by Tanya Huff
She turned from his touch, not understanding why she felt cheated when his hand dropped. She suddenly didn’t feel like pursuing the question further, for a strong suspicion said Bryon had a great deal to do with her recent restlessness.
“They tell me you’ll be leaving soon.”
“Within the hour. Father is sending me around the province to help rally the men.”
“Will you be back?”
“No, I’ll join the army in Hale. Will you miss me?”
“Of course, I’ll miss you,” Crystal said more snappishly than she’d intended. “You’re my friend.”
“Ah, friend,” Bryon’s eyes twinkled. “A sad word that, when you’re hoping for more.”
“More?”
His arm tightened around her shoulders and drew her close. With his other hand he cupped her chin and gently forced her head up. Taking an incredible chance, he held her eyes with his, but the green fires were banked and he saw only a reflection of himself.
Confused, Crystal tried to straighten out the mess Bryon was making of her emotions. She had spent the last six years with the centaurs learning to be a wizard while Bryon, growing from good-looking boy to handsome young man, had been getting an education of a different sort. Centaurs, being immortal, have no love, lust, or desire. Crystal might be able to move mountains, call up demons, and—hopefully—destroy the enemies of her people, but in this area she was totally unskilled. She didn’t understand her reactions and she didn’t like the feeling that things were out of her control.
She also didn’t want Bryon to stop. Whatever it turned out he was doing . . .
She didn’t understand that either.
Bryon had no intention of stopping: Their faces were inches apart and her breath moved against his mouth like a warm breeze. He drank in the feel of her, the smell of her, the touch of her.
“Your horse is ready, sir.”
Crystal jumped back, trying to ignore that briefest touch of his lips on hers. Bryon, realizing the moment had been irrevocably shattered, grinned up at his father’s footman and got jauntily to his feet.
“Look for me in Hale,” he said and, planting a kiss on her palm, was gone.
Crystal stared down at her hand, the soft pressure of his mouth still clinging to the skin.
“We were children together,” she said to the empty passageway. “He treats me like a whole person, not as just a wizard or a princess. He is my friend.” But she sat until dusk hid her in shadow, considering it.
* * *
The Horn carriers had been on their way for three days when Kraydak moved against them. While the truncated court sat at dinner, all the windows in the hall crashed open. The winds roared around the room, causing the lamps and candles to sputter and flicker and the men and women of the court to grab at everything not fastened down.
Crystal leaped to her feet and called the winds to order. They flew to her side and buffeted her about in their embrace. One at a time, she gentled them, heard their messages, and then sent them back out into the night.
When the last of the winds had left, Crystal looked up to see the court regarding her with awe—all except the Duke of Belkar who was dusting off a crusty roll which had been blown to the floor.
“What is it, child?” Mikhail asked, his heart wrung by the expression on his stepdaughter’s face. All the recently developed signs of humanity had fled and the wizard looked bleak and cold.
“Kraydak is marshaling great power. He will strike at the Messengers tonight.”
“Now?” asked Tayer. “During dinner?”
Humanity returned for an instant and Crystal raised a silver eyebrow in her mother’s direction.
“But you haven’t even finished your soup. You can’t just run out in the middle of dinner. What will people think? No . . .” Tayer blushed suddenly and dropped her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. Do what you have to.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Mikhail asked, laying a warm hand on the shoulder of his distraught wife.
“No.” Crystal shook her head. “What I do tonight, I must do alone. But first thing in the morning, someone had better check . . .”
Tayer seemed to draw strength from Mikhail’s touch. “You can stop him,” she said firmly, raising her head and looking her daughter in the eye. “You can stop him.”
“I can only try, Mother.” She’d dreaded the thought of this night and now it had come. The first test. And what hope was there for the future should she fail? She forced herself to walk calmly from the room.
As the door closed behind her the buzz of conversation began again, almost as if it had been switched on by her leaving.
Tayer rose to follow. Mikhail gently guided her back into her seat.
“I could at least walk her to her room,” Tayer protested, but without pulling away.
“I don’t think she wants you to.” He could offer little comfort in a room filled with their subjects so he merely held tightly to her hands. “You said she could stop him, now believe it.”
Tayer sighed. “I feel,” she said suddenly, “like a chicken trying to mother a duck, frantically trying to keep my child out of the water.”
* * *
Crystal took the steps to her tower room two at a time. She yanked open the door, flung herself into the room, and rocked to a halt at the sight of her maid.
“Is dinner over so soon, milady?” the girl asked, stepping forward. Then she saw the expression on Crystal’s face, and her own paled. “Anna, child, this will not be an easy job,” the queen herself had said, “but the princess must be made aware of her position. No matter what she does, stay with her.” Wanting nothing more than to retreat from the light that blazed in the princess’ eyes, Anna swallowed once and clung to duty. “Shall . . . shall I take your hair down now?”
Startled, Crystal’s hand flew to her hair, then she shook herself, as though to free the wizard from the entanglements of the princess. “You must go,” she said, moving away from the door. “I have work to do.”
Anna stood her ground. “I’m sorry, milady, but your mother, the queen . . .”
“Is not here.”
“. . . gave me very precise instructions,” the maid finished, obviously intending to obey them to the letter.
“She instructed you to serve me?”
“Yes, milady.”
“You can serve me best by leaving.”
“I don’t think, milady . . .”
Muttering beneath her breath in a language that had not been spoken for centuries, Crystal abandoned her attempt to be reasonable, shoved the frightened but determined servant out into the hall, threatened her with a dire fate should she return before dawn, and slammed the door on her protests.
Then she paused. Why hadn’t she reinforced her commands with power? The small fraction needed to control the girl would not have been missed from the night’s work and the result would have been much faster than arguing. In the back of her mind, where usually only the centaurs spoke, the memory of her mother’s voice spanned the years, instructing a tiny girl-child in the rights of those who served. Uneasily, she slammed the lesson back into the past. She must be only wizard now; divided, she could not hope to win.
With a wave of her hand, the lamps went out and a light flared near the center of the room. A small copper brazier cradled a green flame which danced and beckoned.
The winds raced round the tower and the sounds they made as they wove about each other all said, “Hurry!”
Crystal moved forward and her elaborate dress dropped to the floor with a rustle of silk. She stepped free and into the plain white gown that had risen to meet her. Pins showered to the floor as her hair danced out of complicated braids and flowed down her back. Another two steps brought her to the brazier, but as she was about to sit, she paused, turned, and threw a fine web of power across the door
. She didn’t trust her mother, and certain others, to stay away. Tucking the gown between her legs, she sank to the floor.
“Hurry!” wailed the winds.
She wiped sweaty palms on her thighs. She had to be in four places at once and she had to defeat a man who had been honing his powers for several dozen lifetimes while she’d had only six short years.
Finally, she looked into the flame.
* * *
The first Messenger woke to a sudden weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and the largest crow he’d ever seen cocked its head, dug its talons into his leather vest, and glared at him balefully with a yellow eye. For a moment he thought he was dreaming and then one of those talons ripped through to his chest. The pain was real.
With a startled cry, he flung himself to the side as the wicked beak stabbed for his eyes.
His movement dislodged the bird and with strong beats of its wings it took to the air. The Messenger almost gagged on the carnal odors carried on the down-draft. He’d rolled away from his sword and the bird nearly took off his hand when he tried to reach for it. His fire had turned to embers and so, when he saw it, did his hopes of driving the creature away with flame.
The bird dove again and again and the Messenger soon bled from a number of small wounds. Only by blocking with a saddlebag had he managed to keep it from anything vital. He knew his luck, and the saddlebag, couldn’t hold out much longer. He was winded, fighting for each breath, and the pain and loss of blood were weakening him.
The creature seemed to be taking a malicious delight in his torment.
And then it happened as he knew it would. He faltered, his guard dropped, and the bird moved in for the kill.
He braced himself for the blow, but it never came. A great white body hurtled into him, throwing him to the ground. The crow shrieked in rage, the first sound it had made, and turned to face the intruder.
Both Messenger and bird stared in astonishment at the great white owl that paced the ground between them. Its talons were over six inches long and its wing-span covered more than ten feet. It looked the young man up and down and then, satisfied with what it saw, it launched itself at the crow, its eyes burning with green fires.
The crow was large and its evil purpose strong, but it knew when it was defeated. There was only one thing left—escape.
With long, powerful strokes of its mighty wings, the owl took to the air and quickly climbed above its fleeing prey. Then, with talons extended and gleaming in the moonlight, it folded back its wings and struck.
The two birds hit the ground with an audible thud. Holding the crow securely under one massive foot, the owl bent its head to feed.
* * *
A persistent tickle disturbed the sleep of the second Messenger. Tiny balls were being rolled across his face. No matter how many he batted away, more kept coming. Finally he dragged himself up out of slumber to deal with it.
To find the tiny balls were trickles of dirt and the ground below him was giving way. He was sinking, being swallowed by the earth!
Successfully fighting panic, he got his hands beneath him and tried to sit up. The movement made him sink faster. He tried to lift his legs and found he couldn’t.
He lay in a Messenger-shaped trench, one foot, two feet, four feet, six feet deep, flat on his back and looking up at the stars. He did the only thing left to do—he stopped fighting the panic and screamed.
And then the walls fell in.
The earth rolled quickly down to cover him. The bonds that had held him were gone, but that did little good as the world sat on his chest, crushing the breath out of him. Worst of all, he could no longer scream.
His lungs were crying out for air and stars were exploding behind his eyes when he felt the movement at his back. A hundred tiny fingers touched him and moved on. He remembered all the small and slimy things that lived in dirt and began to tremble with terror. Was being buried alive not enough?
He felt a firmer touch.
And then another.
Something grabbed at him and held.
The earth rolled back and he was lifted, gasping and choking, into the night air. He finally came to rest cradled high off the ground in the branches of a full grown silver birch.
* * *
The third Messenger was caught in a dream. She was running. At first the way was easy and she covered the ground in long loping strides, but then the path began to climb and her pace slowed. Soon she had to use her hands to scrabble up and over mounds of rock strewn across a shattered hillside.
It was then she became aware that she was being chased. And her pursuers were moving much faster than she.
In the shifting shadows of night, the long, broken path to the top of the hill was doubly treacherous. A misstep, a fall, could mean death.
Not far behind her, something bayed. A dog . . . or worse.
One torturous step at a time, she struggled toward the summit. Her hands and knees became cut and abraded by the sharp edges of rock and her feet were bruised by the shifting masses of stone. Her thighs trembled as she forced them to carry her over one more ledge. And one more.
She was almost to the summit when the baying began in earnest. They were on the scent, her scent, and now the chase would truly begin. With desperate haste she covered the last few yards, but not without cost, for a rock which had seemed solid rolled suddenly and crushed her hand. Whimpering with pain, she pried up the rock and dragged the damaged hand free, leaving an ugly smear of blood on the stone.
Her mangled hand tucked in her belt, she crested the hill and turned, breathing heavily, to look back the way she had come.
Half a dozen animals—possibly dogs, but she doubted it—long-legged and lean with narrow heads and glowing eyes, were just reaching the bottom of the hill. Not very far behind them rode a red-cloaked man on a pale horse. Lord Death, true son of the Mother, the Huntsman who escorted the unwilling dead back to Her arms.
The Messenger knew a terrible fear. She wasn’t dead. Why did Death hunt her?
The beasts started up the hill.
She turned and ran. In the distance was a dark line of trees. If she could make the forest, she might stand a chance. She ran as she’d never run before, ran until the soles of her boots were worn through and she left a bloody trail of footprints behind her. Until the stitch in her side was a pain too great to breathe through. Until the bitter iron taste of blood filled her mouth. Sweat ran into her eyes and her wounds and they burned.
Behind, but getting rapidly closer, came the baying of the Huntsman’s hounds.
She kept her eyes locked on the trees ahead, but she knew she wouldn’t make it. The echoing hoofbeats of a steel-shod horse sounded above the cries of the beasts.
And then, over the pounding of her life in her ears, she heard another sound. Hoofbeats, but unshod and from the right. She risked a glance over her shoulder.
Gaining quickly, but only marginally closer than the hounds, came a white unicorn with silver hoofs and horn. Its nostrils were flared and its eyes flashed green fire.
Her eyes drawn from the path, the Messenger stumbled and fell. As she got to her feet, the unicorn reached her side.
“Get on!” it commanded.
“Wha . . .”
“GET ON!” A flashing hoof neatly crushed the skull of the foremost hound.
The messenger grabbed a handful of silky mane and dragged herself awkwardly up on the broad back. She was barely seated when the unicorn leaped forward, out of the range of the rest of the pack, and landed galloping. The trees which had seemed so far away were reached in seconds. She closed her eyes and held on tightly as her mystical mount wove among them without losing speed or breaking stride. Suddenly a thought struck her, almost causing her to lose her balance.
“I’m not a virgin!” she wailed.
“That’s hardly my fault,” the unicorn muttered in
reply . . . or it might have just been the wind of their passing.
Abruptly they were out of the trees and then, horrifyingly, they were out of ground. A horse could not have stopped in time, but the unicorn reared and managed to halt on the edge of the cliff. They both looked down.
Many miles below, clouds scuttled about like sheep, herded by a wind they were too far away to feel. They could not see the ground. About thirty feet out from the edge, perched on a marble pillar that tapered into the depths, was the home of the Duke of Aliston, the Messenger’s destination.
The unicorn backed away from the edge. “Hang on,” it warned. Powerful muscles bunched and it launched itself forward.
And screamed shrilly as razor sharp teeth tore into a hind leg.
They landed safely, although three legged, and turned to face back over the gap. The pale horse stood at the precipice, the hounds winding about its legs. With a toss of his head, the rider dropped his hood. His red-gold hair shone dully in the moonlight but his blue eyes and smile blazed as he lifted his hand in salute.
The Messenger awoke to find herself staring up at familiar stars with a crushed hand and the knowledge that had she died in the dream, she would be dead indeed.
* * *
A cold and driving rain woke the fourth Messenger. He’d camped in a small hollow on a treeless plain and had no protection from the wet. Huddled miserably in his bedroll, he wondered where the storm had come from for it had been a clear, moonlit night when he’d gone to sleep.
The rain fell harder. Soon he was soaked and shaking uncontrollably. It was far, far too cold for a spring night so close to summer. The rain seemed to leech the warmth from his body. He’d lost all feeling in his hands and feet when the wind began to blow. It whipped the sheets of rain viciously about, giving him blessed moments of dryness. Its touch carried the promise of golden sunshine and summer’s warmth and the scent of trees, and grass, and forest loam.
Up above, the massive black storm clouds were losing their battle with the winds. They were thinning, being forced apart. Here and there, through sections grown tattered, a star could be seen.
