“Yes, but—”
“Then it might help me understand what we’ll face in the Old Wilds.”
He rubbed his temples. “Aliza, we can’t wait for you to finish it. We have to leave tomorrow.”
“Is taking it with us out of the question?”
“It’s larger than your luggage and weighs half a stone.” One eyebrow crept upward. “And it’s chained to a pillar in my study, so yes, taking it with us is out of the question.”
“Oh.” Blast. I did some hurried calculations. Just how many pages is a book that weighs half a stone? I wondered. “Well, I assume you’ve read it.”
“You don’t take your first contract as a Daired without finishing the Chronicle.”
“Then you can show me where the best parts are.”
“You . . .” He paused and considered. “Oh, all right. Come with me.”
He beckoned for me to follow him deeper into the private wing of the house, to a tiny room off his personal study I’d seen before only in passing. It was small and round, walled in undressed marble, lit by the guttering light of a lamp that needed its chimney cleaned, and thick with the smell of old parchment. A writing desk and an armchair, whose better days had been years ago, sat next to a stone pillar, on which was chained an enormous leather-bound book. Ink stained the cracks along the binding. I brushed my fingers across the spine before opening the cover. The first pages were so brittle and yellowed by age I could barely make out the writing, though some of the drawings of Tekari were still clear. Stuffed between the pages were notes on newer sheets of paper with dated entries going back several years.
“It looks like a journal.”
“Some Daireds did use it as a diary of their contracts. Some added their notes later, after they had hung up their swords.”
“How old is it?” I flipped to the second page and heard Alastair wince.
“Old as our family, so please—”
“Aye, I’ll be careful.” He pursed his lips and said nothing. I rolled my eyes. “I will! I promise.” With exaggerated care I turned to the next page and squinted at the faded ink. “When you say ‘old as your family,’ you mean that was written—?”
“By Edan the Fireborn?” He rested his hand reverently against the edge of the plinth. “We think so.”
Good gods. “My sister Mari would give up her entire library for a single hour with this.”
“She’s welcome to come and visit when we get back from Lake Meera.” He glanced at the page I’d opened to, frowned, and gingerly flipped to a latter entry in dark brown ink. “Start there. Do you have paper?” I fished in my pocket and pulled out Henry’s sketchbook. “Good. Take notes; there’s ink in the desk.”
“Where are you going?” I asked as he started for the door.
He smiled. “It’s a surprise.”
After pulling suitable writing utensils from the drawer and arranging them on the desk, I settled down with the Chronicle in my lap. It took some maneuvering to find a comfortable position that allowed me to turn the pages without tearing them. Keen to avoid the ghostly wrath of generations of dead Daireds and the disappointment of one live one, I was glad Alastair had guided me to the newer pages first. I dove in.
It wasn’t an easy read. There didn’t seem to be any rationale to the entries; one entry in a fine, looping hand would end halfway down the page as the Daired described the best way to take down a charging centaur (“a single spear-thrust to the chest before diving out of the way, and pray you have good aim”) and a new one would pick it up in a spiky hand with advice on how to recognize the ancient ghast-ridden (“dead yellow eyes, split voice, given to fits of senseless violence”), before a blocky script took over the page with tips on differentiating between wulvers and direwolves (“the former can take on human-shapes at will and often guard the gates of mountain towns; the latter have only one form and will try to eat you”).
Over the next few hours I took notes, filling the pages with all the information I could find on each type of Tekari. As much as I hoped I’d never need the knowledge, it was comforting to learn the fatal blow to a valkyrie was more effectively struck from above where their talons couldn’t interfere, and that a small vial of beeswax was a vital part of all Riders’ armor, lest they meet a banshee or siren unprepared. I nearly dropped my quill when Madam Gretna knocked on the door and announced dinner. It came as a shock to my cramped and aching muscles to realize that I’d spent the better part of the day in the Chronicle room.
Alastair met me in the dining room. Even on questioning he refused to say anything about his surprise, asking me instead what I’d learned from the Chronicle. “Don’t make a Daired angry,” I said, and he laughed.
“Tekari of the Old Wilds be warned: Aliza Daired is no one to trifle with. But tell me, in case they fail to take warning. What do you do when you see an oncoming gale of nixies?”
I shuffled back through my notes until I found the pages marked NIXIE. “Find low ground, keep quiet, and hope they haven’t already seen you.”
“And if they have?”
“Use fire.”
“If there’s no fire on hand?”
I glanced down. “Stay low and cover your head and neck.”
“How do you tell the difference between a pixie and a nixie? No notes this time.”
“One is Idar and likes to keep out of sight. The other is Tekari and will try to kill you if you disturb them. And . . . nixies like water, pixies don’t?”
“Correct. Which means we’re more likely to see some when we cross the Widdermere Marshes.”
The finger holding my notes open slipped. The pages fluttered shut with a papery sigh. “We’re crossing the Widdermere?”
“We will if we want to get to Lake Meera before the first snows. It’s the fastest way through the Old Wilds if we don’t want to cross the Barrens.”
I swallowed. I couldn’t help it. “And Rushless Wood?”
“We might pass over the southern border.” He looked up. “You’re not having second thoughts now, are you?”
“Of course not. I’ve just, um, heard things.” Henry Brandon had often plied us Manor-folk with tales from the wild north as we gathered around Midwinter fires on the Long Night. “The Merybourne bard used to tell us stories about the area around the Marshes. He said even Riders avoid the Wood.”
He shrugged. “That’s because there’s nothing in Rushless Wood worth fighting. There are no cities between Selkie’s Keep and the Hollow Hills, and if there are any Oldkind in the Wood, they keep to themselves. Now, what about trolls?”
I didn’t need the Chronicle for that. “Walk, don’t run. Do you expect we’ll meet many trolls on the way?”
“Between Harborough Hatch and the Marshes the chances are slim. The deeper we go into the Old Wilds, the more likely it is. The more likely anything is.”
“How long will it take to get to Lake Meera?”
“A week to the northeastern mountains. A few more days to get to Castle Selwyn if the weather holds, and we’d best pray it does. Yes, Barton?” The steward came forward and whispered something in his master’s ear. “Thank you.”
“Would you like me to bring it down, Your Lordship?” Barton asked.
“No, we’ll come up.”
“Very good, sir,” he said.
Alastair waited until he had gone. “When we’re done here, khera, I have something for you,” he said.
“Is this your great secret?”
“You’ll see.”
We finished quickly and went back upstairs. Lights blazed in our chambers and I smelled fresh beeswax. A silk-wrapped bundle lay on the bed next to our panniers, Alastair’s still packed, mine almost empty. He pulled away the silk wrappings and held up a shirt of close-fitting leather plates. It was a smaller version of his everyday armor, worn and gouged in places but well tended. Every inch of exposed leather had been polished to a russet-red sheen. Folded beneath the hauberk were padded trousers and a pair of iron-shod boots.
&nb
sp; “I know you don’t like flying, but this might help make it a little more comfortable.” He clasped his hands in front of him, then behind him, then changed his mind and began fiddling with his leather armbands. Unexpected tears started in the corners of my eyes as I felt again how little I deserved this man. His thoughtfulness undid me. “Do you—like it?” he asked when I said nothing.
“Alastair, I love it.” His look of schoolboy relief made me want to laugh and cry all at once. “But where did you get all this?” I traced the Daired dragon crest engraved in the plate that would cover my heart. “Your armorer couldn’t have possibly made all this in a day.”
“They’re old pieces of Julienna’s. I had my man alter them.”
“He did a good job.” As did you. By the look of it he’d delivered my measurements to his armorer with astonishing accuracy. “She won’t mind?”
“No. She has others. And it’s just riding gear, not war armor, so it won’t do much in the way of protecting you in a battle.”
“Better than nothing.” The last time I was on Akarra’s back I’d shredded my trousers in at least three places, though in fairness I’d also been fleeing from a lamia coven, sliding headfirst down the slopes of Cloven Cairn, and racing against the poison of the Greater Lindworm, none of which had done any favors for my wardrobe. Nevertheless, it comforted me to know there’d be more between the Old Wilds and me than a pair of trousers and a tunic.
“There’s this too.”
He pulled a bulkier parcel from beneath the silk wrappings. A magnificent cloak tumbled out, its outer layer of oiled wool shining silvery-brown in the lamplight. Fur lined the inside, dense but surprisingly light. I felt warmer just looking at it. I clasped his hand. “It’s beautiful. They’re all beautiful. Thank you.” I folded the cloak, tried to fit it in the pannier, and gave up. “Are you sure you don’t have anything bigger?”
“We’ll tie our cloaks to the saddle when we’re not wearing them. Besides that, bring only a few spares of what you can’t do without. Underclothes, socks, that sort of thing.”
I went to the wardrobe, mentally sorting the necessary from expendable. It no longer astonished me that Riders wore their armor everywhere. Practical, efficient, left no one in doubt of their rank, and simplified the washing.
“One more thing,” he said. “Do you still have that knife that Cedric gave you?”
“Aye, I think I have it somewhere.” A few drawers sacrificed their contents to the floor before I found it, still bright in its black leather sheath. “Here.”
“Good. Bring it.”
And so, in the cold dark before dawn the following day, I found myself dressed like a Rider, dagger at my hip and cloak around my shoulders, trembling in my iron-shod boots in a clearing just above House Pendragon. Akarra stretched her wings as Alastair checked the straps that bound the panniers to the saddle, making sure they were evenly weighted and tied shut lest we lose half our baggage over the Arlean countryside. I sensed only a tremor of tension between them as they worked together. None of us had forgotten the events of yesterday, but it seemed for the moment that they’d reconciled, or at least put off their argument until later. When they were both satisfied everything was in order, Akarra extended her foreleg to me and smiled in what I imagined she thought was a sympathetic manner. It wasn’t.
As I stepped closer I couldn’t help but notice the paper-thin hide spanning her wing-bones, mark the narrowness of the saddle, and imagine how long it would take to hit the ground if I were to slide off. Every instinct in me screamed to stay earthbound.
“I’m glad you’re coming, Aliza,” she said.
I chose this. This is what I wanted. The words spun in my head like a prayer to whichever facet of the Fourfold God looked with pity on idiots.
“Er, me too.”
“I’ll fly low and slow today,” Akarra said. “You’ll be on the ground again before dinner.”
“Thank you.”
Alastair helped me into the saddle. “Wedge your toes under her—”
“Shoulder spikes. I remember.” The words came out more snappishly than I intended. My stomach bucked and reared like an unruly centaur colt and I swallowed hard to keep it under control. “Sorry, yes.”
He climbed up behind me and wrapped an arm around my waist. “Ready?”
“Aye,” I lied.
“Akarra, quret!”
Her muscles coiled beneath us and with a joyous snort of dragonfire she dove off the slope, caught an updraft, wheeled, and turned north, toward the Old Wilds and Castle Selwyn and the mysteries that awaited us there.
Chapter 6
Hunter & Quarry
Akarra kept her promise. It did me little good. The padded breeches and iron-shod boots protected my legs from chafing but did nothing to mitigate the queasiness as I watched, or tried not to watch, the ground rush by beneath us. Around noon we stopped to eat our lunch of bardsbread and dried fruit on a wild, windswept stretch of the moors, and only Alastair’s suggestion that we were still close enough to Pendragon to send me back convinced me to climb into the saddle when we were finished. Never mind that I was stiff, aching, and one unexpected dive away from throwing up; I said I was going to Lake Meera and gods help me, I’d see it through.
The trouble with that attitude, I realized that evening as we started our descent toward a village called Shepherd’s Vale, was that it saddled the Fourfold God with a near impossible task.
Akarra landed in a field outside the town wall, scaring the wits out of a herd of grazing sheep. Alastair swung down with the ease of long experience and I couldn’t resist a little retaliation as he offered me his hand. I caught his arm and brought us both down onto the grass. “You said these clothes would make it comfortable,” I hissed. “I won’t be able to sit for days.”
He laughed and sat up, pushing me upright without releasing his grip so that I ended up sprawled awkwardly on his lap. “I said they’d make it more comfortable,” he murmured in my ear. “You did fine for your first flight.”
“It’s hardly my first.”
“Your first as a Daired then.” He stopped suddenly and smiled. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this.”
“What, seeing me limp?”
“Flying with you again. Holding you like this. I’ve dreamed of it since we faced those gryphons in the Witherwood, khera.”
I arched an eyebrow, a coy reply on my tongue, when I felt a touch on my shoulder. Akarra hung over us, lips twitching. She withdrew her wingtip. “While I in no way disagree with either of you, this may not be the place to discuss such . . . things. You have attendants.”
We unsprawled enough to look where she pointed. The town of Shepherd’s Vale was a small settlement, the cluster of wood and brick houses surrounded by a wall topped with thorn bushes to discourage attacks from roving Tekari. A few men and women jostled at the gate for a glimpse of us. A whisper rippled through their ranks. I heard a giggle.
We jumped to our feet and brushed away bits of sod and dirt and clinging embarrassment. Alastair went forward to meet them with a face that might as well have been carved from stone, if stone could blush. He dragged Akarra’s saddle and one of the panniers after him. I shouldered the second pannier and followed, doing my best not to walk bowlegged.
An elderly woman stepped out from among the townsfolk and returned his fourfold greeting. “Come in, come in, my lord and lady! Riders are always welcome here.” Her eyes wandered from my lack of scabbard to my unplaited hair. “And Riders’ . . . companions.”
The innkeeper, as she turned out to be, led us down the single street of the town to her establishment. With its walls of warm brick and heavy wood furniture, the inn reminded me of Merybourne Manor, and I pushed away the thick feeling in my throat as she showed us to the guest chambers, which were just being vacated by a pair of maids with empty pails. Alastair thanked the innkeeper and counted out ten copper trills, which she took with a curtsy and followed the maids out.
He noticed the t
ub in the corner at the same time I did. He raised a hopeful eyebrow, but I shook my head.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s hardly big enough for one.”
“We could call for something larger,” he said.
“And scandalize the maids?” I laughed and pulled the bathing screen across the corner. “Not tonight.”
“If you insist,” he said, “but, Aliza, you’d best not get used to regular baths. After we pass Harborough Hatch we’ll be fortunate to find a town most nights. A dry place to camp may be a luxury by the time we reach the northern lakes.”
I poked my head out from around the screen. “You mean we’ll have to sleep outside?”
“We might. Does that bother you?”
“Depends.”
“Have you ever tried it before?”
“I seem to recall we both did a few days ago.”
“We had a roof over our heads,” he said, but couldn’t keep from smiling. “That doesn’t count.”
I thought. “What about hunting moon-moss with my uncle in the wilds of Edonarle?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“We had to stay in the Royal Park all night,” I tried. “It was very uncomfortable.”
“Were you being chased by Tekari?”
“Only the City Watch.”
He smiled. “I admire your willingness to face the elements, but spending a night in the Old Wilds is not going to be pleasant.”
I slid into the lukewarm water. “In that case, I suppose we’d better enjoy this while we have it.”
He muttered something in Eth but otherwise left me to bathe in peace. When I finished, he took his turn, eschewing the screen altogether, but my weariness cheated him out of some much-deserved admiration from me. I fell asleep almost as soon as I touched the mattress.
We left early the next day. Flying didn’t get any easier but as the hours rolled by it became familiar, and in that, a little more bearable. Alastair sat behind me, arms wrapped securely around my waist, our hands interlaced. For a few miles I shifted around in an effort to find a position in which the buckles of his sword-harness didn’t dig into my back, only to realize after a while that there was no such position. I gave up with a sigh and focused on the scenery, or what I could see of it through wind-stung eyes. Akarra flew low over yellowish moors, broken here and there by hollows dark with heather. The wind blew cold but the sun shone across the rocky highlands, gilding the landscape. Alastair and I didn’t try to talk. Besides the fact that it’d be hard to hear each other, the task of making sure I didn’t fall to my death kept us both too busy to bother with conversation. We stopped again around noon for our lunch. As dull as the flat, hard loaves of bardsbread might’ve been, they held infinite more appeal than Akarra’s meal, which she brought back after a brief hunt in the Dragonsmoor foothills. The carcasses she grasped in her talons were blackened and charred but still recognizable as rams. She laid them out on the ground and, seeing my look, ducked her head as if embarrassed.
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