Crooked, bony hands emerged from tattered black sleeves and reached for him.
Herol Caron may have entered the world singing, but he left it screaming.
Journal of Hadriax el Fex
Alessandros finally allowed me to lead an expedition into the interior. He was loath to part with me, for he likes me by his side at all times. He tells me he depends on my counsel, and that I am a good friend. I hope so! I told him General Spurloche will provide him with excellent advice in my absence. Alessandros frowned and said it would not be the same.
My men and I trekked deep into the lands of the Sacor Clans, to discover a place much revered by these people. It is a lake, a mirror lake, they say. Our indigenous guides appeared untroubled by us, despite their knowledge of our attacks on many villages. Our trinkets, it seems, bought their loyalty.
Finally we did come upon the lake, and a fine lake it is. Like everything else, it is ringed by rock and tree, and the water is astonishingly fresh. I stared into the water for a long time, and saw only my own reflection. A rogue, I look, after all my time in this wilderness. How the nobility back in Arcosia would view me I can only guess.
I did not detect any special powers within the lake, but the guides told me to wait till the full moon. More of their moon superstitions it sounded to me, but since the full moon was only two nights later, we bided our time by the lake, fishing and taking our leisure. The men made a joke of daring one another to swim. Renald, my squire, took them up on the dare and emerged from the lake, unscathed, but pronounced it icy cold. Our guides looked at us askance that we should so misuse their sacred place. More trinkets placated them.
When the full moon came, it reflected beautifully on the still water, as did the stars. It was like looking into the heavens themselves. Again, the only vision I saw was my own roguish facade, and the guides laughed, saying that only those pure of heart would know the “magic” of the lake.
I tried again, and to my astonishment, I believe I did see something . . . a young woman’s face, staring back at me. Comely she was, with bright eyes and long brown hair that fell thickly about her shoulders. Curiously she wore a brooch, golden, fashioned into a winged horse. But the vision faded quickly. I have never seen her before, yet there is a familiarity to her visage I do not understand.
THE STONE STAG
Karigan arrived at the practice field just as the last note of nine hour pealed from the bell tower down in the city. Soldiers were already at work in the practice rings going through drills, their efforts punctuated by grunts and the clack of wooden practice swords. The morning was hot and humid, and many were already stripped down to tunics.
A couple arms masters prowled about evaluating their trainees, pausing to correct them, and setting them off on additional sets of drills. One was Arms Master Gresia, who trained the Riders. She was a reasonable woman by all accounts, and Karigan watched after her longingly, knowing Drent was an altogether different matter. What did he have in store for her?
“Girl.”
Karigan resisted the impulse to cringe, and turned about knowing exactly to whom the voice belonged, and exactly what “girl” he addressed.
There Drent stood, in all his puffed up glory, fists planted on his hips and biceps bulging, his little eyes glaring. “While your right arm mends, we’re gonna do a little work on you. I’m going to teach you how to fight with your left side.”
If Captain Mapstone had been looking to punish Karigan, she had certainly succeeded. Karigan had one last straw of hope that just maybe she could get out of this.
“Shouldn’t we check first with Master Destarion? I mean—”
“Don’t Master Destarion me.” Drent hacked and spat. “What we’re doing is with his approval. We’re not touching your bad arm. Yet. In the meantime, the rest of your body is mine.” He gave her a harrowing grin. “Just because you have one bad arm doesn’t mean the rest of your body should waste away. I want ten laps around the practice field.”
“Laps?”
Drent’s eyes narrowed. “You got legs, don’t you?”
Karigan nodded.
“You will respond with yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“RUN!”
Karigan dropped her hand weight to the ground and sprinted off—
“HALT!”
—and she skidded to a stop, glancing back at Drent with trepidation.
“That hand weight you’ve brought,” he said, “you will carry it in your left hand. How are you going to fight with your left side if we do not build up the strength there? Now pick it up and RUN!”
Karigan did not hesitate one moment—she scooped up the weight, and she ran. By the third lap, sweat made her shirt and work tunic cling most unpleasantly to her skin, and the hand weight felt more like a hundred pounds instead of just one. Arms Master Gresia spotted her as she passed by, and fell in beside her with long, easy strides.
“I see Drent has taken you on,” she said.
Karigan grunted an affirmative.
“That’s quite an honor, you know,” Gresia said. “He takes on only the most gifted students, and leaves the rest to Brextol and me.”
How could the woman run and speak so effortlessly at the same time?
“Not honor,” Karigan puffed, “punishment. From Captain Mapstone.”
Gresia smiled at her. “Are you so sure?” Then she winked, and peeled off.
Karigan was sure. Absolutely sure. As she drove herself onward, she could only believe it was punishment.
The bright side was that the sooner Drent got her physically fit, the sooner she would be on a message errand riding away from him.
Laren smiled slightly as the city bell tolled nine hour.
Zachary glanced down at her from his throne chair. “You look like a cat who’s caught a mouse.”
Laren flashed him a quick grin, but did not explain. She wondered how Karigan would fare with Drent. Or maybe she should wonder how Drent would fare with Karigan. She and Mara had made a bet on how long Karigan would tolerate Drent’s style of training before it wore thin enough for her G’ladheon ire to flare up.
She couldn’t wonder for long, for moments later, Sperren pounded the floor with the butt of his castellan’s staff to begin the king’s public audience. The great oak doors of the firebrand and the crescent moon were drawn open, and a line of petitioners filed in. There were bored aristocrats, and awed countryfolk whose wide-eyed gazes took in the vast room with its tall windows, along with the Weapons who lined the walls in shadowy recesses, the banners, the soldiers, and most of all, their king.
Also standing in line were the frightened, the downtrodden, and the schemers. Every week it was the same, and every one of them wanted something from the king.
Zachary wore his king’s mask, an expression that would not permit any of the petitioners to guess what he was thinking, and in this way, he held an advantage over those less adept at hiding their emotions. If the common folk believed their king cold and forbidding, then let them judge him by his justice and impartiality.
The first pair brought forth by Neff the herald were sheep farmers disputing grazing rights. Zachary listened to their arguments, asked a few questions, then sat in silence for a few moments, stroking his beard. If he wished Laren to use her ability to read a petitioner, he would look at her, and she would nod or shake her head to indicate truth or falsehood.
In this case, Zachary found the dispute rather straightforward, and worked out a compromise by which both farmers could use the pasturelands by cooperatively tending their flocks. The farmers were surprised, but not displeased.
As the morning dragged on, a craftsman accused a minor nobleman of shorting payment for a fine knife. The nobleman was quite arrogant, something, in Laren’s experience, that was not uncommon. The more minor the nobleman, it seemed, the more arrogant he was.
Not once did Zachary turn to her. Over the few years he had been king, he had managed to hone his instincts and learn what questions to
ask. He listened to his advisors, but had developed a sense of when to heed their advice, and when to dismiss it. From Laren’s perspective, his decisions on each case proved to be just and appropriate.
The next man in line shambled forward with his eyes downcast, nervously twisting his cap. “My name is Vander Smith, Excellency. I come from the county of Aidree in Wayman Province.”
“What do you wish to petition of the king?” Sperren asked.
Vander Smith’s gaze flicked from the castellan to the king before returning to his feet. “I’ve nothing to petition, sir. I’ve come to make a report.”
That caught the king’s attention, and Laren’s, too.
“You see, I am a game warden for Count Gavin Aidree, cousin to Lord-Governor Wayman. He asked me to come speak.” Vander Smith tugged a sealed letter from his pocket and passed it to Sperren.
Sperren cracked the seal and read the letter. “His lordship writes: Please hear the tale my game warden, Vander Smith, has to tell. No matter how strange his statements, I swear on my honor he speaks the truth. By my own hand, Gavin, Count of Aidree.”
Sperren passed the letter to Zachary, who glanced briefly at it before handing it over to Colin Dovekey.
“Please tell us your report, Warden Smith,” Zachary said. “You’ve traveled a long way for this.” Wayman Province was on the southwest border of Sacoridia, with Mirwell Province its neighbor to the north, and L’Petrie Province to the east. The country of Rhovanny sprawled on its western border.
Vander Smith bowed. “Aye, Your Highness. It’s an odd thing to tell.” He wrangled his hat some more and licked his lips. “The count and I were leading a hunting party through the west woods of his forest preserve. A stag was sighted and the count loosed an arrow.” Here Vander Smith paused, his eyes darting from one to the other of them. “The arrow bounced off.”
Colin chuckled. “Come, come, Master Warden. I’ve heard that tale often enough. It’s right there with fish stories, and how the big one got away. The arrow bounces off the stag, and it runs off. The hunters return home without their prize, but of course it has nothing to do with their poor prowess as hunters and marksmen. No, it’s because the deer has a tough hide!” Some within hearing range laughed.
Vander Smith’s expression remained solemn. “No, sir, the arrow bounced off the stag, and it didn’t run away. There were eight of us in the party to verify this, including the count. You see, the stag was turned to stone.”
“Turned to stone?” Laren recognized a hint of doubt in Zachary’s voice. “You are saying this deer was not a statue of some kind?”
“That’s correct, Your Highness.”
“Are you sure about that?” Colin asked.
The warden licked his lips. “The count and I, well, we know every inch of those woods. A right good hunter is the count. There is no statuary in those woods—no reason for it. And if it was something carved by a sculptor, it is the most amazing thing. Accurate to every detail, capturing even the texture of its hide and antlers. What’s more, it wasn’t just the deer.”
Even though Zachary did not request it of her, Laren touched her brooch to affirm the warden’s words. Oddly, her ability did not answer. Before she could wonder about it, Vander Smith continued his story.
“You see, it was a whole grove of trees around the deer. And the birds in the trees. And the flowers and moss.”
Now Zachary turned to her, but she could only shrug. He raised a questioning eyebrow, but returned his attention to the warden, who now held something in each hand. Sperren took the objects with wide eyes, and passed them to Zachary. One object was a pine cone, the other a butterfly, each made of granite. Zachary gazed at them in wonder, then glanced sharply at the warden.
“A whole grove, you say?”
“Aye, Your Highness.”
Zachary passed Colin the pine cone, and handed Laren the butterfly. It was amazing. She held it up before her eyes. Its wings were paper thin—but stone. The delicate object was so lifelike to the smallest detail, she almost expected it to flutter its wings and lift from her fingers. But it did not. It was unnaturally heavy.
Zachary sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Thank you for your fascinating report, Warden Smith. I’d be most appreciative if you and the count maintained your vigil over your lands for any other . . . unusual happenings of this nature, and report them to us.”
The warden, very obviously relieved, bowed. “Aye, Your Highness. It is my honor to serve.”
“May we keep these?” Laren asked, enchanted yet disturbed by the butterfly.
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Warden Smith bowed again, and dismissed, he stepped aside so the next petitioner in line could move forward to seek audience with the king.
Laren beckoned a Green Foot runner to her side and whispered, “Make sure this is put in my quarters.” She passed him the butterfly, and the lad ran off on his errand.
A petitioner was in the middle of a tearful plea to release a son jailed for public drunkenness when an angry muttering broke out near the throne room entrance.
What now? Laren wondered.
Two men pushed their way through the crowd to reach the head of the line.
“King’s business,” one of the men told them. “Make way for the king’s business.”
“I’ve got my own business with the king!” shouted one man who had been in line for a very long time.
Much to Laren’s surprise, the man pushing his way through the petitioners was one of her Riders. He was a tall rangy man with a thick black beard, his chin streaked with gray. Long hair was tied back into a ponytail. He went only by the name of Lynx—it was how he had signed his papers when he entered the messenger service.
A brooding, silent man who grew up in the northern wilds, he would not set foot in any city or large town if he didn’t have to. To Zachary’s line of thinking, that was just fine, for he had other uses for Lynx, such as keeping a secret watch on the boundaries.
Lynx did not wear the green uniform of the Riders, but the buckskin of a woodsman, nor did he carry the traditional saber—he preferred his forester’s knife and long bow. Laren had also heard he was handy with a throwing ax. The only thing about him that revealed his affiliation with the Riders was his brooch, but even that was invisible to all but other Riders.
So what sort of “king’s business” had brought Lynx out of the woods? Another stone deer?
The man following him was thin and haggard, his face ashen. He pressed his hand to his ribs as though in pain.
Lynx finally emerged from the crowd and bowed before the king. “Excellency,” he murmured, “the information I bring you is urgent.”
Zachary did not waste time. He gestured to Sperren, who banged his staff on the floor. “The public audience is concluded until further notice.”
There were glares and indignant protests, but no one resisted when guards in silver and black herded them out of the throne room. The great doors shut resoundingly after the last petitioner passed through.
“Greetings, Lynx,” Zachary said. “What is this urgent news of yours?”
“Excellency.” Lynx’s voice was like sandpaper. “I have with me here Durgan Atkins of the northern border, and recently a refugee in D’Ivary Province.”
The man glanced at Zachary, and Laren thought she caught a flash of anger and hatred in his eyes.
“Why have you come before me?” Zachary asked.
“Go ahead,” Lynx said to Atkins. “Talk.”
Atkins then raised his baleful gaze defiantly to Zachary. “All right. I’ll talk. My family and I fled to D’Ivary Province seeking safety. Groundmites repeatedly attacked our village on the border, and after losing kin and some of our best fighters, we saw no alternative except to seek safe haven within guarded borders. It was not an easy decision. We did not want to leave homesteads that we had carved from the forest with great hardship, and worked so long to defend.
“We tried to find some clearing or field wh
ere we might set up a household for a time. Some among us were injured, and most of us grieving. At every turn we were harassed and evicted. Even the common folk spat upon us and called us trespassers. We tried to offer work in exchange for refuge, but were refused.
“Thugs hired by the landowners forced us off the land, and so we were set to wandering. We were even attacked by bandits, but I suspect they were the hired cutthroats of the landowners. We were stripped of any belongings of value, and our young men beaten, and our daughters . . .” His expression nearly crumbled.
Zachary and the others said nothing, giving the man time to regain his composure. Although Zachary exuded quiet calm, Laren could almost feel the white hot fury building within him.
“Eventually we found others such as we,” Atkins continued, “encamped on a field that was no more than mud. It was cramped—there were hundreds—but none permitted to go beyond a perimeter guarded by soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” Zachary asked. “What soldiers do you speak of? D’Ivary has no militia.”
Durgan Atkins did not conceal his hatred. “Soldiers like the ones I see around here. Soldiers in silver and black.”
Sacoridian soldiers? Laren thought. That’s impossible . . .
The throne room had gone silent, and it was as if the air had been sucked out of the place. Zachary let go his king’s mask and no longer hid his fury.
Lynx nudged Atkins. “Tell them the rest.”
Atkins grunted. “One day the landowner comes down, looks at us as though we’re no more than cattle. Lord Nester, he was called. He picked some of the girls and women, and the soldiers took them away. They’ve not been returned to us . . . my nine-year-old girl was with them.”
Laren’s own hackles rose at this last. She had heard rumors about Nester and his appetites, but nothing had ever been proven. And no doubt he’d be well shielded by his brother-in-law, Lord-Governor D’Ivary.
“This Lord Nester,” Atkins continued, “he stood up on a block and announced to us that by proclamation of King Zachary all refugees were to be returned to the northern border.”
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