no carriage could go.
"Mama!" Garrick bounded into the room, fresh from his day's lessons with Chancellor Penvir . "You're dressed for riding. May I come today? Please?"
"Of course. I was waiting for you."
"Should I tell Jevin?" Garrick's guard had become his best friend. She would need that now.
"He's helping Freida prepare things. Be quick now, we don't want to miss the warm part of the day."
"Prepare what, Mama?"
"What has baskets of food and a cloth spread on the ground?"
"A picnic? A picnic!" He ran to change. She called after him to dress warmly, not to be fooled by the bright sunlight.
Alone, she slid her locket open and Saw Rafe, the Guardsman she had chosen to accompany them today, waiting in the stable. The only one to whom she had confided her plan, he had already hidden clothes and weapons for her in the forest beyond the village.
Rafe was a good man; Richard had trusted him, and people were used to seeing him as one of her guards when she went riding. He and Jevin were also men with no families to worry as the sun set.
She found Hefger next, with an ease bought by repetition. He was sharing a noon meal with a young woman who looked like she might be a merchant's daughter. Elena closed the locket and pitied the girl her foolishness, while the part of her that was queen hoped she might prove diverting. The longer Hefger was kept from discovering their absence, the better.
Freida tapped on the door. "Everything's ready, Ma'am. Jevin's taken the food to the stable. He said he'd be back presently for the Prince. What is it, Ma'am?"
She'd tried to blink back tears, but they had spilled. She blotted them away with one of the handkerchiefs from the top of her purse. The soft, familiar scent of lavender was out of place against the needs of the day. "It's nothing, Freida, just . . . Thank you, Freida."
She felt as if she were leaving forever. Her plan was to return once Garrick was safe in her father's court. She would be Regent, as Richard had wished. She would deal with Hefger then.
But those were only plans, and plans were fickle things.
"Your Majesty?" Jevin was at the open antechamber door. She joined him there. "Rafe says everything is ready, Ma'am."
"I'm ready too!" Garrick left his nanny and spun around to show her his clothes. "Are these right? I told Nanny you wanted me to wear warm things and she picked these." He tugged on Jevin's sleeve. "A picnic! We're going to have a picnic!"
"Yes, Sir. A fine picnic."
"Not 'Sir.' Garrick!"
Jevin's boyish smile was instantly replaced by an expression of exaggerated dignity. "Very well, Sir Garrick."
This was an old game between them. Garrick pretended to be annoyed, then dissolved into giggles.
Jevin glanced in her direction. She could see questions left unvoiced.
There was a wolf at her heels, driving her toward a precipice, but she must seem a queen going on a picnic. She smiled as she swung her cloak around her shoulders. "Well then. Let's be on our way."
* * *
The sound of the horse's hooves on the stable yard cobbles sounded like parade drums. She often went riding with Garrick and attendant guards; even a picnic was not unusual enough to attract attention, but her fears made everything seem louder, bigger, slower than it really was.
"Who's that, Mama?"
She looked ahead. Just beyond the yard gate was Hefger's hired poisoner, a gray shadow in the midst of sunlight. Watching them.
xx
"I don't know, Garrick. Perhaps someone who wants to work in the stables." Someone well paid who should be long gone—unless his business here was unfinished.
"I don't like him, Mama," Garrick whispered. "He gives me bad-shivers."
"Me too," she said, and put heels to her horse.
* * *
Garrick was exhausted, but trying not to show it. She had told him that they were going to visit his grandfather, and explained that she had stopped in the forest to change to men's clothing and weapons to make it hard for a "bad man" to find them.
He was learning for himself how quickly an adventure could lose its charm.
"How far is it?" he asked. "I think Spice is tired."
She smiled, but, in truth the spring had left his new pony's step while the sun was still high. "It's a long way, but Spice can rest in the King's stable when we reach Karchesk. The King there is an ally of my father. I'm sure he'll lend us fresh horses, or even a coach."
"I know what an ally is," Garrick said proudly. "It's the kind of friend a king needs. Will we be there tomorrow?"
"No, Sir," Jevin said. "Two days, maybe three, allowing for the horses tiring. That's how long to the border. Another two, at least, until we reach King Tover's palace, but we'll probably be joined by an escort before we've gone far into Karchesk."
"I know this land, Ma'am," Rafe said. "There's an old farm not too far ahead. It hasn't been tenanted in years, but it's still more sheltered than a camp in the forest."
She could hear and easier to defend in the tension of his voice. "Can we be there before dark?"
"At this pace, I think we'll make it in time to gather—" His horse snorted and swung around to face the way they had come. Rafe scowled and stood in his stirrups, scanning the patchwork of trees and open land. "Riders, Ma'am."
"How many?"
She fought the panic-chatter of her thoughts. A legitimate search party would have been far larger. "Hefger."
"Go, Your Highness, as fast as you can. No, Jevin. Stay with them."
"Come, Garrick, now! Garrick!" Her son was oblivious to her command. He was frozen in place, staring at the riders becoming more visible as the gap narrowed.
"The bad man," he whispered. "Bad-shivers."
"Come on, Sir." Jevin brought his horse beside Spice and plucked Garrick from his saddle. "Storm can carry us both. Your pony can rest. There, her bridle's off. Ready, Ma'am?"
She nodded. "Bless you, Rafe,"
He pulled his sword and held it up in salute. "Go."
Their horses stretched out into a full gallop and covered distance, but her gelding was laboring to keep pace with the larger and stronger horse Jevin rode. A steep rise was too much. Sunset stumbled, went to his knees and rose shaking, sides heaving.
She slid from the saddle, almost snagging the sword she was not accustomed to wearing. "He can't go any farther."
"Mount behind me, Ma'am." Jevin held down a hand. "If we can find that old farm . . ."
She left Sunset's bridle a tangle of leather under his hanging head and scrambled onto the bigger horse's back, the sword she was wearing banging her legs, the tapestry purse beneath her cloak digging into her ribs.
"Keep a good grip, Ma'am." Jevin nudged his horse into a jarring trot to the top of the rise and down the scrub-dotted descent. There was forest below in the valley, bright with autumn and the promise of concealment. She closed her eyes and tried to See without the glass. To See if they were still pursued, by how many. It would be good to know how much damage Rafe's defense had inflicted, but she didn't want to know more.
For now, she wanted to believe he had survived.
"The bad man," Garrick said, his voice oddly distant. "He's coming. I can feel him."
She turned enough to see the top of the ridge behind them. There was no one there. She told herself that Garrick was a child; frightened and imagining.
She was the one clinging to an unreal hope. Two riders crested the ridge. Still two.
"Stop," she said. "Take Garrick into the valley, lose yourselves among the trees, get to King Tover. I'll try to delay them."
"Rafe tried that, Lady."
Rafe had slowed the pursuit only a little, and Rafe was a fighter. Jevin was right. "Go then."
He asked his horse for more speed, but the downhill charge of less burdened mounts couldn't be outrun.
"Hold!" It was the beast-like roar of Hefger's huge guard. "Hold or die!"
Hold and die was closer to the truth, but there was nothing else they could do; the guard's horse, lathered and blood-streaked from spurs almost collapsed into them as the giant grabbed their reins. Hefger reined in behind him.
"Be brave, Garrick," she whispered.
"Well, Your Majesty," Hefger said. "It seems I've arrived just a little too late to save you from bandits."
"Bandits? Will that be your story?"
"I see no guards, no uniforms. I see a bandit."
"He's a soldier!" Garrick said.
Hefger ignored him. "Off the horse, all of you."
"Ma'am?"
"Do as he says." She slid off first. Jevin lowered Garrick to the ground, swung down and was disarmed as soon as his feet touched earth. She saw that Hefger's guard favored his right arm. Rafe hadn't failed—not entirely. The guard's armor was light, and a wad of cloth tied around his arm was overfilled with blood that leaked fresh red streams.
Hefger, still mounted, looked down at her. "Was that disguise supposed to fool anyone? It takes more than a play-acting sword and a pair of leggings to make a man."
She drew the sword with deliberate awkwardness. It was heavier than the weapons she had practiced with as a girl, but well balanced. "It would have fooled some," she said. "It was supposed to look real."
"It would be amusing to give you a lesson, but I've played all the games I intend to play with you, Lady. You had your chance. Put the toy down."
She bent her knees slowly, gracefully, as though she were wearing a gown in a garden and wanted to pick up a fallen blossom. Garrick and Jevin were watching her.
"Garrick!" she cried. "Run!"
He bolted like a rabbit. Hefger shouted to the guard to go after him. She snapped upright, tossed the sword to Jevin.
"No! Leave the boy! Him first!"
As the confused guard turned to find Jevin armed, Hefger backed his horse away from the pair. He had felt safe enough next to her, even when she held a sword.
The giant moved first. His sword, already stained with blood, cut the air like a woodsman's axe, his weight and strength giving it power, his wounded arm robbing it of precision.
Jevin feinted and struck, hit armor, spun out of the path of the guard's retaliation, struck again, drew blood.
Garrick crept out of the scrub, holding a finger-thick branch across his body like a quarter-staff. He watched Jevin dodge an instant too late, take a sword-tip wound to the thigh. His mouth dropped open into a silent circle of dismay.
She ran to him. She knew that Hefger was following, keeping a safe distance from the battle, but Garrick needed her; needed to be kept from trying to help Jevin with the twig he clutched.
"No," he whispered as she held him close. "Noooo . . ."
The guard's sword slashed down, hit Jevin's shoulder and ripped a path of blood down his chest. Jevin staggered, seconded his failing grip with his left hand and lunged, driving his sword into a vulnerable spot at the base of the guard's breastplate.
Jevin fell first. Garrick screamed. She held him until Hefger's guard went down and lay still. When she released him, he threw himself across Jevin, sobbing.
A horse's hooves crushed dry leaves. Elena stayed where she had knelt with Garrick. She didn't look up. "You caused this, Hefger. All of it. You, your ambition. Rafe is dead too, isn't he?"
"Very. Unless your magic can cause a head to live without a body, or a body without a head."
The hint of amusement in his voice helped anger override horror. She went on as if he had given her news of no importance. "How did you know to follow us? It was your poisoner, wasn't it? He saw us leaving."
He didn't bother with a denial. "Ruined a pleasant afternoon and now I've lost a very good bodyguard. Not the brightest wit I've ever encountered, but otherwise more than satisfactory. This day has cost me dearly."
She stood and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief from her purse; a handful more fluttered in the breeze and landed pure among the trodden leaves. "A crown is rich repayment."
"Yes, eventually." He looked at the fallen men, at Garrick, at her. "But more immediate compensation occurs to me. I've changed my mind about playing games with you, woman." He dismounted. "But first the boy. I'll make it quick; he is just a child. Call him over here."
"No."
"No?" He grabbed her chin and forced her head back. "That is a word you can no longer use."
He wanted to see fear, to fill himself with the power of it. She closed her eyes so he could not read what was there instead. "I'm sorry, lord. Forgive me. I'm just a woman, and my child . . . My child . . ."
He let her head drop. "And you thought you could rule. You're all alike, good only for—"
The last handkerchief fell from the handle of her dagger as she drove it in low, jerked its razor edge through vital vessels. Hefger stiffened. She used the instant to slip away before shock could turn to rage. He turned, bent to the left, clutching fabric over the pulsing flow with one hand, fumbling for the hilt of his sword with the other.
She ran up the slope, waving the reddened dagger, baiting him further from Garrick. He lunged after her, faster than she expected, sword in a grip that still looked sure.
She ran again.
He stopped.
"I see," he said. "The mother bird." He
swayed and steadied himself with his sword. "Mother bird . . . Baby bird . . ."
He staggered into a charge back down the hill, both hands holding his sword like a spear.
She screamed for Garrick to run. He didn't move.
The scrub of the hillside was a blur. Only Hefger was in focus as she sprinted in pursuit.