False dawn glimmered on the eastern horizon. The near-constant wind funneling down the mountain pass to the west returned.
The troubled king turned his back on the wind and the last bite of winter in the mountains. At the far end of the pass, his army would be preparing for the first battle of the season. A first battle that would carry the war out of the pass and into SeLenicca, hopefully crushing the next invasion before it began. He’d kept King Simeon’s army out of Coronnan for three long years. Now, at last, he was in a position to end the conflict.
He didn’t think he’d have been allowed to achieve that advantage if Lord Jonnias and Lord Marnak still sat on the Council of Provinces. Heavy fines for their attack on the monastery and banishment from the Council until those fines were paid had ended their dissension. For the first time in too many years the Council worked with their king as a team and the war progressed, however slightly. A defensive war only. Until now.
Both Coronnan and SeLenicca were exhausted and running low on resources.
Dark shadows still lay between the steep walls of the pass. Night would linger longer there, hiding ambushes and stalling messages. ’Twas one message in particular that had brought King Darville to the city on the edge of the battlefront. His spies in the enemy army had sent a coded letter by a long and circuitous route. The generals of King Simeon of SeLenicca were willing to discuss an armed truce, with or without Simeon’s approval.
Frost clung to the trees and paths this cloudy equinox morning. But yesterday had been balmy. Any disarmament had to take place soon, so that soldiers could go home in time for spring planting.
Darville heaved a lonely sigh as he continued his ritual walk. Fred, his trusty bodyguard and confidant, now that Jaylor remained in hiding, was somewhere behind him, hovering protectively. Dawn was almost here and Darville had yet to make the decision that drove him to walk the streets at dawn.
“Jaylor knew before I did that I think better on my feet,” he mused. Then he looked up to the sky and addressed the wind as if it were Jaylor. “I miss you, old friend.”
He lengthened his stride, almost hoping to lose Fred and his loneliness in the tangle of alleys and warehouses. No questions arose in his mind about the tentative offer of peace. That he would grab.
But what would he do about the Council’s request that he put aside his beloved wife in favor of a woman who could bear him a son and heir?
More than three years had passed since his coronation, and Mikka had miscarried seven times. He feared her current pregnancy would also end in disaster. For her own health, she shouldn’t have conceived again so soon. She had enough magic talent in her to prevent it.
But Mikka was a princess born and bred. She knew how much Coronnan needed an heir to provide a clear line of succession. The country wouldn’t survive a dynastic war compounded by the exhausted reserves from the current war with SeLenicca.
He walked on. The tangle of alleys opened to a market square. In the center stood a proud Equinox Pylon decorated with the first greens and flowers of the season. As soon as the sun topped the horizon, citizens would be dancing and singing a welcome to spring. The celebration and fertility rituals would go on all day and well into the night. He should be with Mikka.
The wind shifted once again, and new odors assaulted the king. Death.
Recent death. And not a clean one. The hair on the back of his neck rose in preternatural fear. He cast about him for the source of danger, left hand reaching automatically to the short sword on his hip.
“S’murgh it!” he cursed as an aching burn snaked up his arm and his hand grasped nothing. “I’ll never learn to fight right-handed.” With a conscious thought he grasped his weapon with his undamaged hand.
“What is it, Your Grace?” Fred appeared at his left elbow, ready to guard his vulnerable side. Then he wrinkled his nose.
A flicker of movement by the Pylon drew their attention. No one stood near the focus of celebration, but an ugly brown nest of twigs at the base crackled with new fire. Atop the fuel lay the gutted body of a cat, intestines and blood feeding the growing flames.
Fred dashed forward to stamp out the fire before it spread to the Pylon and spring decorations.
“Who would sacrifice a cat?” Darville asked the air. Painful memories of Krej and his coven sacrificing the body of one particular cat came to mind. Thanks to their efforts, there was no feline body to receive the alien spirit sharing Mikka’s human form.
He’d heard about ritual slaughter of livestock around the country. This was the first report of the carcass being found at a Pylon. The action brought back childhood horror stories of the days before the Stargods when Simurgh, the winged god of death, had reigned throughout Kardia Hodos.
Krej’s old coven had worked to restore that bloodthirsty religion. They’d had three years to restore their numbers after the death of Janessa, Krej’s mother, and Janataea, his sister. Krej himself had been locked into the tin statue of a weasel. And Zolltarn had deserted their ranks for the Commune. Had Krej broken free and restored the coven?
Had a cat been sacrificed this time because they were the symbol of a witch’s familiar and fearful citizens targeted the poor animals? Maybe a malcontent chose a beloved pet to stir up fear of witches.
Or had the coven sent a warning that they knew Mikka harbored the spirit of a cat in her human body? If that knowledge leaked to anyone, Mikka would be named witch and exiled or executed. He didn’t know if he had enough authority to save her.
“Looks like the work of the coven. I heard there was a village up north that found a sacrificed child by their Pylon at the last Solstice.”
“Unconfirmed rumors,” Darville said sharply, breathing through his mouth to reduce the stench. “I have to have hard evidence to confirm or refute these stories of human sacrifice. Remind me when we get back to the city. I’ll have to send out a trusted agent.”
“We’d best hide this before anyone else sees it and panics,” Fred suggested. “The coven would love to involve you in suspicion of witchcraft, so’s the Gnuls would depose you or start a new civil war.”
“I wouldn’t put it past the Gnostic Utilitarians to plant this fake sacrifice so I would lead a witch-hunt. When we get back to the capital, I’ll find a spy to infiltrate that group, too.” Darville found a sturdy branch among those gathered for the bonfire that would be lit at midnight.
Together the two men scooped up as much of the grisly evidence as they could. “Throw it into the river, Fred. And not a word of this to anyone.”
“Evil rumors have a way of starting without evidence.”
“Rumors that must be squashed before they become fact. I’ll not fall victim to the plots of either the coven or the Gnuls. I have had enough of my citizens becoming vicious, prying spies. Those lavish rewards granted to informers by the Gnuls must stop. People invent evidence of magic against their neighbors, family, and business rivals for money.” And courtiers followed Queen Rossemikka, hoping she’d betray her rumored magic talent. Was that why the Council pushed him daily to put aside his queen?
Darville set his jaw in determination. No one would make him set aside his wife. Not even Mikka herself.
Chapter 15
‘Good thing the old commandant wandered off and drowned himself in a creek two inches deep,” Jack’s chain partner whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Died with a smile on his face, I hear.”
Dragon-dream! He’d heard of that happening before. Where? When?
Jack didn’t reply until the black-uniformed guard making his rounds passed beyond them. Speaking was forbidden in the yard during sun breaks as well as in the mines.
“Why is it good?” He kept his faced turned toward the sun, absorbing as much warmth and light as possible. His body turned toward a natural tug, and he knew that direction was south. Without knowing why, he checked the position of the sun against the length of the shadows. The sun had just passed the Vernal Equinox.
“The old commandant would have
ordered you whipped for disrupting the routine when you broke that hammer.” The partner also continued to bask in the sunlight.
“Not my fault the equipment is shoddy and worn out,” Jack protested, still in whispers.
“That was the old commandant. The new one knows that slaves are in short supply. Most criminals are sent to reinforce the army at the front rather than here. Now that Coronnan is setting up an invasion, Simeon doesn’t have enough troops.” News of the last battle had come with a private message to the commandant a few days ago. Two dozen of the youngest and healthiest miners were due to be shipped out when the pass cleared. Jack and his partner weren’t among them, though both could bear the hardships of army life.
Something was wrong with Simeon sending slaves from this mine to battle Coronnan. Jack didn’t know what.
“We live longer and work harder when the commandant feeds us and goes lighter on the lash,” the partner finished.
“How long has the new commandant been here?”
“Two years. Maybe more. Hard to keep track of time in a place like this.”
“Why can’t we speak?” Jack muttered into his beard and turned his back on his companion as another guard strolled around them. He’d counted four uniformed men in the yard, armed with clubs and whips. Nearly one hundred prisoners—he refused to think of himself as a slave. The weapons were not formidable. Surely one hundred prisoners could overpower four guards and escape.
“Same reason chain partners are changed every few days. They don’t want to give us the opportunity to plan an escape or learn to trust each other.” The partner stretched his arms over his head as if offering prayers to the sun.
“Who needs plans? We’re strong from hard work. Why can’t we bash a few heads and break out?”
“Where would we go?”
That stunned Jack. He hadn’t thought further than escape.
“CRAWK, Crawk, crawk, crawk . . .” A jackdaw, perched atop the commandant’s quarters, mocked Jack’s shortsightedness with a raucous cackle. He watched the bird preen himself a moment, absorbing the familiar movements in a memory that seemed to have been washed as clean as a cooking pot.
His hand hovered over an imaginary kettle as if wielding a dishrag. He’d washed pots before. But where or when?
“CROOAWK, Crooawk, crooawk . . .” the jackdaw cawed again, this time as if encouraging him to drag more memories out of his tired brain.
“So far, the guards have allowed me to stay as your partner for three weeks,” his partner said, breaking into Jack’s thoughts.
“Because I’ve been walking in my sleep for three years?”
“Probably. You haven’t spoken or even acknowledged anyone with a flicker of an eye or a nod of the head. They don’t consider you a threat.”
“Hmf.” Jack looked away again.
A slight, stoop-shouldered, man with a thin, patchy beard edged closer, as if listening. Jack turned his back on the man. The listener was new to the mine, new since . . . yesterday!
Jack smiled inwardly at this minor triumph of memory. Then he frowned. A newcomer eavesdropping bothered him.
He allowed his eyes to focus on the jackdaw with the white spots above its eyes—almost like bushy white eyebrows. Why did that thought resound through his body as if it were important?
“CRAWK, Crawk, crawk,” the bird encouraged him again.
Jack suddenly knew he’d awakened to the same raucous call every morning since arriving in the mine. The bird was tied to him in some way. He longed to go back into the mine and hold his staff again. His tool of magic had to be the key to his memory. It was still lashed to a shovel inside the mine.
“Don’t blame you for existing in a fog like that. We were all sent here to die. Not thinking, not remembering the pain we’ve caused others makes it all easier to bear,” the partner said.
“I don’t think I was sent here for that purpose,” Jack said, more to the jackdaw then to his partner. “If only I could remember!”
“Don’t force it. Memories are like quicksilver. They look solid until you try to grasp them, then they slip away just out of reach, still looking solid but more than ready to escape again. What are some of the things you do remember? Do you have a name?”
“Jack.” That didn’t sound exactly right, but it was close enough.
“I’m Fraank.”
The jackdaw glided to a fence post on the south side of the yard. It cocked its head and looked at the pair as if listening to their muted conversation. Perhaps the bird had been a familiar. He knew he was a magician, so why not?
“Corby, Corby, Corby,” the jackdaw called.
Jack had heard the bird speak in just that way once before. “Corby.” He formed the word soundlessly. “Your name is Corby.” He smiled at the memory of Corby scolding him, listening to him, spotting game for him.
“What else do you remember?” his partner prodded him.
“I remember things. I can’t remember me. Look at me, I’m half a head taller than I think I should be, I’m strong instead of skinny, and this beard is full when I’ve never had a beard before.”
“What things do you remember?”
“Things, like this is Coronnan and the Stargods outlawed slaves here a thousand years ago. So how can King Simeon of SeLenicca draw slaves from here to fight in his army?”
“This isn’t Coronnan. We’re in SeLenicca and King Simeon owns this mine.”
“No.” Jack shook his head. He knew that information was wrong. “None of the guards, nor the commandant, cuts his beard square. The guards speak both languages. Some of the prisoners might be SeLenese, but we aren’t in SeLenicca.”
“But I was sent here by King Simeon in punishment for my . . . for crimes against him!” Fraank protested.
“I know that when I fled to this place, it was within the boundaries of Coronnan. I know that in my bones. We are within the borders of the land once reserved for the dragons.”
“Fled here? You came here by choice?” Fraank’s voice squeaked in apprehension. “Jack, no one comes to this death camp by choice. Not unless you wanted to die or you were running away from something too hideous to remember.”
Like me.
A death camp. No one left here alive.
What had he fled that a hard death in the mines was preferable to?
“Margit, would you summon my cousin the ambassador?” Queen Rossemikka looked up from sealing a long letter. “I wish to place this letter to my brother in the diplomatic pouch.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Margit dipped a polite curtsy and fled the queen’s study eagerly. Her lungs grew heavy and clogged every time she was alone with Rossemikka. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear a dozen cats filled the room.
Margit hated cats. She hated them even when they provided a necessary check to rats and mice in barns. But at least she could breathe in a barn, cats or no cats. Maintaining her pose as a devoted servant to the queen was getting harder all the time.
Kevin-Rosse, the ambassador from Rossemeyer and Rossemikka’s cousin, lived in a different part of the city from Palace Reveta Tristile. Margit breathed easier knowing she had a legitimate excuse to leave the crowded confines and stale air of the palace.
If only she were a real apprentice magician. Then she could live in the mountains with Jaylor and Brevelan and the other magicians. She could breathe clean air and sleep out-of-doors if she chose. Eventually she’d be given a quest and allowed to roam Coronnan freely like Marcus and Robb.
She hurried past the market square between Palace Isle and University Island. Three years ago, she’d sold sausage rolls and other savory pasties here, enjoying the opportunity to escape her mother’s hot and stuffy shop every day. Then Yaakke, the strange magician boy, had sent Jaylor into her life. He’d tapped the power in her brain that she’d kept carefully hidden from the Gnuls and her mother. No one in her family had ever been tainted by magic. At least no one Margit knew about.
Jaylor had freed her from her mother’s
shop and opened many possibilities for the future. A position in the queen’s household had seemed like a small temporary step upward. Temporary had dragged into a third year and approached a fourth.
She skimmed over three more bridges on her way to the ambassador’s residence. The rushing waters between each of the city islands cleansed her of the weight of living in the palace. At the end of the next bridge, a line of heavily laden sledges blocked her way. She wove her way among them, speaking softly to the huge steeds harnessed in front of them. The placid steeds nuzzled her pockets for treats she didn’t have.
“You’ll have to settle for a scratch,” she whispered to an animal in the middle of the caravan as she ran her blunted fingernails up and down the center of its head.
The steed snorted and stamped with pleasure. The sounds muffled the approach of a merchant and the steed’s wrangler. Their whispered words stopped her in her tracks.
“Do you have the poison?” the Rover-dark merchant asked the blond wrangler.
“I have it hidden.” The wrangler touched the scrip at his waist, right next to his long dagger.
“As soon as the ambassador gives me the diplomatic pouch, I’ll pass it to you. You’ll only have a few moments while I distract him. Then we’ll have to strap the pouch onto the courier’s chest where it will stay for the duration of the journey. The queen’s letter to her brother will be on top. The last item added. Will you be able to do it?”
“Three drops on the queen’s seal will kill King Rossemanuel within an instant of opening the letter. He always caresses the seal as if touching his beloved sister. The poison will be traced to Rossemikka. She will be executed for murder.”
Margit suppressed a gasp. She couldn’t let them discover her now. She had to find out who wanted to murder the queen’s brother and depose Rossemikka before she bore an heir to Darville. The delicate political balance among the Three Kingdoms would be terribly upset. Who would inherit the thrones of Coronnan and Rossemeyer?
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 79
