by Cat Bruno
And so he waited, edging his horse nearer to the line, yet not so close that he could not still break free. Further ahead, voices yelled commands, although there was no urgency or fear behind the cries. Pietro glanced around and looked toward the east and noticed the charcoal peaks of the cliffs fading. Above, black-dipped and shining, ravens circled, as if welcoming the Queen home. Pietro shivered, shaking atop his horse as the birds appeared. It had been many moon years since he thought on the Crow, yet, here, under the cloud-streaked sky, he shuddered in memory.
The sound of galloping horses caused him to snap around and look to the west, where a group of riders approached. From the flag that flickered high, painted with night-dyed birds soaring across a gray-washed sky, he knew them to be from Ravenfold. Pietro knew, too, that his time for escape had waned.
With an audible sigh, he yanked at his reins until his horse blended in with the others.
I will find another way.
*****
Hours later, Pietro found himself seated in the corner of a large hall, lined with tables and smelling of ale and smoked pork. Queen Assana had retired for the night, although most of the tables were still full. He had briefly eyed the Queen’s father, a large man with a full, graying beard and shining eyes. It was clear that the man was well-pleased to have his daughter home and his grandsons so near.
As he nibbled on shredded meat and baked apples, Pietro thought on how to escape. He was less a prisoner here than he had been since his return to the King’s City and few noticed him. His healer’s robe offered safety and, without knowledge of his past, respect. Since entering the castle, Pietro had tried to memorize each hallway and each exit, and, more, to learn where the guards were stationed.
Some time past nightfall, he would attempt to make his way from Ravenfold.
“Does this castle not seem to be out of the pages of a tale?” Tanic squeezed in beside him as her words tickled his ear.
With a laugh, she added, “As a child, I read often, as much as I could. The Lightkeepers have a library that rivals most, and there was not a book that I did not know there. Ravenfold is close to what I imagined when I read of princes and kings.”
Her words made him recall his time at the Academy, and he asked, “At what age did you join the Lightkeepers?”
“I was not yet seven, younger than most, I suppose. But my brother had been a student for moon years already. During most of my time there as a child, I learned reading and writing and of numbers and lands, much as any child of wealth might. It was not until I had my moon blood that I began the path of the Lightkeeper.”
His cheeks blazed at her admission, but Tanic did not appear concerned. Her leg was pressed so near to his that he could feel the curve of her hip.
“How long have you served the Queen?” she asked as her fingers wiped dribbled wine from his lips.
Behind his eyes, lust burned red, and Pietro wondered if her caresses were intentional.
“For nearly seven moon years,” he haltingly replied, aware that his manhood stirred beneath his robe. “Before that, I served all of the palace.”
“Do you know her well?”
Her fingers, long and pale, dropped to the table, but not before she had licked them clean of the spilled wine.
His vision blurred as he explained that he was only healer to the Queen, and not friend or confidante. It was then that Pietro knew that he must find his small room before the reddening haze spread.
“I must go,” he mumbled, rising from the table in half-blindness.
Unable to see if any watched his departure, Pietro hurried from the table, stumbling down the hallway as if he was a drunkard. His room was in a wing that housed the healers of Ravenfold, one aged and withered and one younger than himself. Pietro had met them briefly, and the old woman had welcomed him warmly, while the young male had eyed him suspiciously.
Just as he neared his door, a voice called to him.
“Are you the healer from the King’s City? Queen Assana sent me to find you. Alistair fares poorly since his arrival in Ravenfold.”
At the mention of the young prince, Pietro paused. The girl who addressed him was still a child herself. As the haze dimmed, he noticed that she was dressed in the simple style of a housemaid – nearly all in white, except for an ebony smock.
“If you would follow me, I would see you to the boy,” she murmured, her head dipped low.
For a moment, he wondered if the girl had been sent by Jarek, and so he nodded and trailed behind her. Yet, soon, it became apparent that she was leading him to the Queen’s quarters.
Perhaps Jarek had but one plan, Pietro thought as they neared.
Just outside the large room that the princes would share during their time at Ravenfold stood Assana. She was dressed in little more than a sleeping gown, with her hair brushed and hanging across her shoulders. She was of an age with Pietro and still pleasant looking, although she had never been a beauty. Still, his body did not cool.
In a voice filled with fatigue, she called, “Alistair has vomited up his dinner. And will not even drink the sweet water that I offered. I should have called for you sooner, but my father’s healer Becca was here in attendance.”
Her weary words caused his passion to fade as Pietro asked, “Has she given the boy anything?”
“Some peppermint tea that he would not drink,” the Queen informed him.
“He is probably overtired from the travel. And, as you know, Ravenfold is among the hills, Queen Assana, and the boy has spent nearly his whole life in the King’s City, which is at sea level. Many have difficulty adjusting to the change from city to mountain. But there are some remedies for both. Show me to him.”
Assana did not hesitate and hurriedly ushered Pietro into the room. It was much as the nursery had been at the Grand Palace, although the furniture was older, perhaps from when the Queen herself was a child. On one half of the room stood two beds, child-sized, yet cornered with large, spiraling wooden beams and blanketed with lush fabrics of gold and black. Tucked beneath a heavy, feather-filled blanket lay Alistair.
When Pietro approached, he noticed how pale the boy looked, but his eyes, gold-rimmed like his father’s, lay open and clear.
“Tell me what ails you, my prince,” Pietro hummed as he neared, familiar enough with the boy that he did not cower.
A squeaking voice answered, “It feels as if I have rocks in my belly, and my head feels all heavy-like. And when I looked at mama, I saw nothing but clouds.”
Pietro hid a smile as he explained, “Often the body takes a few days to adjust to the hills, Alistair. Tell me, did your nose drip blood and your head ache when we made the ascent to Ravenfold?”
“Aye,” the boy nodded slowly. “I wanted to appear strong upon seeing my grandfather again, so I wiped my nose on my tunic and told none of the bleeding.”
From across the room, his mother chided him, but Pietro interrupted and stated, “Your grandfather has surely seen this before, perhaps each time he receives a new visitor. And what of your stomach and these rocks that you think now live there?”
The prince, who would be no worse off from the sickness in a few days time, laughed, which spread a blush across his cheeks.
“I will mix you a tonic to drink to soothe the digestive pains and a salve to apply to the base of your neck to help you adjust more easily to the mountains. I daresay you will be running through the halls on the morrow, Prince Alistair.”
When Pietro moved to the other side of the room to begin preparations for the remedies, Assana followed. She stood patiently behind him while he worked, and, only when he had finished, did she interrupt.
“You think it no more than the mountain sickness? What of the vomiting?”
Still stirring the salve to thicken it, Pietro told the queen, “We were days in travel, and the boy is far from home for the first time that he can recall. It will not be the only illness that befalls him while we are at Ravenfold.”
“Why would Becca not th
ink to act as you have?” she questioned.
Without attempting to discredit the queen’s father’s healer, he replied, “The peppermint tea was a fine attempt, and had Alistair been able to drink it, both his head and stomach would have benefited. I have only added some lavender and fennel to sweet water, which, as you might recall, often calmed the princes as babes. Into the salve, I mixed sage and chamomile oils, which will have the head pains cleared within the hour.”
The Queen was not dull-witted, and she appreciated Pietro’s explanations for what healing he tried. This time was no different, and she thanked him without artifice.
“I will come back to see the boy every other hour,” he commented as he walked back toward the bed. Applying the salve, he said, “Have him sip at the sweet water slowly, just every so often.”
As he rubbed the salve around the back of the prince’s head and neck, a piney scent filled the room. Pietro thought on what he must do to make his way east, to the shoreline and to the waiting ship. If any found him walking the hallways at night, he could claim he was visiting the ill prince or trying to find a necessary plant or herb. The boy’s sickness could not have come at a better time, he concluded.
Once he had finished with the prince, who now lay sleeping, Pietro promised to return and departed. He arrived back at his own room in short time and pushed open the unwarded door. His accommodations were sparse, for he had not accumulated much during his moon years at the Grand Palace. After he had joined the Queen’s services, his clothing was tended to by her housemaids. He had neither coin, nor resource, except for what he needed for the healing arts. Long past were the days that he had enjoyed an ale at a tavern with a golden-haired beauty with the large stipend from his father.
Into a small satchel, he placed two jars, which were filled with dried herbs. Jarek had assured him that the walk to Vesta would be short and that a ship would be waiting. Even from Ravenfold, it should take him no longer than a few hours, he guessed. Pietro had not asked of the ship’s owner, and he wondered if the man would be Tribe. When last he saw a Tribesman, two whom he had known for half his life lay dead.
With the thought heavy on his mind, the healer sat upon the thin cot, waiting for nightfall.
*****
It had not been easy to contact Blaidd, for he could not time-walk as Syrsha could. Jarek had finally found him at the inn run by Blaze’s kin. After an exhaustive search, Jarek had little time to instruct Blaidd on what must be done. Yet, it had been enough, as two days prior, Jarek had received word that the Covian boat rested in the Vesta port.
Aware that the Queen traveled with Lightkeepers and mages, Jarek did not risk another visit to Pietro. Instead, he had waited. Hours before, Delwin had received word from his wife that they had arrived safely in Ravenfold. Nothing was said of the healer, Pietro. Either something had gone amiss or his death was not worth the queen’s mention. Jarek hoped that it was the latter.
Jarek could think of little else, so he had gone to the sparring arena, and, despite it being his night off, practiced with several other Royal Guardsmen. The wooden swords were old and battered, and the others were easy work, yet it was enough to keep his mind distracted. For hours, he tussled and jousted. Only when the wooden sword he was using broke did Jarek quit and return to his room.
When he could not stop pacing about the small space, Jarek grabbed a cloak and headed toward the Lower Streets. It was common to see Guardsmen frequenting the taverns there, and Jarek hurried to join them. He did not often drink ale or wine, yet his life pulse had been unsettled since the Queen had departed from the King’s City. As Jarek neared the central square of the Lower Streets, he slowed his step.
After looking about for a tavern, he realized how little he knew of Rexterra outside of the King’s City. His own father, king in name only until his death, had long been known to visit the Lower Streets and all corners of the land as well, including those outside of the Rexterran border. Jarek could not recall if Crispin had visited Eirrannia, but he had been to Arvumia, Planusia, Planusterra, and Tretoria.
The ruling politics of Cordisia were such that Rexterra allowed some independence as long as taxes were paid duly and peace was maintained. Jarek had interpreted this to mean that as long as the other lands showed the proper amount of deference to Rexterra, they would be permitted to carry on without punishment. Still, the local leaders would need to report to Rexterra, yet the past kings rarely demanded more than coin and men.
For many generations, the Royal Army was composed of men from all across Cordisia, and Jarek himself had met many, some even from near to his childhood home. Yet there was one land that would give neither coin, nor men. One land that had long sought freedom. And, now, that land starved and shivered.
Eirannia.
For the fifteen moon years that he resided in the King’s City, Jarek had not seen the North. However, he thought on Eirrannia fondly. He had not known Caryss a full moon year, yet he had loved her and Sharron both. And the others as well, none more so than Otieno, who had been both teacher and father to him in the moons he spent with the group. Aldric, too, had taught him much, and Jarek would not have long survived the King’s City without the instruction that the mage once offered.
The High Lord himself had been friend, Jarek mused as he pushed open a rusting metal door. Inside, the tavern was dimly lit with candles. Orb-light was rare in the Lower Streets. In the corner, a trio of women sang pleasantly, their voices accented with hints of the sea.
Jarek paid them little heed as he approached the brick-lined bar. Atop the wooden counter sat several empty mugs, and Jarek pushed them aside as he called for a drink. Once the frothy ale was in his hand, he found a round table near the back and sat down heavily on the small, wooden stool. His cloak was long and unadorned, with no markings of the Royal Army. Long ago, before he could control the skies, Jarek had learned to mask the gold flecks that rimmed his sea-swept eyes. For as long as Delwin had known him, he had never suspected that Tomasz was anything more than an Elemental. For over half his life, he pretended to be a simple soldier. Here, he was neither soldier nor mage.
Of late, Jarek grew weary of the pretense. After his father’s death, of which few grieved, the Rexterran throne should have been his. Yet he had made no claim to it, for Delwin had long been in true command of Rexterra. His half-brothers had fled, even though the older boy was of an age to rule. He knew little of them, for their mother Lillia had taken them from the King’s City. Delwin gave her lands to the west, under written contracts that neither boy would seek the crown. Deftly, Delwin had erased Crispin from Rexterra, although a silent threat remained if Lillia returned.
“Heyo!” a voice called out, rousing Jarek from his thoughts.
When he looked up, a large, gray-bearded man stood peering at him, two mugs in his large, sun-spotted hands.
“Those sirens sure draw a man in!” he thundered, slapping at Jarek’s back. “I searched the whole tavern for an empty stool. Mind if I join you before they betwixt me?”
Jarek nodded curtly and leaned away from the table as the man sat. He was well-dressed in dark clothing, although the edges of his boots were salt-stained, marking him as a seaman. He was no simple sailor, Jarek guessed, examining more as he lifted his own mug to his lips. The man’s eyes were a faded blue, much like the sea itself, and his hands were scarred and golden. Yet his boots were of thick leather, and his tunic was woven with an expensive fabric, despite the salty scent.
Unable to bide his tongue after the single ale, Jarek asked, “How many ships do you own?”
With a hearty laugh that caused his beard to dip into his ale, the man exclaimed, “I must smell of the sea even after I have bathed! The name’s Azzaro, and you were not mistaken to name me a ship merchant. Many moon years ago, I purchased my first, working it on my own until I developed enough trade to hire a crew. From there, my business grew, until I lost count of how many ships are in my fleet. Perhaps sixty? I know not, although my coin-keep does, no doubt.�
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When Jarek merely nodded, the man asked, “Are you a soldier? You have the look of one, although you do not appear Cordisian.”
“I am both,” Jarek answered, offering little other explanation.
A serving girl neared, and Azzaro called for two more ales, despite Jarek’s objections. Silently vowing to sip at it slowly, he listened as the man talked of his ships. Jarek had few friends in the King’s City, although he tried hard to not seem distant. In an attempt to make Tomasz seem as all the other guards, he would join several men for drinks and dicing games. Yet even then, they only knew of Tomasz, who was little more than a name. It was, he had to admit, enjoyable to sip with the sailor and hear tales of the man’s life.
Halfway through his second drink, Jarek felt the man watching him. Under his cloak, he had a small dagger, but nothing more, for his swords had been left in his room at the palace. One hand held the mug, while the other fell to his lap, near enough to the dagger that he could grab it if necessary.
The sailor was no fool and twice the age of Jarek. Leaning in closely, he said, “I am no threat to you, boy. If I spend too much time watching you, it is only because you remind me of an old friend.”
Jarek did not move his head, but thought on Azzaro’s words. He spent his life at sea, traveling farther than most and was no half-wit.
Suddenly, Jarek asked, “Do you know of Lysandia, the land to the north and east of Cordisia?”
He knew not why he had spoken of his kin-lands, but his words had caused the man to pause.
Shaking his head, the man slowly admitted, “My travels have never taken me so far north, although I have heard talk of the great nation. Much of my trade is due east, even as far as Cossima. What interests you in Lysandia?”
