“But then Galanthir arrives—Galanthir, who with my mother knew the truth and finds the abomination we have committed. Alysse and I—we stand at the brink. Our love is forbidden; she will have nothing to do with me; she finds a way to rid herself of the child, and in the process dies herself. And the scandal begins to grow—the whispers—and then Galanthir offers me a chance to escape.”
“Escape?” Juilene asked. “How?”
Cariad twined his hands in hers. “Into the past. The Over-Thurge of Khardroon, Rihana, offered to help him—to help us. And before last night, I didn’t understand why. But now I do and I see that whatever mistakes I made before—” He looked away, and his face was grim.
“Cariad—you’re saying—you are from the future? How far in the future?”
“I was sent back in the year 9997.”
“9997? This is only 9968…” she whispered.
He nodded wordlessly.
She shook her head as if to clear it. “You mean to tell me, you come from the future? From a time that hasn’t happened yet, because of—”
“Because I got my half sister with child. And if it were known that the child was mine—” He shook his head. “I was half-mad in those days—half-mad with grief. Rihana offered us a way out, and we took it, seized upon it, without care or realization of what it would mean.”
“What does it mean?” she asked, confused.
“In my time, Lindos is the High Thurge of the Conclave. And wild magic is not a whispered tale—wild magic is real. But only Lindos knows how to use it.” He held her hands so tightly she was afraid the bones would break. “Except for Rihana. Somehow, that witch also discovered the secret—and that’s how she sent me back. And it was Ludi who made me see last night just why. She didn’t send me back to save my house, or Gravenhage from disgrace. She sent me back to be the non-born knight. For in this time, I am not born.”
His words faded into the silence. Juilene listened to the gentle snap of the fire, the soft creaks all around them as the ancient inn settled for the night. “So if we go to Sylyria—”
“When we go to Sylyria,” he corrected.
“Does that mean you must meet Lindos?”
He looked away. “In my time, Lindos rules all of the League with a grip like iron. He has inflicted more pain, more suffering—Juilene, you have seen only the barest taste of a man held in check by nothing and no one. Every one lives in fear—even the highest of the thanes. No one—not the lowest beggar, the mightiest thane—dares incur his wrath. Remember what I said to you, about torture with magic? His dungeons are full of people—victims—he uses people to experiment with the wild magic—he makes the tales of the thurges of old seem tame by comparison. I would shudder to tell you some of the things I have heard—some of the things I have seen.”
Her eyes fell on the ridges of scars that marred his shoulders. “Was that—”
He shrugged. “In the mountains, some of the things he’s created escaped. I got these from a dwarf dragon—only it wasn’t a dwarf anymore.”
Juilene raised her eyebrows. The dragons were formidable enough. The thought of even one of them much larger made her shiver. “So—you don’t exist yet?”
“Not in this time, not technically, no. But according to Galanthir, I will be thrown back into the future, when I am conceived. In about six months.”
Juilene picked up his hand. “And—and what of me? Of us?”
“I have thought and thought, and I think there must be a way to bring you with me, Juilene. Somehow. I can’t lose you—whatever happens in the future—and believe me, it isn’t a pretty place—there’s no one I would rather face it with than you. We’ll find some way, I promise. If it worked once, it should work again. While the spell is on me, perhaps some other can read it—”
“So that’s why you had to get away from Diago.”
“Yes. And especially from Rihana—it’s her spell, after all. And she might not be much more than a child now, but—” He shook his head and gathered her close. For a moment, they clung together, and then he raised his head and looked long into her eyes. “Now. Can you accept what I have told you? And can you understand why I hesitated all this time to tell you?”
Juilene nodded slowly. “I can scarcely believe what you say. But—” she hesitated.
“But?” He bent his head.
“But I know I love you, Cariad, and no matter what happens, or where or when, I only want to stay with you—for as long as the goddess wills.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him, and their bodies molded beneath the snowy linen sheets. She closed her eyes, and his arms tightened around her, and his fingers stroked her wet, tangled hair. “I was thinking—have been thinking—that perhaps together, we should seek out a thurge, a powerful thurge, and explain my story—but now—” He broke off speaking and his fingers twisted the knotted strands of her hair so hard, she winced.
“But now,” she prompted, pulling her hair out of his reach. “What more is there?” She rose up on one elbow and looked down at him.
He gazed back at her. “Tonight, listening to Skar—I realized that there’s more to it than just me and Lindos.” He glanced at the ceiling and then met her eyes once more. “Don’t you see, Juilene? I know the end of the story. I know what happens—to Jarron and Deatrice and all the thanes and thurges who oppose Lindos.”
She twined her hands in the sheets, suddenly very cold. “And what is that?”
“It’s called the Rout of Arvon in the history books.” He looked at her steadily. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Arvon,” she echoed. “That’s the name of the river that flows through Sylyria to the sea—you mean—”
“Jarron and all his men—all the thanes and thurges who fight with him—will be destroyed. There’re even implications for my own family—my own country. My father was involved, too, for the King of Gravenhage sent troops to assist Sylyria, and the Over-Thurge of Gravenhage was part of it, too. I even know the date. And it’s soon—very soon. So you see, Juilene, what my dilemma is? I think I understand why Rihana sent me here. She planned for me to clear the way for her. And the terrible thing is, I know what happens under Lindos, and I can’t help but think that anything Rihana schemes will be even worse. But here I am now, and brave men and women will die, unless I help to prevent it. But what if it changes everything, in ways we can’t begin to imagine? What if everything is altered so greatly, the future doesn’t unfold the way it once did? Do you understand what I am talking about? What would you do, if you were me?”
“We can’t let the King and all his allies die,” Juilene declared. “What if my brother is among them? So many have died already—Sylyria will never recover if all the thanes and thurges who oppose Lindos are slain. How could you go back to your own time, knowing that you allowed all those deaths to occur, which you might have prevented. We must—you must do what you were sent here to do.” She caught his hand and held it to her cheek.
He said nothing for a long time. Finally he sighed. “Yes,” he said at last. “Though I am not so certain anymore exactly what it is that I am meant to do.”
He reached for her then, and pulled her close, and covered her mouth with his. She gave herself up to his love-making, and all the while, she wondered just what he could possibly mean by that.
Chapter Fifteen
The snow crunched beneath their feet and their breath steamed away in long white plumes. It seemed to Juilene that each step closer to Sylyria was at least one degree in temperature colder. The forest rose all around them, still and silent and starkly beautiful. The fir trees were covered in thick layers of snow. The horses’ hoofs echoed flatly. Soon, she thought, soon. Goddess, see us over the border, she prayed.
The roads were all deserted. Juilene understood the shabbiness of the inn, the reason why the innkeeper had been so glad for their patronage. Truly, she thought, it must indeed be exactly as Skar had said—no one went in or out of Sylyria. The win
ter-bare trees that grew along the roadside provided excellent cover for robbers. But the men had decided such an attack was unlikely. Bandits would have been the first to take up residence in a more profitable location, and indeed, in the day and the night it took to reach Deatrice’s keep, they had met no one at all.
She drew a deep breath, and realized that the air had changed in the last few paces. It was different, thicker somehow, and the trees up ahead seemed to shimmer and ripple. Skar stopped. “I’m not sure how much closer we can come on our own. Up there”—he pointed—“up there is the border.”
As if at a signal, a dark-robed figure emerged from a stand of trees a few paces off the road. The figure looked substantial enough, but he, too, wavered against the trees. “You must turn back,” he called. “Sylyria welcomes no one.”
“Perhaps not Sylyria,” replied Cariad. “But we had heard that Thurge Deatrice has welcomed others at her keep.”
The young man stepped closer, and through the wavering air, Juilene could make out the glyphs that distinguished him as a demi-thurge. He glanced around, from right to left, and back again, and this time when he spoke, his voice was low. “State your names, travelers, and your business with the lady.”
“I’m Skar, lately of Thane Jiroud’s house of Sarrasin. I’ll state my business to the lady, but I mean her no harm.”
“My name is Cariad,” Cariad said when Skar paused, “lately of the house of Thane Diago of Khardroon. And this—”
“I am Lady Juilene of Sarrasin.” Juilene stepped forward, her shoulders squared and her chin high.
The name had an instant effect upon the demi-thurge. “Lady Juilene!” he cried. “Stand aside, please, off the road. T’will be an easy thing to raise this border for you, lady.”
“And why is that?” asked Cariad, frowning.
“Because the mighty Lindos himself has put out her name, with orders that she is to be admitted into Sylyria. Lindos wants you, lady. And I know my mistress will be pleased to talk to all of you.”
Now Juilene gripped Cariad’s arm as tightly as she dared. The antechamber was cold, as though the chill that pervaded the air outside seeped into every corner of the great keep. The small fire that snapped and burned in the polished grate did almost nothing to relieve the temperature. She had noticed that everyone they had seen since they had arrived at Deatrice’s keep was wrapped in as many layers as they could stand to wear, and that even the house servants wore gloves.
But once there, the inner wards of the keep had been crowded, with men and women and children, all huddled around roaring fires. They had the look of refugees, thought Juilene, of people who had been forced to flee their homes and leave most of what mattered to them behind. And that was exactly what they were, she realized, people driven out of their villages and domains, forced to seek shelter at whatever thurge’s keep would have them. And in this cold, this bitter, unnatural cold that gripped Sylyria in an iron fist, how many had died before they found an open door?
She had eyed the people speculatively. Huddled and shrouded as they were, in whatever layers of clothing they possessed, it was impossible to tell their rank. But they all wore the rough-spun garb of peasants—no thanes hid among the lot. What had happened to her father and the rest of her family? she wondered. It was impossible to think that living so close to Lindos’s keep, the occupants of Sarrasin had been spared. What had become of the people she loved? Cariad and Skar had led her into the great keep, her harp cradled protectively in her arms.
Now the three of them stood shivering in the little antechamber, waiting for Deatrice to favor them with her company. They had been unsure as to their reception, but the servants who greeted them, the men who guided them to the keep, had been nothing less than courteous. Skar and Cariad had said nothing, though they had exchanged long looks, when they had not been asked to surrender their weapons.
But this cold, Juilene felt, was more than just a physical discomfort. It insinuated itself into one’s very depths, and seemed to close around her heart, gripping her in a tightening vise of sadness and despair. More than once she had found herself thinking that all their efforts were hopeless, that nothing would come of it, that Lindos was surely unstoppable. So far she had managed to dismiss such thoughts for the nonsense they were, but she found it harder and harder to shake off the sadness that seemed to clutch at her like a sucker vine.
The door opened abruptly, and a tall, thin manservant, dressed in a dark blue robe bordered with the glyphs that marked him as a demi-thurge in Deatrice’s service, bowed. “This way, good folk. The lady of the keep desires your presence.” He stood aside.
“Shall we?” asked Cariad lightly. He gripped Juilene gently under the arm and led her out of the room. Skar followed, her harp in his arms.
The corridors were even colder than the antechamber. Their breath steamed lightly, and their footsteps echoed in the silence. At the doors of the great hall, which Juilene recognized from her visit, the demi-thurge bowed and stepped aside. “Lady Deatrice, the newcomers.”
The smell of roasting meat made their mouths water. Along the length of the hall, fires roared in hearths so huge men could stand upright. Great haunches of meat turned on spits, and the fat sizzled and steamed. Juilene blinked. She had never seen the hearths inside a hall used for cooking.
And then her attention was diverted once more as a tall woman turned from a group clustered around a hearth at the very end of the hall, and she recognized Deatrice herself. The woman beckoned.
Deatrice was still as tall and pale and beautiful as Juilene remembered, but her companions looked like men who had spent a great deal of time on the road, for their garments were shabby and travel-stained. Juilene noticed that they all seemed to be clustered around one man, who sat in a chair beside the hearth. He turned as the sound of their footsteps echoed in the still cold air of the hall, and regarded the newcomers with interest.
Juilene’s heart stood still. “Greetings,” said the man in the chair, in a voice Juilene had heard many times before. “Countrymen.”
Skar halted in midstride, and Juilene almost stumbled. She stared in disbelief as she recognized the man in the chair. “By the goddess,” she breathed. She sank into the best curtsy her masculine attire would allow. “Your Highness,” she breathed. This was the King, the King of Sylyria, whom all reports had said had gone into exile, fleeing from Lindos and his power.
Jarron smiled, a wry smile that did little to alleviate the deep channels care had carved in his face. But his voice when he spoke was kind, and his pale blue eyes burned steadily in his tired face. He did not look like a king in defeat. “Juilene of Sarrasin. You’ve led your father a merry chase, my girl.”
Juilene shook her head, scarcely sure of what to say or how to begin. “Highness, I—I can explain everything—”
“I’m sure you can, child.” The King smiled gently. “We are happy to see you safe. Your father will be greatly relieved.”
“How is my father?” Juilene blurted. She had lived for all these weeks with no idea at all, and the words slipped out heedlessly.
The King shook his head and smiled sadly. “Your father is a brave man who has borne the brunt of this war, my lady. Your disappearance was just the beginning. But he has stood firm, an example to all—both thane and thurge”—here he paused and smiled meaningfully at Deatrice—“who would honor the vows of their rank.”
“But—but you do not know if my father lives?”
“He lives, lady, or so we believe. Lindos has claimed all your father’s lands and possessions—your father and your brother have been stripped of all they owned. We think they are imprisoned in their own keep.” The King paused once more, as if assessing the affect his words had upon her. “I wish I could tell you your father was in good health, and all was well.”
Juilene drew herself up. This man had borne and lost as much as she, as much as her father, more, perhaps. She would not dissolve into tears. She would show the King and Cariad, and even thi
s pale, proud lady thurge, that the daughters of the thanes of Sylyria were made of sterner stuff. She drew a deep breath and nodded. “At least there is hope he is still alive.”
Jarron nodded approvingly. “Indeed, lady. And while there is life, there is hope. Your own arrival brings us more. Lindos is not indestructible. There must exist a way to contain his power, and restore the order of the League once more.”
A chill ran up her spine as Deatrice stepped forward. “You keep strange company, my lady.” She rubbed her slim hands together, considering. Her eyes lingered on Cariad, and Juilene tightened her hand in his.
“Will you tell us the names of your companions, my dear?” asked the King.
“Skar, of my father’s house,” Juilene said, turning and gesturing to the lanky man on her left. “And this is Cariad, but lately of Thane Diago’s house in Khardroon.”
“Your Highness,” said Cariad, with a bow.
“Of Gravenhage, you are, no?”
Cariad flushed. “Yes, Your Highness. I am.”
“Hm. I would know that accent anywhere. Mark is my closest ally in all the League. In fact, one of your countrymen arrived here but late last night. He’s still resting from the perils of his journey.” Jarron stroked his short black beard. It was heavily shot through with pure white threads. The weeks of exile had taken a toll upon him, but he still was clearly a vigorous man of no more than forty. “In fact, you remind me—is it possible you are connected to the Queen’s house?”
“Well…” Cariad flushed an even deeper red and let his voice trail off. He looked down.
“Ah,” said Jarron, “forgive me, son. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. These days my brains and my wits are addled enough. There are many fine men born of noblemen, whose mothers may not have been so noble. A man’s connections matter little in times like these. Forgive me.”
“But you, too, like the lady when she first arrived here, before the winter,” said Deatrice, her eyes narrowed, “you, too—there’s power magic on you, sir. Great magic…” Her voice trailed off and she cocked her head, a little puckered frown on her face.
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 27
