Hunted (Book 3)

by Brian Fuller

  “I told you to have this mess out of here an hour ago, Captain,” Athan yelled grumpily at an Eldephaere who stood at the door.

  “Apologies, your Grace,” he said smoothly, bowing. “We will return for the other after full dark.”

  The party stopped as the man with the hammer hoisted the box onto his shoulder, and the soldiers lifted the ungainly sacks, revealing for a certainty that people were inside. The Chalaine swallowed hard and stared at the tent, trying to get a peek inside the tent flap.

  “Now,” Athan said, “if you would leave your soldiers here and come with me inside, I have a brazier there and we can talk comfortably.”

  Cadaen, Jaron, and Dason protested nervously, but Mirelle, face drawn, waved them back wordlessly. Together the Chalaine and Mirelle followed Athan through the tent door, the Chalaine trying to control her trembling. The scene outside prepared her enough not to cry out. A table in the center of the tent supported an unconscious, wan Gen, left leg amputated at the knee. Blood covered the floor and pooled around the cauterized stump. Mirelle released her hand.

  Athan turned toward them, and a livid Mirelle slapped him so hard that his eyes watered and he staggered. Without warning she flew at him in a rage, raining down blows upon him. She did not cry out as she waded into the stunned Churchman, tears and hair flying with fists in a primal fury.

  The Chalaine, tears of her own running down her cheeks, used the distraction to cross to Gen, eyes drinking in his face as she placed her hand on his forehead. He sucked in a deep breath at her touch, his color returning. Inch by inch the leg beneath his knee regrew, all the way down to his toes until Gen was whole again. The black dot marking his prophetic identity darkened on the reformed instep. She marveled how such a difficult healing cost her nothing as she quickly replaced Gen’s boot lying nearby to cover the mark, wondering why he hadn’t wakened.

  When she turned back to the scuffle, Athan and her mother had come to their feet, each with a hand to the other’s throat. Athan bled from his nose, a mass of scratches lining his face.

  “Mirelle,” Athan gagged, “calm yourself and listen to me if you want him to live.”

  Cadaen burst through the door, sword drawn, followed by Dason and Jaron. Cadaen took one look at Athan and charged. Athan’s eyes widened and he incanted, Cadaen falling limp to the floor. At his collapse, Mirelle relented and released her grip on the Padra. The Chalaine ordered her Protectors to stand down, drag Cadaen out of the tent, and leave them alone. Mirelle sat down hard on the floor and wept.

  The Chalaine knelt by her mother and comforted her as Athan wiped his face and calmed his overwhelmed Eldephaere guards outside the tent. By the time he returned, Mirelle had stood, reaffixing her hair as best she could. The Chalaine crossed to Athan and healed his wounds while her mother composed herself.

  The Chalaine felt angry, mind running through every scheme it could of how to free her beloved Protector, while every idea seemed sensible of its own futility. She focused on her mother, whose heart, like her own long ago, had finally broken.

  “I will not apologize, Athan, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Mirelle finally said. “Say what you are going to say and be done with it.”

  “As you wish,” he returned acerbically. “As you can see, I have apprehended the Ilch and his companions. I have had his leg amputated . . . and you have healed it. Well, no matter. It will be nice to have a spare in case the other one is misplaced. As you may have guessed, I intend to tell the world that Gen is the Ilch and that he attacked the Ha’Ulrich after the marriage ceremony.”

  The Chalaine noted that her mother seemed unaffected by the revelation of Gen’s identity, and both Mirelle and Athan stared at the Chalaine as if expecting some reaction from her.

  Mirelle spoke first. “You knew?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . but . . . how? When?” Athan stammered.

  “When we traveled alone in the canyon. The Millim Eri who turned him from his destiny found us and revealed to me who he was and presented me with the opportunity to kill him, if I would. My choice is obvious. I love him and would never let him come to harm if it were in my power to stop it.”

  Athan paced about the room, thunderstruck, requiring several minutes to collect himself. The Chalaine took the opportunity to ask her mother about when she knew, surprised to find how early her mother and Ethris had come to trust Gen despite the fate the prophecy declared for him.

  Athan, at length, righted himself and sat in a chair near table where Gen lay. “I am shocked. Shocked! That Gen managed to win both your confidences independently of each other truly manifests the cleverness of Mikkik’s creature.”

  “You will never convince anyone that Gen is the Ilch,” the Chalaine said confidently.

  This seemed to spark Athan from his wonderment. “Oh, yes I will,” he glared, “and you will help me.”

  Mirelle laughed bitterly. “What could you possibly hold over our heads to induce us to hurt a man we both love?”

  “I will hold the man himself,” Athan returned. “I have a bargain to strike with you. I will not kill the Ilch, but hold him away secretly in Mur Eldaloth. We will tell the people that he attacked Cheranne in the throne room and escaped, which is true and was witnessed by many. You will agree to say that as the Ilch tried to return to Rhugoth, Chertanne confronted and killed him using Trysmagic. We will present his leg and prophetically marked foot as evidence. If you do not agree to publish this version of events, I will have the Ilch executed immediately.”

  “You are a liar, Athan,” Mirelle said, shaking her head, “and a pathetic one. If you think for a moment that I believe you will let Gen live, regardless of what we promise or do not, then you must consider me a fool.”

  “Unfortunately, Mirelle, I don’t have the time or the inclination to prove to you the good faith of my proposal. Take my offer or he dies; that is all. You rule nothing anymore and have no power now but to save his life or to let it fall.”

  “But I do,” the Chalaine asserted to the startled Athan, who turned toward her, face concerned.

  “You are the Queen, but I afraid that in matters of. . .”

  “You mistake me, Padra. I hoped rather than expected my position to lend me any real influence in the world. What I speak of is my ability to guarantee your promise. I will know it when Gen dies. I am linked to him in a way you have no power to obscure or hinder. The instant he dies, I will feel it. If that happens, whether by your doing or the doing of another, I will use whatever influence I have at my command to destroy you, Chertanne, and this little charade you want to foist upon Ki’Hal. For the sake of the world, I will play ‘Lady Khairn’ and the obedient wife. I will carry this Child and try to help Chertanne rally the world to defend it. But neither my mother nor I will speak one word against Gen, ever. If we are forced to speak on the subject, then you will regret it.”

  “I cannot believe that you would sabotage the prophecy and endanger the world, no matter what you feel about him!”

  “Then you suppose wrongly,” she returned evenly. A strange calm had enveloped her, the way forward coming clear in her mind. “To be sure, I want to do my part to save Ki’Hal, but I will not act against my conscience or my heart any more than I already have in order to do so. When this world is whole again, I want the people I love to be left in it. I want Gen left in it. If you upset that plan, I will certainly have no care for upsetting yours.”

  Athan stared at her, eyes searching and mind racing.

  “Ah, yes,” Mirelle stepped in, clarity dawning on her face. “You are thinking that perhaps you can kill Gen now and secrete us in some location for ‘our safety’ to minimize the damage we can do. A bold plan, and it might work, if it weren’t for that one person you know who is wholly loyal to me and powerful enough to smash you in an instant. And if he suspects you are maltreating us, he will see us rescued from your grasp. We understand the need for my daughter to support Chertanne and to be seen in concert with her husband f
or the morale of the people, but trust me when I say that neither of us will have any qualms about abandoning the King forever if you cross us. And in case you are in doubt, I have more friends than Ethris who are quite willing to do my bidding, whether I sit on a throne or not.”

  “The choice, I hope, is clear, Padra,” the Chalaine continued, confidence building. “Keep Gen alive and well, and we will parade around with King Chertanne and help him build his army. Kill or hurt Gen, and we will part ways and let the drama unfold as it may. Too many people witnessed Gen’s attempt to kill Chertanne for us to deny it, but we will not assert that he is the Ilch, nor will we be party to telling the lie that Chertanne somehow felled him, which is so outrageous that I couldn’t say it without laughing out loud. Those are the conditions. Are we in agreement?” Athan’s tongue seemed tacked to the top of his mouth and the Chalaine continued. “Well, no matter. No verbal acceptance is required. Things are as I have stated them. How you choose to act will be the hand that pens the history of Ki’Hal.”

  To irritate Athan as much to express their fondness, the women each anointed Gen’s brow with a kiss before leaving the tent into the bitter night. The Chalaine wondered how much Dason, Jaron, and Cadaen had heard of the exchange, all of them wearing troubled expressions as they marched behind their charges.

  Mirelle put her arm around her daughter and pulled her close and whispered, “I am proud of you. I do not think I’ve ever seen you exhibit such open courage! It was quite a gambit to try to convince Athan that you could sense Gen’s death. I hope he really believes it.”

  “It is true, whether he believes it or not. I will carry out my promise if Athan kills him, and Ki’Hal can curse me if it will. I know I must seem terribly selfish.”

  “Perhaps, dear, but you will hardly find any objections from me. Even so, I must remind you now of your resolution to play your part and let me deal with the nasty particulars of keeping Gen alive and attending to other unpleasant matters. I will not consult with you or report to you so that you cannot be impeached or interrogated. You will have the harder task. It is time for you to be a wife and stand with your husband, whatever mortification it may cost you. Bend a little, dissemble when you must, but keep hope alive.”

  The Chalaine nodded in agreement and said no more as they traversed the lonely track back to the main encampment. The celebration rose as night fell, bonfires blazing and casting wild shadows in the wood as soldiers clapped and danced to the lively rhythms and songs of minstrels. In the Chalaine’s present mood, it all smelled unpleasantly of sweaty men, smoke, and ale. As she passed the revelers, toasts were raised in her honor. Her mother goaded her into offering a weak response to the celebrants honoring her.

  When they caught sight of Chertanne dancing near a fire surrounded by nobility, Mirelle left her daughter to attend to “urgent matters,” disappearing into the night. The Chalaine braced herself and strode into the circle of Churchmen and dignitaries who were allowed the privilege of company with the Ha’Ulrich. She noted that several Regents were there, along with Warlords from Aughmere and Dukes from Tolnor.

  Torbrand mingled with his Warlords. Disappointingly, though not unexpectedly, Chertanne had wasted no time wading into a nearby cask of ale, and, by the red on his nose and cheeks, the underside of his ample mug had seen more of the stars than the mud. Geoff awaited his Lord’s pleasure nearby, while Fenna, happy and contented, sat nursing a mug of her own on her lap.

  All save Chertanne bowed as the Chalaine crossed to her husband. He rose and grabbed her in a wild embrace.

  “Minstrel!” he shouted. “A song for the Lady and me! It is time for dancing!”

  For the second time in her life, the Chalaine danced with Chertanne, only this time her heart was so heavy that what resulted was little more than a lugubrious shifting about. Fortunately, Chertanne, who could not be parted from his ale even in dance, cavorted so wildly that he slipped and landed on his backside, ejecting the ale to run down a dour Churchman’s cloak.

  The company laughed at his antics, and the Chalaine took the opportunity to perform her best impression of concern for his wellbeing.

  “Have you hurt yourself, my Lord?” she asked, crouching near him and grabbing his arm to help him to his feet. “Shall I fetch a Pureman?”

  “Not unless he has a mug of ale in his hand!” Chertanne laughed hysterically at his own joke and handed the Chalaine his mug. “Go see if you can find him!”

  Jaron hissed under his breath, and the Chalaine cast him a warning glance. If anything, retrieving ale exempted her from further dancing, which Chertanne now undertook alone. Fenna met her by the cask.

  “It is so good to be home!” she brimmed excitedly. “I feel so much better now. The past few months seem like such a dark dream! Padra Athan said that Geoff and I are to ride to Blackshire come morning. I would like to have remained with you, but he said that you would be well taken care of.”

  “Padra Athan spoke with you and Geoff?”

  “Yes, when he came for the book Geoff wrote. Geoff tried to convince the Padra to let him finish a few more things, but Athan was so insistent that Geoff gave way. I suppose it won’t matter much, anyway. Have you heard anything about Gen?”

  “Nothing new, I’m afraid,” the Chalaine replied, topping off the mug. “If I hear anything definite, I will write to you.”

  The Chalaine looked into the green eyes of her former handmaiden and felt tears coming to her own. As much of a trial that the young woman had proved to be in the preceding weeks, the Chalaine loved her dearly. Setting her husband’s drink aside, she embraced Fenna for many long moments, thanking her for her years of devoted service.

  “It was an honor to serve you, Chalaine,” Fenna said in kind, wiping tears of her own. “Promise to write and to visit me whenever you can.”

  “I will.”

  Chertanne’s impatience ended their discussion. “Have you found that Pureman yet, Lady Khairn? It turns out I need a bit more medicine after all!”

  After another quick embrace, the Chalaine returned the mug to its owner, who drank deeply and with satisfaction. “Well done, my dear, I believe I shall keep you around a while longer.”

  Athan, face guarded, approached the assembly, and all mirth ceased. Chertanne returned to sit on an ample stump that served as a makeshift throne in the sylvan environs. The Chalaine followed and sat by him on the ground, wondering how long it would take Jaron’s teeth to dissolve to powder from such frequent grinding. Athan shushed what little conversation persisted in their immediate party, though the raucous festivities continued unabated all around them.

  “With Chertanne’s permission, I would like to address several questions I am sure you all have had since our return. Firstly, the Chalaine is pregnant with the Holy Child. She has lain with Chertanne but once after the moon Trys broke into the sky. Thus we can confirm that the Child was conceived according to the dictates of prophecy.

  “Secondly, as some of you have no doubt heard, Gen attacked the Ha’Ulrich on the night of his wedding. I can confirm to you now that Gen is, indeed, the very Ilch.” Gasps ran through the assembly, and Athan paused a moment to let the news sink in. “Chertanne killed him as he tried to sneak back into Rhugoth, and we will, starting tomorrow, show the mark of prophecy upon his severed foot as proof that the designs of Mikkik have been frustrated.”

  The Chalaine grasped the animon within her dress, comforted by its warmth.

  “That’s preposterous, Athan, even for you,” Torbrand spoke up. While shock at this affront rippled among the dignitaries, Torbrand continued. “It is simply irrational, even for one as irrational as me. If the Ilch’s purpose was to thwart the prophecy, he could have ordered Gen to kill the Chalaine and Chertanne months ago. And while it is true that he attacked Chertanne, it was after Chertanne and the Chalaine had conceived the Child and after my brilliant son stripped Gen of rank and title and gave the woman he was to marry to another man. If Gen were under Mikkik’s orders, why would he have n
ot killed Chertanne and the Chalaine outright, and why would he have waited until after they had conceived the Child? It is ridiculous.”

  While the Chalaine could not understand Torbrand’s strange affection for Gen, she could only smile as his logic set tongues to murmuring and heads to nodding in assent. Chertanne even set his ale down for a moment.

  “I cannot explain what Mikkik’s plans might be, but even the Chalaine knows it to be true, don’t you? Why don’t you tell them how you were deceived?”

  The Chalaine saw the challenge in Athan’s eyes, defying her to keep to her word. So you think the weak little Chalaine will not go through with her blustery words. You asked for this, Athan. Remember it.

  The Chalaine rose to her feet, and with the most believable conviction she had ever thrown behind any lie, said, “On the contrary! Gen is the most genuine person I have ever met! He attacked Lord Khairn because he had affronted Gen’s good character beyond toleration, and Gen was honor bound to confront him to defend his good name. I would no more believe that Gen is the Ilch than I would believe that you are. Everyone here is well aware of Gen’s unimpeachable moral character. It is a shame that you should foist such a dreadful slander on one who has done so much to aid the prophecy. Why, I doubt there is anyone alive that has helped it along more than he.”

  The Chalaine thought Athan endured her tirade admirably, despite the fact that her argument had clearly put the majority against him.

  “Then I offer this as proof,” he said, signaling to a group of Eldephaere who brought forth the box the Chalaine had noticed outside of Athan’s tent. The group contracted around the box as the Church soldiers pried the lid open. There, on a mat of straw, lay Gen’s freshly amputated leg, the mark of prophecy plain upon its instep.