Ludovic and his men kept close watch on Julian and Istvan. Until further orders, we would remain at the abbey of St. Istvan.
After all our oatcakes, the hospitality of the abbey was a relief. In addition to providing safe beds for us all, the abbot played host to us at wonderful meals. Loaves of bread warm from the abbey ovens were brought forth to the plain scrubbed wooden tables, accompanied by deep crocks of butter and a huge comb of honey on a silver tray. Sometimes it was lentil soup instead, fragrant with herbs, or a capon roasted with such care it challenged the golden perfection of the honeycomb.
At the end of thirteen days, the prince-bishop’s reply arrived, carried by a fresh detachment of men, but no higher officer. Ludovic broke the seal and unfolded the paper with a troubled look.
“I am to bring Julian and Istvan back to Aravis with all speed. There I am to commit them to the care of the prince-bishop himself. He will undertake their safety in these uncertain days. King Corin’s health does not permit him to afford his guests the welcome His Majesty would wish. The prince-bishop will serve as His Majesty’s proxy with a glad heart. All the comforts the palace can provide will be made ready in anticipation of our arrival.” Ludovic put the letter away. “I am not to fail in my duty as escort.”
Istvan puzzled over the message. “Why Aravis? Wouldn’t it serve the prince-bishop’s turn as well to let us stay here, safely obscured?”
“King Corin’s health is poor?” asked Julian.
“His Highness has been confined to his bed for years,” said Ludovic. “For his age, his health is exemplary. Unfortunately, he’s nearly ninety. No heir in sight.”
Julian looked grave. “I see.”
“The prince-bishop wants you under his hand,” said Ludovic. “What about me?”
“Yes,” said the abbot. “What about young mistress Rosamer? I’m afraid our brotherhood will not be able to shelter her once you’ve departed.”
Ludovic frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t spare you an escort back home to Neven. My orders are explicit. We must return to Aravis as soon as we can.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll go with you.”
Thirteen days were long enough for word to spread in a place as small as Dalager. When we departed, we had a quiet but interested audience. Ludovic and his men seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary. Neither Istvan nor Julian paid the watching townsfolk much attention. I gave back stare for stare without a qualm. The crowd did not seem hostile, though they certainly were not friendly. They were watchful, and mostly silent. I heard a boy ask his mother, “Is that the king?” If she answered, I did not catch her words, but she put her hand on his shoulder and moved him back behind her skirts. That was answer enough, in its way.
The prince-bishop’s guardsmen had very fine horses, yet I was happy to have my own solid beast back. The race is not always to the swift, and comfort counts for much in travel.
After the interest the townsfolk of Dalager had taken in our departure, I was intrigued to find a similar, though smaller, group of villagers at Vanca, where we crossed the ford. There were ten men, no women, no children, and for all the notice Ludovic’s men took, they might have been invisible.
But we were of great interest to the men of Vanca. As Julian’s horse splashed into the ford, a low cry went up from the watchers. I was in the rear; I saw the reason.
As Julian’s horse moved forth into the current, the water of the Silverrod, which had been churned brown by our passage, flowed milky white where the king passed. Had I poured a bucket of whitewash at each step, just so would the water of the river have seemed. The whiteness faded in a few strides, the Silverrod wholly brown again the moment the king’s horse had crossed, but the low murmur of the witnesses followed us on our way.
Istvan and Julian exchanged a look. Ludovic and his men paid no attention. It occurred to me to wonder if there was a local tradition, some legend peculiar to Vanca, which had to do with the river turning to milk when the king came home. I asked the guardsman riding closest to my beast.
He made the sign of the fig at me, which is what the ignorant do when they wish to avert the evil eye.
“Rudesby,” I said.
“Witch,” he countered. He looked the same age as Amyas, but his rough manners made him seem older.
“I’m no such thing. I am Hail Rosamer. I am an artist’s apprentice. What is your name?”
“You are a nuisance. You may call me ‘Sir.’ ”
“Not likely. Come, tell me. What happens when the king comes home?” I persisted.
Rudesby looked thoughtful for a moment. “That draught horse you are riding waddles a little faster?”
“Go on without me, then, if you don’t like it.”
“I like my ears. Both my ears. The captain would cut at least one of them off for me if I let you stray. And then how would I keep my hat on straight?”
“It’s not on straight now. What happens to the Silverrod when the king comes home? Does it run milk instead of water?”
“I don’t know. I’m not from these parts.”
“Where are you from?”
“Look, you are going to get me into trouble with the captain.”
“Any novelty in that?”
He didn’t answer. Eventually I gave up.
Traveling with the prince-bishop’s guard was different from any traveling I had done before. We moved fast—at least, it seemed fast to my beast and me—and we put up for the night when we wished to, where we wished to. There was belligerence in the way Ludovic and his men ordered the innkeepers about, and all the authority of the prince-bishop’s warrant could not win us a welcome. No, we were tolerated, that was all the prince-bishop’s bidding claimed for us. Fodder for our horses, food for us, and that was all.
The third morning, as we were leaving the town of Tariel, where another throng of grim onlookers had gathered, a dozen dark, swooping birds flew past us, circled, and returned. It took me a long look to identify them. Martins, I was sure, though they never paused for an instant. They flew as martins do, so swiftly that their elegance defeated the eye. As they returned, more joined them. Swooping, calling, dipping, diving, the martins flew in greater and greater numbers, until it seemed a ragged scarf of birds traveled along with us as escort. They made the horses twitch. Istvan and Julian carefully did not look at one another. Ludovic and his men paid no attention to anything but the road ahead. Rudesby seemed to notice nothing whatever out of the ordinary.
The townsfolk of Tariel called out in wonder, and we had not gone so far down the road that I could not hear those calls. “The king comes home,” that’s what they were saying.
I tried to draw rein. I wanted to go back and ask those onlookers what sort of things were supposed to happen in Tariel when the king came home. Did their water turn to milk? Or wine? What other wonders were in store?
But Rudesby had his own ideas. He must have been quite frightened of Ludovic, the way he hauled at my beast’s headwall. He shepherded me along after the others, and he refused to respond to my objections with anything more than a look of dogged endurance.
Before we had left Tariel a mile behind us, the martins lost interest. We rode on without their escort for many leagues. By dusk, the horses were tired. I was exhausted. Julian looked weary. Even Istvan was looking a little worn, as if he’d been out for more than a mere saunter. As we approached the bridge at Folliard, the martins returned. This time there were three times as many, swooping and crying, and in the failing light the flight circled us until we could see no beginning to them, nor any end. We moved forward in a ring of swift wings, until we reached the span of the bridge.
The horses had been nervous in the morning. At dusk they were weary, too weary to spook and startle. But they balked, eyes rolling, and refused to move forward to the bridge. My beast put its four feet together and dropped its head. I hauled at the reins as lustily as if I were pulling a full bucket of water out of a deep well, but I could not get the creature to stir. Rudesby, I was
pleased to see, when I could spare a glance at him, was reduced to much the same case with his mount. So much for the proud steeds of the prince-bishop’s guard.
All the while, more martins joined us, and more and more. Never any slackening in that sweeping flight, the ring around us grew more solid as we watched. The little cries the swift birds made, some pitched so high they lay just within the edge of my hearing, grew more plaintive, as sharp and knifelike as the pattern the flight cut in the air. I began to think I could make out words in those little cries, and the voices’ I thought I could just catch made the back of my neck cold.
“The king,” the voices said, and they said it over and over again, mindlessly, relentlessly. “The king, the king.”
“O God,” said Istvan.
I looked where he was looking.
Ahead of us, waiting patiently in the center of the Folliard Bridge, stood Dalet, hands folded, eyes bright. Her white robes had scarlet bars across the sleeves. There was no other color about her, save for the gold medallion—the siege medal—blazing at her breast.
Rudesby uttered a low exclamation, a wordless compound of fear and wonder. Ludovic snapped out orders his men could not possibly follow—for even as he spoke, Dalet lifted her hands and the horses went mad.
I fell off my beast at once. The others clung to their mounts for slow moments longer. Thus I had the best idea of what happened, for once I’d pushed myself up to stare, I was free to watch as Julian rode toward Dalet. The martins flew with him as his horse ambled forward, untroubled by noise, by birds, by pitching, squealing horses, straight toward Dalet.
Julian took his left foot from the stirrup and put down his left hand to her. She took his hand, slid her foot into his stirrup, and swung up to ride pillion behind him, as elegant in her own way as the flight of the martins all around them. Together they rode across the bridge, the martins wheeling and sweeping along with them. Her sleeves were white against the worn richness of his tunic, and she held him lightly.
Istvan roared, and his horse regained its senses for a moment or two, just long enough to bound forward on the bridge. If I never hear that sound again, my ears will still ache at the memory of it. My heart aches at the memory, even now, of the cry that Istvan made.
Dalet lifted one hand, a careless over-shoulder gesture, and Istvan’s horse was possessed of a fury. Blind with madness, shrieking in terror, the poor beast sprang aside, desperate to flee the bridge. Istvan hauled back on the reins. Obedient to his great strength, the strong neck curved—and the horse went over the side of the bridge. And down Istvan with him—down screaming to the Lida below.
Say what you will of Rudesby, he was an impolite young man, impatient, and sullen by any measure. But when I scrambled down the riverbank and threw myself into the water, he was right beside me. Right beside me he remained, until we clawed our way to Istvan’s dying horse. I was crying, so was he, as he pulled out his pistol. He shoved me in place at the horse’s head.
“Keep its head still. Sit on its head if you have to. Don’t move. Cry all you want to—scream if you have to—only God don’t move.”
Praise God. The powder was dry. He found the place, pulled the trigger, and ended the broken animal’s agony. After that great noise, I could hear myself again, and I wished I couldn’t. I was making terrible sounds myself, gasping and sobbing, squeaking and squawking.
Once the horse was still, he could work with his knife, and work he did, quickly and neatly. The harness came free. Istvan’s legs were twisted in the stirrups, tangled in the leather straps. I lurched forward and tried to keep his face out of the water. I managed so ill it is a wonder we weren’t both drowned.
Ludovic Nallaneen was beside us then, and for the first time I understood why he would’ve been a leader in any group of men. Out of the madness, he brought order in a few barked sentences. By the time Istvan was carried back to shore and put down as carefully as could be wished, there was already a camp being made, a fire being lit.
I could not quite trust myself to lift my feet for that last step up on the riverbank, so I waited a moment, gasping and trying to collect myself. A hand came under my elbow, and Rudesby’s voice was in my ear. “Nearly there, Mistress Rosamer. One more step. You can manage.”
I turned and looked into his face. All the sullenness was gone, all the doggedness. He looked even younger than Amyas. Possibly only my age. I stared at him until he urged me up the bank again.
“That’s right, that’s fine. Sit here by the fire. I’ll take care of your horse for you.”
I gulped and tried to muster words. “You never told me your—” I had to break off for a fit of coughing.
When he smiled, he looked even younger. “They call me Tig.”
“Tig.” I coughed some more and decided to stay where he’d put me.
Istvan lay where Ludovic’s men had carried him. He was still breathing. I watched him and wondered how he’d escaped drowning. To survive the fall had been marvel enough. To survive our clumsy attempts at rescue was nearly a miracle.
My stomach twisted at a new thought. Perhaps he would have recovered without us. Perhaps he would have recovered without even being pulled from the river. Perhaps there would have been another bundle of wet clothes at the river’s edge the next morning, ready to eat mudskip raw. Perhaps Dalet’s magic was stronger even than the river. It hardly seemed likely that Dalet would create a puppet that could be broken before she was ready to break it herself.
The men built a fine fire so that as the afternoon turned to dusk and then to night, there was light and warmth. Istvan was wrapped in blankets, still but for the steady rise and fall of his chest. If any of Ludovic’s men spoke, it was in tones so hushed that I heard nothing.
We had one piece of good fortune. It was high summer, and that night we were spared a thunderstorm. Instead we were given a fine moonshiny night—warm and soft as fresh milk. If we had jumped in the river and huddled on the bank while our clothes dried on our backs at any other season of the year, surely one of us would have come away ailing. As it was, we were only clammy and uncomfortable.
Ludovic must have spent the night planning. I don’t know what or how. I wasn’t paying attention. I was sitting beside Istvan, just watching him breathe. I was waiting, no more. Not a thought in my head beyond that. I was careful to keep my mind blank. Because if I let myself think, I would have to remember the dreadful grace with which Dalet moved. I would have to remember the sound that Istvan made when he saw her take Julian as deftly as ever queen checked king at chess. I would have to remember the cold, sharp, ever-rising edge of wet as I ran into the water, the struggle with the dying horse, the smell of blood and mud and gunpowder.
I stared vacantly at Istvan while my clothes grew clammy on me. Eventually, they grew almost dry. Ludovic’s men saw to the horses, pulled the carcass out of the river, tended the fire, prepared a simple meal. I think Tig offered me something, but I wasn’t hungry. I tried to keep all my attention on Istvan, wholly and only, and on the moment I was in. I wanted nothing of the past and still less of the future.
It was dark when Istvan stirred. I leaned close at the first small movement he made. The firelight was bright enough to betray him as his memory returned. Hardly a moment of grace was allowed him before he recollected what had become of Julian, what had brought us to this place.
Istvan flinched away from my hand. That slight motion brought Ludovic close. His grip pulled Ludovic still nearer, in range of the whispered words. “I must go after them.”
Ludovic’s voice was soothing. “I set two of my best on her trail. Not to catch them, just to mark the way.”
“A horse.”
“You shall have mine.” Ludovic gestured, and men came nearer to support and counsel. I was elbowed away into the shadows. The soft voices were edged with purpose as Istvan and Ludovic laid their plans.
I waited. Freed of my vigil, eased of some of my worries, my mind was at liberty to wander. I could no longer keep it steady and
still.
How could Maspero have written an entire treatise that I had never even heard of? And upon alchemy, of all subjects? I felt a vast irritation with the man. How could you write something as sensible as “gold has no memory” and then temper a casting with blood? Well, say it was so. There must be many treatises I’d never heard of. Might someone who truly knew the intricacies of magic be able to free Julian? Rigo seemed to know all about such things. He had removed the miscast spell from Istvan as easily as I could tear paper. Perhaps Rigo could remove Dalet’s spell from Julian?
What else was there for me to do? Keep a weather eye on Istvan? Pretend to myself I was his sister and responsible for him, as my brothers had always fancied themselves responsible for me? Small chance of that. Istvan was a hunter, and once his business with Ludovic was settled, he would be off after Julian at once, relentless as a hound unleashed.
“She can’t control him if she’s dead.” Istvan’s voice was soft but savage, unmistakable over the murmur of voices.
I listened to as much of the fireside council as I could catch. Relentless, almost thoughtless, Istvan had a single, rapidly fraying tether to the world—his bond with Julian. Ludovic was willing to aid and abet. Where that took him, even Ludo could not follow. I was nothing but baggage.
The fury now in Istvan made mockery of what I’d seen in him before. Who was I, to think of this creature as a brother? As well try to claim St. George, once he had been set on to slay a dragon. Not that Istvan had anything of the saint in him. He was an absolute sinner and he knew it, judging by the length of his confessions. Perhaps that was why this fate had been measured out for him. He had been summoned back to walk the world. Punishment enough in that.
For the first time, I appreciated what a torment the world could be. I shivered in my damp clothes. Istvan had died. To suffer that and still to have no hope of rest, no hope of morning to end the night that seemed to go on so long—it would be hell, to have a life after life. Purgatory had a limit, even though a long one. But endless life in a world where everyone else would die? I thought of the inevitability of death and wept a little more for pure self-pity. My mother and my father would die. My brothers would die, and their wives and children. My friends would die. My enemies, even, would someday die. And I would die. That was the only certain relief that I could muster.
When the King Comes Home Page 14
