“By dawn of the next day my fate had become clearer to me. Fara must have a special purpose for me, I knew, for look! My sheet of ice was no longer up on the river but had floated onto the very sea itself. I was far from land, with nothing around me save endless water as far as the eye could see. Have you ever seen the sea, Khalea?”
Stacy shook her head. “No. But I hope to...one day.”
“Ah, then I cannot explain it to you,” sighed Old One. “The waters spread farther than ten birds can fly. And here I was, totally isolated from any form of life, with just my single fish to eat when I became hungry. Truly all hope of survival was gone.”
“Yet you survived,” said Stacy breathlessly. “How? With a single fish to sustain you?” Stacy was incredulous.
Old One laughed. “By heaven, no! There were others to catch. It took me days to learn how, but learn I did. A hunter is still a hunter. And so I drifted on alone for many more nights. It was only the warmth of my fur that kept me alive against Aleya’s howl. And after some long period of time that I cannot count or remember, I drifted at last within sight of your shores. To the lands you call Newfoundland. There I met with many strange things, but that tale is for another time. Suffice it to say that I wandered south, over the mountains, and at last came to this forest, close to your own Valley. And here I have spent the years.”
Stacy sat there numbed, absolutely speechless.
“And so, my Khalea, the bridge between the sun and moon, now you know why I can never go home again to the Land of the White Wolves.”
“Is...is that what your land is called?” asked Stacy, trying to regain some of her shaken composure.
Old One nodded.
“And the white wolves? Are they masters of that land?”
The wolf growled, and a sudden look of malice crossed his face. “We are masters in the meadows, in the hunting lands, across most of the mountains. But unlike here we keep far distant from the civilization of men. Once, across the seas, I wandered close to man’s city, and their hunters tried to kill me. They would tear the pelt from my body and wear it themselves.”
Stacy’s mouth gaped wide. Had Old One said what she thought he said? Her lips pressed together, and her hands began to slightly tremble. “Are you making this up, Old One?” she demanded. “Tell me the truth!”
Old One looked at her with stinging hurt. “Khalea, I swear it! By heaven, I swear it! A city of fabulous riches ruled by cunning men.”
“Are you telling me that in your homeland there are people like me?”
“Many such as you, Khalea,” he vowed solemnly. Then, bashfully, “But their women are not as beautiful as you.”
Stacy was in no mood to be flattered. The implications of what the wolf was saying came rushing at her, and it took a few long moments for her to clear her head. Another civilization! Impossible! It could not be! Her civilization had stood for more than two thousand years and never in all the time of the Empire’s existence had there been the slightest hint of other civilizations. “Tell me again, Old One,” she growled. “And swear under Balaka, under the stars. Swear by Fara herself. Tell me that what you have said is the truth.”
Old One looked her squarely in the eye. “May Fara take me now, Khalea. I swear I have told the truth.” Then he lowered his head submissively.
Stacy drew a deep breath. If Old One was right, then everything the Empire believed was wrong. The books would all have to be rewritten. Her people were not the only descendants of mankind. But second thoughts about Old One’s tale still nagged at her. Perhaps he truly believed what he said but because of age or senility had forgotten the real truth. Maybe he was confusing men of the Empire with some vague distorted memory of his home. How could she be sure?
“I’ll have to relate your tale to my father,” she said at last. “And probably to some of the others of the Council. What you’ve told me is a startling revelation — one they’ll not find easy to believe. They might want to question you.”
“Let them come,” growled the wolf. “I’ll tell them everything I know.”
Stacy rubbed at her eyes and saw that dawn was coming. Without realizing it, she had stayed awake the entire night. But if what she suspected were true, then it was well worth the effort. She got up and brushed the leaves and damp dirt from her tunic. She was about to leave the wolf when one last thought crossed her mind. “Old One, I know everyone has always called you that. But what is your name? Your real name, I mean.”
The wolf stared hard at her. “Does it matter?” he asked.
Stacy shrugged. “No. Not if you don’t want to tell me.”
“I will tell you, Khalea, but don’t tell any of the others. My father gave me the name Garth.”
Stacy winced and looked startled. “Garth. That means ‘royal one,’ doesn’t it?”
Old One smiled mysteriously. “Not exactly, my lady. It means ‘prince.’”
Chapter Three
After brief farewells, Stacy placed the bit gently into the mare’s mouth, fastened the bridle around its head and mounted. The horse stood docile, and the girl took hold of the reins and arched her body forward. She clasped the mare’s body tightly with her thighs, and nudged gently with her heels. And the black mare galloped off. Riding bareback, the way she loved, she left the wolf lair without looking back. Leaving was painful enough as it was; long good-byes would only make it worse.
Hector watched sadly from under a leafy hickory, never letting his gaze falter until the girl was out across the knoll and gone from sight. “Go with Fara,” he whispered after her. Then he sighed a deep sigh, growled menacingly at a staring rabbit and raced back into the forest.
The early morning sky was dull and overcast. Black thunderclouds rolled ominously as Stacy made her way along the old forest path. On either side loomed tall chestnuts and lofty pines, branches bowed as if in respect to the coming winter. Already the wind’s chill was making itself felt, whipping cruelly over the dales.
At the crest of an angular hill, Stacy stopped to get her first look at the Valley since she had left. For as far as she could see, there were gentle rolling hills dotted with stone farmhouses beneath lofty trees. Beyond them she could see a large village nestled in a dale — houses of brick with red-and-green-tiled roofs. There was a large apple grove running in a straight line at the right of the village and long fields of wheat somewhere behind it. Water mills towered over streams, and the muddy road was filled with wooden wagons rolling slowly to the west, laden with produce.
And off to the west, no bigger than a handful of dirt, loomed the high walls and towers of the Haven. And the very highest of the towers poked clumsily almost to the sky itself, overseeing all. There would still be soldiers in the tower, she knew — some things would never change — but their need was minimal. There was no danger, no threat from anyone. But soldiers of the Haven had stood guard there for two thousand years, and as long as the Haven stood, they would always be there.
It was a long ride home and Stacy took it slowly, letting the mood and the feel of the Empire come over her gradually. When you had lived in the forest, the sudden change could be startling. You had to reorient yourself from the way a Dweller thinks to the way a man thinks — and at times this was extremely difficult. She’d have to constantly remind herself not to snarl, not to growl, not to use the common tongue of the forest, except, perhaps, when speaking with birds. It would be hard, by Fara, she thought. By Fara. Stacy smiled. That would have to go, too. Anyone ignorant of the canine tongues would look at her more than strangely if she let that one slip.
She wound down the hill and onto the Old Road, glancing from side to side, taking in as much of the scenery as she could. Produce wagons rumbled past down the middle of the road. Almost everyone seemed in a hurry these days. There was a zeal in the Valley, indeed even to the farthest reaches of Newfoundland: the building of the Empire. The tasks were never ended. In fact, mused Stacy, they had hardly yet begun. Scattered far and wide, across hundreds of leagues of fore
st, the Empire continued to grow and grow and grow. But this was an exciting time, she knew. And she wondered what part in it she would play.
She took a shortcut away from the road that ran along a narrow outland meadow. There was a shallow brook winding down from the escarpment of a small hillock. There she stopped to drink. The water was ice cold. As she finished, her attention was caught by some muffled cries and shouts from the top of the hill. Stacy peered up. A squad of blue-tunicked soldiers was surveying the slope. Their commander, obviously an engineer, was bellowing instructions. His men swarmed like ants, making markings in the earth, charting each location. The engineer used wooden stakes to mark each plot, paying no heed to the nearby farmer who stood staring incredulously as they ran over his land.
Stacy smiled. Typical, she thought. Give the Council half a moment to work up some new scheme and you might find your very bed dragged out from under you as soldiers ran amok in their urgency to build a new road, a new mill, a new silo, a new anything.
“You there!” came a harsh voice.
Stacy looked up slowly. “Me?” she asked innocently.
“Yes, you! What are you doing here?”
Before she could answer, the bearded young engineer was dashing toward her in a huff. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?” he barked testily. “We’re clearing this whole meadow. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see?” Stacy’s eyes flashed angrily. “My horse is tired. I’ve been riding all morning. We only stopped to rest — “
The soldier glared at her, this brazen girl standing in the way of his progress. “Well, you’d better move,” he grunted. “Go rest somewhere else. This area’s restricted. Go back to your farm — now!”
Suddenly his jaw dropped; he stared, dumbfounded. From inside her blouse she had pulled out a gold necklace. The charm showed a flying falcon with red jewels for eyes. “I...I’m sorry, my lady,” he stammered, “if I had realized...”
Stacy threw her head back, trying to calm her surging anger. Only his realization that she was high-born had stopped him from treating her like dirt.
The engineer bowed stiffly, then forced an embarrassed smile. “You can stay here as long as you like, my lady. It’s just that you were blocking my sextant.” He gestured to show her.
Stacy rudely turned her back on him and mounted her mare. “Build your road, soldier,” she hissed and quickly rode away.
By late afternoon she had reached the flat lands of the Plain, that fertile stretch of rich land that was the Valley’s breadbasket. The New Road was as busy as she had ever seen it, with the endless flow of wagons coming and going on either side. And straight ahead of her, its high walls looming into the sky, stood the Haven, city of the Empire, center of man’s world. The black and gold iron of the Great Gate swung open, giving entry to the city that gleamed like a bright flame in an otherwise black night. And beyond it she could see the swelling crowds of people along the broad avenue that led to the central markets. Stacy leaned forward and stroked the mare’s forelocks. “We’ll be home for supper,” she whispered. And once more the old excitement began to race inside her. Home. She was home. And despite all, it was a good feeling.
The way through Old Town was a short ride. The streets were arched and narrow, consisting of simple two-story houses of stone and brick with side windows. There were small groups of children playing in the streets, never noticing the wagons that rumbled past. After a while, the street widened and trees and hedges lined either side. The homes became larger, less clustered, with gardens beside every one. These were the homes of wealthy merchants and tradesmen, well kept and trim. But soon even these fine homes began to look pale as Stacy wound down the avenue and came to the quarters reserved for the nobility. Here the houses were not houses at all but estates, each one larger and finer than the last. There were stables and servants’ quarters at the sides and great yards and gardens behind tall hedges set behind taller trees.
Stacy stopped in front of a small black gate. The house was a magnificent three-story structure with broad glass windows and terraces. Its roof was of red tile, and boughs of ivy twirled and twined along the sides all the way to the chimney on the roof. As she leaned over and unlatched the gate, she could see the slightly bent form of a man racing from the main house. He was dressed in a dark woollen tunic and sandals, and from fifty paces she could see the broad grin across his face.
“Welcome home, my lady!” shouted the servant, bounding to the gate and opening it wide. He grinned from ear to ear.
Stacy got off her mare, smiled and kissed the servant lightly on the cheek. “Thank you, Olaf,” she said. “It’s good to be home.”
“We’ve missed you, Anastasia,” he told her truthfully.
Stacy grimaced at the sound of her real name. “Are my parents home?”
“Lady Gwen is out,” said Olaf, “but she’s been expecting you. She asked me to —”
“And my father?” Stacy interrupted.
Olaf sighed. “He’s in, my lady, but I can’t tell him you’re here just yet. There’s been some sort of problem at Deepwater, and he’s having a meeting.”
Stacy threw back her head and laughed. “There’s always some problem at Deepwater,” she said. “And he’s always having a meeting. Where is he, Olaf? In the study?”
The servant nodded. “He asked that be not be interrupted. Lord Desmond is here.”
Stacy pinched Olaf on the cheek. “I’ll not disturb them. Don’t be worried. But take my horse to the stable, will you? And feed her if you can. It’s been a long ride.”
Olaf smiled and led the mare toward the stable as Stacy walked slowly to the house. Before she had even opened the front door, she could hear the muffled shouts coming from within the study. That was Lord Desmond’s voice, she knew. Des always took to shouting whenever he was upset. Her father’s oldest friend would never change.
Standing outside the study door, as if on guard duty, stood a blue-tunicked soldier. He bowed stiffly as Stacy looked at him. “Are you protecting us from pirates?” asked Stacy sarcastically.
The soldier shook his head awkwardly. “No, my lady, I was told by Lord Desmond to stay outside and not to let anyone in.”
Stacy tilted her head to the side questioningly. “Oh? Well, this is my house, too,” she said. “Why can’t I go in and see my father?”
The soldier looked at her sternly. “It’s Council business, my lady. I can’t let you in. Really, I am sorry.”
Before the soldier could move, Stacy brushed past him and gently opened the door. She combed her hair with her hand, fixed her tunic and slipped inside the study unnoticed.
Inside there were half a dozen men, all peering intently at a large sheepskin map that was spread across Nigel’s desk. Not one of them heard or saw her as she entered. But off in the corner, sitting calmly on his hind legs was a wolf, a hunter, Stacy saw right away, with shiny dark-red fur and wide glowing eyes. The wolf’s ears slanted forward; he growled at the intruder.
Nigel looked up; his mouth dropped. “Stacy!” he cried. He squeezed her and lifted her a foot off the ground. “Where have you been?” he asked. “Your mother and I expected you home days ago.” He beamed as he held her at arm’s length.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your meeting,” Stacy said apologetically.
“Not at all,” laughed Nigel. He turned to his guests and swept grandly with his hand. “Gentlemen, my daughter, Lady Anastasia.”
Des looked at her and grinned. He walked over, bowed low and kissed her hand softly. “Welcome back, Stacy,” he said sincerely.
Stacy glanced at his face. The blond hair was showing a little more gray than the last time she had seen him, but his eyes were as blue and piercing as ever, and his face, although lined, was just as handsome. And with his new title and Council robe he looked every bit as dashing as she could remember. In fact, except for the obvious stiffness in his right arm, due to an old battle wound, he still seemed fit enough to lead a regiment of cavalry. “And you look well,
my lord,” she told him, with a ladylike curtsy.
Des winked. “A beautiful woman always brings out the best in me,” he replied.
Stacy laughed, her eyes flashing. He handled her with ease, she knew; the old charm was still there.
“But let me introduce you to the others,” said Nigel. He pointed to a dark, well-built man. “This is Captain Mace,” he said, “our top engineer at Deepwater.”
Mace bowed stiffly. “An honor, my lady.”
“And this,” said Nigel, “is Commander Trevor.”
Stacy winced. The young man rubbed at his trim beard and smiled sheepishly. He was the soldier who had chased her away from the stream.
“Your daughter and I have already met,” said Trevor awkwardly.
“Oh?” said Nigel, looking to Stacy.
“We had something of a run-in, I’m afraid,” added Trevor hastily. The girl gave the soldier her hand and bit her lip as Trevor took it limply.
“It was nothing,” she said. She tossed her head back to push away a lock of hair that trailed across her eyes. “And who are the others?” she asked, purposely to avoid Trevor’s eyes.
“Ah, yes,” said Nigel, “these are guests from Newfoundland.”
It was obvious they were not from the Valley. Their tunics clearly were cut from rougher cloth; their boots, of thick leather and rawhide, were certainly not Valley-made.
“This is Edric,” continued Nigel, gesturing to a small stocky man with closely cropped light hair. “And this is Elias.”
Elias was tall, easily the tallest in the room, with curly black hair that curled at the nape of his neck and a trim black beard showing hints of gray around his mouth. His eyes were deep-set, cheekbones high. Around the open neck of his tunic he wore a silver chain with a medallion. “I’ve heard your father speak of you,” he said.
Lady of the Haven (Empire Princess Book 1) Page 3
