Lady of the Haven (Empire Princess Book 1)

by Graham Diamond

  “I see,” drawled Nigel. “Yet you yourself encountered them. Where?”

  “I told you. I strayed too far from our lairs. Near the foot of many of the mountains there are villages. The men hate us; they loathe all Dwellers who spoil their hunting.”

  “And some of these men tried to kill you?”

  Old One looked about with a glare of frustration. “Yes! I told you that, too. They came at me, screaming and shouting, barking their terrible war cries.”

  Nigel furrowed his brows questioningly. “War cries? What sort of weapons do the men of this land carry?”

  The wolf half-shrugged, half-trembled. “In the villages only a few. They fly their arrows much like your own hunters. They carry sharp teeth at their sides, even as your Khalea does.”

  “Daggers? You mean daggers?”

  “Yes, daggers, if that’s what you would have them called.”

  “And swords? What about swords?”

  Old One thought for a moment. “I have heard tales of the soldiers of the city. They, I believe, carry these swords. But I never saw them. Only the arrows and daggers.”

  Nigel pursed his lips and rubbed at his stubbly chin with his hand. Stacy watched him carefully and saw that he was deep in thought and that he had not, so far at least, been able to shake the wolfs story. After a long while, he began to talk again. “You say that these men wear wolf pelts to keep them warm.”

  Old One nodded emphatically.

  “Yet you said that men hardly ever venture into the mountains where the white wolves live. How do they catch you?”

  Old One’s eyes narrowed, and he snarled lowly, as if recalling some evil that was yet to be repaid. “They make traps for us, my lord. Vile things made of iron and steel. When a wolf becomes snared, he has no way to escape. One wolf I knew did, though.”

  “How?” asked Nigel.

  “When the vise closed about his leg, the poor animal howled in pain, so much pain that he chewed off his leg rather than endure the agony or wait for the men to come and kill him.”

  Stacy could not control her shudders at the thought.

  “And he hobbled away from the trap as best he could,” continued Old One, “leaving a trail of blood behind. It was a steep climb up the slope to his den, and the beggar was just too weak to make it. My father and I found him dead in the tundra. He had bled to death, you see, alone and frightened. There hadn’t even been anyone to sing the chant for him at his death.”

  “A cruel way to die,” said Nigel, wincing.

  “Such it is with men,” sighed the wolf. Then hastily added, “But of course I don’t mean the men of this fair and pleasant land. Here I have known only kindness.” He smiled at Stacy. “But in my land such traps and devices of men are a constant threat to us. Can you blame us if men are our enemy?”

  Nigel recoiled at the idea of the traps and the brutality with which they did their work. And just the fact such traps existed assured him that the men of Old One’s land were not only clever in their methods but could be cruel as well.

  “What other things of the men can you tell me?” he asked.

  Cicero, sitting with his front paws outstretched and enjoying the warm sun, began to stir. “Why all this interest in a faraway land that doesn’t concern us?”

  “It may one day concern us, Cicero. But we’ll talk about that later. Well, Old One?”

  The wolf bowed his head to shade his tired eyes from the brightness. He stared down at the ground for a long while, hardly moving except to occasionally beat his tail softly against the thin snow. Then, after some deep thought, he peered up. Nigel and Stacy at once saw that his eyes were watery. “Forgive these tears,” he growled softly, slipping out of the common tongue and back into his own, “but they come all too easily at my age. Before I tell you any more, Lord Nigel, I must ask you, do you believe what I have already said? Or do you think that this has been but another fable?”

  Nigel leaned back, rubbed lightly at his bloodshot eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Without looking, he could feel Stacy’s glare upon him, and he knew how important to her his answer would be.

  “Yes, Old One,” he whispered. “I believe you. Many would consider me to be mad, but I do believe what you’ve told me.”

  At that the white wolf’s face lit up with a look of sheer happiness, like the cub who hunts for the first time with success; like the female, who after so many months of labor and pain, smiles down on her cubs for the first time and forgets all the hardships that came before.

  “I have hoped and prayed to Fara that such a day as this would come,” he said proudly. “And for most of my life I never dared to dream that it would. To be believed! No longer to be scorned and laughed at as just a spinner of fables! And I thank you, Khalea, for my joy. Once again I can hold my head high.”

  Stacy flushed and let her eyes drift from his stare.

  “But to answer what you asked, my lord,” went on Old One, “yes, there are many things I could tell you of my land and the men who share it with us. What would you know?”

  Nigel propped himself up beside the tree. “The riches of this city of men, where do they come from?”

  Old One blinked his eyes and gazed in the direction of the faraway mountains of Newfoundland. The snow-capped peaks were dazzling in their brilliance.

  “From a place called Satra,” he said, speaking in a soft tone, with a tinge of fear and respect in his voice.

  Stacy glanced at her father. It seemed Old One knew far more than he had told her. “What is Satra?” she asked.

  “A mountain, Khalea. I know little of men and their ways, but only a fool in my land would not know of Satra.”

  “And what is so special about this mountain?” asked Nigel.

  “Not merely a mountain, my lord, but a mighty peak that reaches to the heavens. And it is there that the men have their city. It is there that they rule their empire.”

  Stacy felt her heart race. An empire! She should have known all along!

  “Do the white wolves live on Mount Satra?” asked Nigel.

  Old One shook his head emphatically.

  “But they do know where to find it?” Stacy asked hastily.

  “Certainly, Khalea. But we never dare venture too close. As I told you, there is war between us.”

  “But the white wolves could show the way if they wanted?”

  Old One looked at her oddly. “You ask strange questions, Khalea. To whom would the white wolves show the way?”

  Stacy smiled thinly at him and said, “Me.”

  Old One’s jaw dropped, as did Cicero’s.

  “There are those of us,” said Nigel, “who would like to find this place and meet with the men of Satra if we could.”

  “But how would you reach my land?”

  “With our ships,” replied Stacy. “But that needn’t concern you. Tell me this, Old One, if men from here, from the Valley, came to the shores of your land, would the white wolves help us to find Satra?”

  Old One looked at her darkly. “Men are enemies, Khalea. I told you as much before. At best, if you set into the mountains, the white wolves would run and hide. At worst, they would kill you.”

  “But I am a wolf,” growled Stacy. “Would they attack me, also? Would they not accept me as one of you?”

  Old One sighed deeply. “I don’t know, Khalea. Perhaps if you came to them alone, perhaps if they had time to speak with you, to see for themselves that you are one of us, maybe then they would take you in among them.”

  “And what if I came with other wolves? Wolves from Newfoundland or the forest? Would they attack them, too?”

  Old One glanced first to Stacy, then to Nigel, finally to Cicero. “Explain to them how it would be, my lord,” he said.

  Cicero growled. “When a strange wolf comes upon a pack, he will be accepted — provided that he means no harm nor demands too much. If a wolf comes meekly, in submission, the pack will take him in, just as Hector took in Old One.”

  Stacy
smiled. “What you’re saying, what you’re both saying, is that any wolf will be treated as a friend by any other wolf — no matter from where he comes.”

  “Not exactly,” answered Old One. “A wolf will not kill another wolf, unless he is driven to it. The white wolves would likely be suspicious of even one such as Cicero. But if he proved to be a friend and meant no harm, then yes, Khalea, he would be treated as such.”

  There was a lull in the conversation as Nigel picked up a few scattered pebbles and threw them into the stream. His eyes focused on the ripples they made, and in them he saw the Empire. First there was the Haven, that was the pebble, the foundation. The first ripples were the Valley and the near forests where men hunted and cleared. Then came the Newfoundland ripples, larger than the others, reaching out far and wide; and lastly there were broad outer ripples, the ones that spread from shore to shore, ever becoming wider, ever becoming thinner until they mingled with the ripples of another pebble. And in those tiny pebbles splashing into the icy water he saw the future. Not for him, for his years were already numbered, but for Stacy and for her children, and their children after them. A growing Empire that would know no bounds, no limits; a universe to be conquered and a better life for all. And his own youth flashed back before his eyes; the fires began to burn again. He would never make the voyage across the sea, he knew. Such adventure was for the young. For Stacy. And for him to try to stop her, even if it might mean an untimely death on some foreign and inhospitable shore, would be wrong. How else would the Empire grow and thrive if not by the daring of the young? If Stacy failed in her voyage, there would be another, and if that one failed, there would have to be yet another — and so it would be until there was success.

  And Stacy’s success would only be the start.

  “The Empire means to send a ship across the sea,” stated Nigel flatly, showing all that there was no longer any doubt in his mind. “And we mean to find Satra if we can. For too long we’ve sheltered ourselves from the rest of the world. Now it’s time that we reached out and established contact.”

  Cicero glanced up. “And you would send Khalea to seek these white waives?”

  Nigel nodded. “If our ship managed to cross the sea, it would likely find itself completely lost in a strange land. We’d need the white wolves to guide us, just as Hector once guided us through the forest years ago.”

  Old One began to weep. “It would be a glorious day,” he said proudly, “when Khalea comes face to face with my own. Would that I could be there to see it! But my bones are too old and tired. I ask nothing more than to die here, close to Hector’s spirit.”

  “You’ve already done more than we could have hoped,” encouraged Nigel. “It’s because of you that the Council will undertake such a perilous expedition. You and I are both too old, my friend. I would never ask that you do more than you already have.”

  “Then who will guide Khalea to the white wolves?” asked Old One, a sad glint in his eye.

  “I had hoped to find some Newfoundland wolves to accompany me,” said Stacy. “And with luck, the white wolves will show us the way to Satra.”

  “AnaFara,” Old One whispered. “AnaFara, the daughter of Fara.” And although he did not mean it literally, it was clear to Cicero that this white wolf did indeed see her as an earthly messenger of Fara herself. Not only as Khalea, the bridge between the sun and moon, but also as the bridge between all Dwellers and men.

  Chapter Eight

  Outside the tent a swirling wind scattered the newly fallen soft snow about in a frenzy. Inside the tent, the only occupant lay soundly asleep on a small cot, hugging tightly at a couple of thick quilted blankets.

  It was well before dawn when he awoke to the clatter of hoofbeats along the mud-tracked road outside. He heard a few muffled words as the sentry on duty questioned the rider.

  There was a moment of absolute numbness as the closed flap of the tent was pulled back and a gust of bitter wind rushed inside. And with it came a soldier, a Valley soldier, he saw, dressed in a heavy dark-blue tunic and covered from shoulder to belt in a thick fur-lined blue-gray jacket.

  As he peered at the intruder, the soldier snapped smartly to attention. “A message for you, Commander,” he husked in a raspy voice. “It is a message from the governor.”

  Trevor scratched his chin. “From Deepwater?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do me a favor, will you? Take a match and light that lamp for me.”

  As the soldier fumbled in the dark, Trevor took the envelope and roughly tore it at the edge. All of a sudden the tent grew bright with a rich red glow as the wick caught the flame of the match. He rubbed his eyes and began to read. At the top of the heavy brittle paper there was a red seal, slightly smudged from the wax imprint. It showed the colors of the Empire, gold and red, in the form of a great soaring falcon. This was indeed an official letter, written by Governor Bela himself.

  The message inside was brief, though, only a few scrawled lines: “To the Officer Commanding, Noatak Valley, Newfoundland.” Then it became less official: “Trevor, it is imperative that you leave your present duties on the Line and return to Deepwater at once. A special dispatch reached me yesterday, one that I think will require your attention.

  “Congratulations on your ending the dispute on the Line. I look forward to seeing you again.” It was signed Bela.

  Trevor sat back and smiled complacently.

  “Good news, I hope, sir,” said the soldier meekly as he noted the wide grin on the commander’s face.

  Trevor shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. But I’m being pulled from the Line, and that’s good enough for me. I never thought I’d leave this place.”

  “Then you’ll be returning to Rhonnda?”

  “No, at least not yet. I’m being called to Deepwater.” He opened the flap of the tent, searching for the soldier on watch. “Have a horse saddled and ready,” he barked to the sentry. “And get my tunic washed and pressed.”

  “Now, sir?” asked the puzzled guard.

  “Yes, now! I’ll not go to the governor looking as if I just came from a stable.”

  *

  Even at the best of times Deepwater was a quiet town, made up of several hundred pleasant and simple frame houses with tiled roofs and pastel colors. The only real activity at Deepwater came either from the small garrison of Valley soldiers that stood off at the northern edge of the town, or at what was called Dockside, that busy cluster of warehouses and wharves where the riverships were loaded and unloaded as they made their way downriver to the channels and to Rhonnda. A few taverns and one inn at the center of town were really the only places that a weary traveler could find a ready meal and a warm bed.

  Yet inside the house on the hill, unknown to Deepwater’s uncaring citizens, the whole future of Newfoundland, indeed of the whole Empire, was being planned and considered. It was one thing for the elderly gentlemen of the Council at the Haven to make the laws by which Newfoundland was to live, but it was quite another to implement them. The governor was the only real authority in Newfoundland, and his job, as meaningless as it might seem at first glance, was perhaps the most important there was. The Council told Newfoundlanders what had to be done; it was the governor’s job to do it.

  *

  The room was oval, with large windows across one entire wall, facing east so that the room was always filled with early morning sunlight. From the windows one could see groves of apple trees clustered directly below, and beyond them, league upon league of newly-plowed land. That morning, as the governor sat at his desk briskly thumbing through mounds of papers and notes, he felt in no mood for the humdrum tasks of the day. There was some absurd request from a cattleman to buy up five thousand more acres of Huddlesford land; an urgent request from a group of planters in the Sama Plain to provide them with a construction crew for their damming project across the Visi tributary; a note to remind him that that same petitioner, the merchant from Aberdeen, was again requesting to see him about setting up a new p
ost station on the Rhonnda Road.

  The other letter was a dispatch from the Council, bearing the official seal, wrapped in sheepskin. And the letter was one of the most curious he could imagine. Written personally by his old friend, Nigel, it was a request, which meant a command, that he personally take charge of finding and fitting a rivership that would leave from Rhonnda with the intent of crossing the sea. That in itself was queer enough, but the oddest part of all was that Lady Anastasia would be arriving with the first spring caravan, along with a wolf called Casca, to seek out a group of wild mountain wolves to accompany them on the voyage.

  Bela scratched his head. A ship with women and wolves to cross the sea? Had Lord Nigel gone completely out of his senses? Was the entire Council mad, also? He could do nothing but wonder and wait for Stacy’s arrival, hoping that she could explain these matters a little more to his satisfaction.

  No wonder that he was in no mood for dealing with the other matters on his desk!

  As Bela sat reflecting, staring out from the window at the distant mountains, he was suddenly startled by an abrupt loud knock. He swung around in his chair and peered up. “Enter,” he said in a quiet tone.

  A youth in a dull brown tunic entered and bowed stiffly. “There’s a soldier here to see you, my lord. A ragged-looking fellow.”

  Bela waved his hand to quiet the servant. He was in no mood for a lengthy description. “His name?”

  “Commander Trevor, my lord.”

  Bela smiled fully. “Well, send him in, send him in! And bring us some lunch, will you? Some hot soup and bread.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “And some good wine.”

  The servant bowed and strode from the room. Right on his heels came the tall engineer. He came in meekly, eyes darting about, taking in the paintings and colorful tapestries on the wall, trying to familiarize himself with civilization again.

  Bela stood up, walked around the desk and grasped Trevor firmly with his hand. “Good to see you again, Commander. Here, take off your cloak and come sit beside the fire.”