by David Weber
"No," he said softly, looking down at the eggs and ham on his plate. "No, it's not, of course." He poked at the food with his fork for a moment, then selected a fresh, flaky biscuit and began spreading butter across it. "Do you think I should discuss it with her again?" he asked after a moment.
"No," Hanatha said. "Not right now, at any rate. You two have already said all that needs saying. Whether you've both heard exactly what the other one was really saying may be another matter, but until her emotions—and yours, sweetheart—have had some time to settle down, you're not going to be able to make things any clearer. Best to give her some time to herself. Let her cope with it on her own terms."
"You're probably right," he conceded thoughtfully. He bit into the biscuit and chewed slowly, then frowned. "On the other hand, the fact that she isn't here for breakfast might seem to indicate she isn't coping with it very well yet," he observed.
"I don't expect her to cope with it for at least a day or so," his wife said. "In fact, before she went to bed last night she told me she intended to take Boots out for a ride early this morning. A long ride."
"How long a ride?" Tellian looked up again, his expression concerned, and Hanatha shrugged.
"Probably all day," she said frankly. "That's why I'm not surprised she didn't join us for breakfast. She intended to make an early start, so she probably dropped by the kitchen when the servants were having breakfast and wheedled something out of Cook, like she used to do when she was a baby."
"What about the Mayor's banquet?" Tellian frowned. "You know we'll have to leave for it by midafternoon."
"I told her she didn't have to attend," Hanatha said. "It's not as if there'll be anyone else there her age, you know. You and I may have to suffer through it, but there's no real reason she ought to be forced to do the same thing. Besides, I know what it's like to need to spend some time away from parties and banquets."
"Still . . ." he said slowly.
"She said she wanted time to think, and she thinks best in the saddle. Like someone else I know." She smiled, and despite his manifold worries, Tellian chuckled.
"At any rate," she continued, "I didn't really have the heart to tell her no. I did ask her if she intended to take her armsmen along. I didn't come right out and tell her that if she didn't, she wasn't going anywhere, but she's not exactly a dummy, your daughter. She only made a face and said she knew perfectly well that she wasn't going riding unless Tarith did, too."
"Tarith, all by himself, isn't exactly her armsmen," Tellian observed.
"I thought about pointing that out to her," Hanatha agreed. "On the other hand, you didn't pick Tarith as her armsman when she was two whole years old because of how incompetent he is. As long as they stay on our lands, he should be able to look after her just fine. And," for just an instant all of her own loving concern for her daughter put a quiver into her voice, "I wanted to give her at least that much, Tellian. It's not all that much of a victory over tradition and convention, but at least we can let her have that much."
The baron looked at his wife and started to speak. Then he stopped, his own eyes just a bit misty, and nodded.
He sat there for a moment, then drew a deep breath, shook himself, and smiled at Hanatha.
"You're right, of course, love," he said. "On the other hand, this is Leeana we're talking about. You know—the daughter who broke her arm when she tried to walk all the way around the north tower across the battlements? The one who took her pony across a three-rail fence when she was nine? The one who—"
"All right. All right!" Hanatha laughed and threw a balled-up napkin at him. "And your point is?"
"That as soon as I finish eating, I'm personally going down to the stable to make sure Tarith's horse is gone, too."
* * *
"Milady Baroness! Milady Baroness!"
Hanatha Bowmaster came awake almost instantly in response to the imploring whisper. It was dark, without even a trace of gray dawn glimmering through her window. She sat up, and Marthya stepped back from the edge of her bed.
"What is it?" Her voice was husky with sleep, but she kept it low enough not to disturb her husband.
"It's—it's Lady Leeana," the maid said wretchedly, her lamp quivering in her hand. "Her bed's not been slept in, Milady!"
"What do you mean?" Hanatha demanded, not because she'd misunderstood Marthya, but because her mind refused to grapple with what the maid had just said.
"I mean she never came in at all last night, Milady," Marthya said even more wretchedly. "I know you said she had permission to stay out all day with Tarith, but I should have suspected something when she wasn't back in time for supper. But I didn't—truly, I didn't, Milady! I lay down, just to nap until she came in, and then, somehow . . ."
The maid shook her head, and a bright flash of panic flared through Hanatha.
"What's the hour?" she demanded.
"Barely three hours till dawn," Marthya admitted. "I just woke up, Milady, and the instant I did—"
"I understand, Marthya," Hanatha said. She wanted to be furious with the maid, but she couldn't. Not when she hadn't made a point of going to Leeana's room to check on her herself when she and Tellian finally returned from the mayor's banquet. She should have. She'd known at the time that she should have. Yet she'd decided not to—decided to respect her daughter's need for privacy.
"Let me get this straight," she said after a moment. "You're saying no one in Hill Guard has seen her at all since breakfast yesterday?"
"Breakfast, Milady?" Marthya looked at Hanatha in obvious confusion.
"Yes, breakfast—before she went riding with Tarith!" Hanatha's frightened worry sharpened her tone, but Marthya shook her head.
"Milady, she told me she and Tarith would be leaving before breakfast. She said they were getting an early start because she planned to ride over to Lord Farith's in time for dinner. She said she could dress herself and there was no need for me to be up even earlier than usual. And she said Cook had already packed sandwiches for an early lunch, so they wouldn't need breakfast."
"Lord Farith's?" Hanatha looked at the maid blankly. Farith was Lord of Maldahowe, almost a full half-day's ride north of Balthar. She'd never agreed Leeana could ride that far from home with only Tarith for an escort! Which meant—
The Baroness of Balthar went paper-white and reached for her husband's shoulder.
* * *
"There's no question about it," Tellian Bowmaster said harshly. The sun was perhaps an hour above the horizon as he stood staring out a window at the city of Balthar, his face haggard. "I've ordered a door-to-door search through the city, but it's not going to find her. Damn the girl! How could she do something like this?!"
Love and fear made him furious, and he slammed a fist down on the stone windowsill.
"We don't—we don't know for certain what she has done," Hanatha said. He shot a glance at her, and she shook her head. "Well, we don't, Tellian. Not really. I know what it looks like she's done, but there's no way Tarith would help her run away. Wherever she is, he's with her. You know he'd never let her out of his sight once they left Hill Guard!"
"I know. I know!" Tellian drummed on the windowsill with both hands, his shoulders tight and his face clenched with worry. "But no one saw them leaving together, Hanatha. In fact, no one saw Leeana leave at all."
"That's preposterous," his wife protested. "She had to have been seen by the sentries!"
"Well, she wasn't," he said grimly. "And Tarith was seen leaving—by himself."
"What? When?" Hanatha demanded.
"The evening before you gave her permission to stay home from the banquet," he said, and then looked up quickly at her small, choked sound of distress.
She stared at him, her face white, her eyes huge with guilt and fear, and he shook his head sharply.
"No, love!" He turned and drew her into his arms, hugging her tightly. "Don't blame yourself—and don't think for a moment that I blame you, either! You asked her exactly the same questions, set
exactly the same conditions, I would have. You had no more reason to suspect she might do something like this than I would have had!"
"But . . . but if Tarith left then, and no one saw her at breakfast . . ." Hanatha's voice trailed off, and she turned paler than ever. "Lillinara, Tellian!" she half-whispered. "Marthya put her to bed night before last, but how do we know she stayed there?"
"We don't," he said harshly. "In fact, I don't think she did." His wife stared at him mutely, and he shrugged. "She told the stable master to turn Boots out into the south paddock the day before yesterday. He didn't think anything about it, and no one told him she was supposed to be going anywhere yesterday. All he can say for certain is that her riding tack is missing, and Boots hasn't been seen since night before last."
"But how did she—?" Hanatha chopped herself off, and her jaw tightened in sudden understanding.
"Exactly," her husband said. "I've sent riders out in all directions, searching for her—and for Tarith—but I already know how she did it."
He shook his head, but though his expression was grim, there was something else in it, as well. Something almost like a pride.
"She knew we'd give her permission to skip the banquet if she asked for it. So she sent Tarith off on some errand before she ever spoke to you."
"But she promised to take him with her!" Hanatha protested, unable to accept that her daughter had lied to her.
"No, she didn't." Tellian shook his head. Hanatha stared at him, and he grinned sourly. "I'm sure she told the exact truth, love. It just wasn't what you thought she said."
"But—"
"You said she said she knew she couldn't spend the day riding unless Tarith did, too," he told her. "I'll wager she never actually said she couldn't do it unless Tarith rode with her. What she meant was that she had to send him riding off on some pretext or another to keep him from stopping her."
"Lillinara protect her," Hanatha whispered. "You're right. She didn't say specifically that he'd be with her. I only assumed that was what she meant."
"Just as she knew you would. And just as I would have done," Tellian said. "But with Tarith out of the way, and your permission to go riding, she knew no one would miss her between breakfast and lunch yesterday. So night before last, she told Marthya she and Tarith had to leave early the next morning for Lord Farith's. Then, as soon as she was confident almost everyone else was asleep, she crept out of her room, went down to the stable, took her riding tack, and let herself out through the southern tunnel."
Hanatha nodded. Only members of the family and their personal armsmen knew how to find and use the castle's two secret escape routes. They couldn't be opened from the outer end without battering rams, and concealment was their best protection, so guards were never posted except in times of high alert.
"So she went to the south paddock, saddled Boots, and disappeared . . . over thirty-six hours ago."
"But . . . but to where?"
"That much I think I know," Tellian said grimly. "If I'm right, she already has enough of a head start to make overtaking her all but impossible, but I can't go after her until I know for certain that Tarith isn't with her. Or that there isn't . . . some other explanation."
His voice wavered on the last three words, and Hanatha's hand rose to her lips. They stared at one another, paralyzed by lack of information and terror for their daughter's safety, and beyond the window, the sun crept steadily higher beyond the rain-weeping clouds.
Chapter Fourteen
Steam rose gently from the stew pot.
More steam rose from the far from occasional drops of rain which found their way through the open side of the lean-to Kaeritha had erected to protect her cooking fire. Centuries of Sothōii had planted trees along the lines of their roads, mainly to provide windbreaks, but also for the purpose to which Kaeritha had put this thick patch of trees. Although it was still spring, the branches above her were densely clothed in fresh, green leaves, which offered at least some protection to her campsite. And, of course, there was firewood in plenty, even if it was a bit on the damp side.
The blanket-covered packhorse was picketed beside the brawling, rain-fed stream at the foot of the slight rise on which she had encamped. Cloudy wasn't picketed at all—the idea that she might require picketing would have been a mortal insult to any Sothōii warhorse—but she'd ambled over and parked herself on the up-wind side of the fire. Kaeritha wasn't sure whether that was a helpful attempt to shield the fire from the rainy wind or an effort to get close enough to soak up what warmth the crackling flames could provide. Not that she was about to object in either case.
She stirred the stew again, then lifted the spoon and sampled it. She sighed. It was hot, and she knew it was going to be filling, but she was going to miss Brandark's deft hand at the cook fire, and the mere thought of Tala's cooking was enough to bring a glum tear to her eye.
She grimaced and sat back on her heels under the cover of the open-fronted tent she'd positioned with the eye of hard-won experience. The lean-to she'd constructed, and a rising swell of ground, served as reflectors to bounce the fire's warmth back into her tent, and only a little of the smoke eddied in along with it. Given the general soddenness of the Wind Plain, she was as comfortable—and as close to dry—as she was likely to get.
Which wasn't saying a great deal.
She got up and began moving additional firewood under the crude lean-to, where it would be at least mostly out of the rain and the cook fire could begin drying it out. She was just about finished when Cloudy suddenly raised her head. The mare's ears came up, pointed forward, and she turned to face back towards the road.
Kaeritha reached up under her poncho and unbuttoned the straps across the quillons of her short swords, then turned casually in the same direction.
Cloudy's hearing was considerably more acute than Kaeritha's. Kaeritha knew that, yet how even the mare could have heard anything through the steady drip and patter of rain surpassed her understanding. For a moment, she thought perhaps Cloudy hadn't heard anything, but then she saw the rider emerging ghost-like from the rainy, misty evening gloom and knew the mare hadn't been imagining things after all.
Kaeritha stood silently, watching the newcomer and waiting. The Kingdom of the Sothōii was, by and large, peaceful and law-abiding . . . these days. It hadn't always been so, though, and there were still occasional brigands or outlaws, despite the ruthless justice nobles like Tellian dealt out to any they caught up with. Such predators would be likely to think of a lone traveler as easy prey, especially if they knew that traveler was a woman . . . and didn't know she was one of Tomanâk's champions. As far as Kaeritha could tell, there was only one rider out there, but there might be more, and she maintained a prudent watchfulness as the other slowly approached her fire.
The possibility that the stranger might be a brigand declined as Kaeritha got a better look at his mount's gait. It was too dim and rainy to make out color or markings, but from the way it moved, that horse was almost as good as Cloudy. No prudent horse thief would dare to keep such a readily recognizable and remarked animal for himself, which suggested this fellow wasn't one . . . but didn't bring her any closer to being able to guess what he was doing out here in the rain with night coming on.
"Hello, the fire!" a soprano voice called, and Kaeritha closed her eyes as she heard it.
"Why me?" she asked. "Why is it always me?"
The cloudy night vouchsafed no reply, and she sighed and opened her eyes again.
"Hello, yourself, Leeana," she called back. "I suppose you might as well come on in and make yourself comfortable."
* * *
The Lady Leeana Glorana Syliveste Bowmaster, heir conveyant of Balthar, the West Riding, and at least a dozen other major and minor fiefs, had mud on her face. Her red-gold braid was a thick, sodden serpent, hanging limp down her back, and every line of her body showed her weariness as she sat cross-legged across the fire from Kaeritha and mopped up the last bit of stew in her bowl with a crust of bread.
She popped it into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed contentedly.
"You must have been hungry," Kaeritha observed. Leeana looked at her questioningly, and she shrugged. "I've eaten my own cooking too often to cherish any illusions about my culinary talent, Leeana."
"I thought it was quite good, actually, Dame Kaeritha," Leeana said politely, and Kaeritha snorted.
"Flattering the cook isn't going to do you any good, girl," she replied. "Given that you look more like a half-starved, half-drowned, mud-spattered rat then the heir of one of the kingdom's most powerful nobles, I was willing to let you wrap yourself around something hot before I began the interrogation. You've done that now."
Leeana winced at Kaeritha's pointed tone. But she didn't try to evade it. She put her spoon into the empty bowl and set it neatly aside, then faced Kaeritha squarely.
"I'm running away," she said.
"That much I'd already guessed," the knight told her dryly. "So why don't we just get on to the two whys?"
"The two whys?" Leeana repeated with a puzzled expression.
"Why number one: why you ran away. Why number two: why you don't expect me to march you straight home again."
"Oh." Leeana blushed slightly, and her green eyes dropped to the fire crackling between them. She gazed at the flames for several seconds, then looked back up at Kaeritha.
"I didn't just suddenly decide overnight to run away," she said. "There were lots of reasons. You know most of them, really."
"I suppose I do." Kaeritha studied the girl's face, and it was hard to prevent the sympathy she felt from softening her own uncompromising expression. "But I also know how worried and upset your parents must be right now. I'm sure you do, too." Leeana flinched, and Kaeritha nodded. "So why did you do this to them?" she finished coldly, and Leeana's eyes fell to the fire once more.
"I love my parents," the girl replied after a long, painful pause, her soft voice low enough that Kaeritha had some difficulty hearing her over the sound of the rain. "And you're right—they are going to be worried about me. I know that. It's just —"