by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Eight
The royal skycar swung around to begin its approach into Thyra Junction. Allara perched on the edge of her velvet cushion and bounced one knee with the effort of sitting quietly. Every minute was precious now. For all she knew, the Gifted could be in danger—both physically and mentally. If his heart was poisoned before she could get to him, as Harrison’s had been, half her battle would be lost.
For seven hours, she had sat, back straight, hands clenched in her lap, as the skycar rushed over the rough hill country between Réon Couteau and Lake Thyra. On horseback, the journey would have taken days, but her heart still screamed at the delay.
Quinnon stood from his seat. “The men will disembark here.” He took his sword belt and pistol holster from the hook in the corner and buckled them around his waist. “We riding on?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
The Gifted’s presence washed over her, flooding her sense of herself. Her thoughts fuzzed around the edges as his emotions eddied with her own. He felt different from when she had first recognized his crossing. Now he felt confused, even defiant. Or maybe those feelings were hers.
When she had met Harrison, as a child, she had nearly panicked, thinking her mind was being swallowed up in this alien essence of another human being. At least now, she had the foreknowledge that a little time and patience would eventually allow her to sort the Gifted’s presence from her own thoughts. Once she knew him better and was familiar enough with his presence to recognize its edges and limits, she could separate it from herself and push it out of her way to the back of her mind.
The train swooped into its descent, and Quinnon gripped the brass railing on the ceiling. She swiveled her chair around to face the rear of the compartment and locked it in place so gravity would push her against the seatback instead of spilling her onto the floor.
Outside the window, the white sun hung heavy in the sky, several hours past midday. The scenery had begun to change twenty minutes ago, the hills flattening around the lake. As the car leveled out, she could see the mottled gray of the cobblestone streets running through the city.
Most of the buildings were built of whitewashed wood, their roofs coming to sharp peaks and their walls reinforced with brown planks. Toward the center of town, the buildings grew closer and closer together, and traffic packed the main street. Thyra was a busy district at any time, but especially now given the looming threat of another war.
“Getting out of town on horseback will slow the Guard down,” she said.
Quinnon scowled. “They shouldn’t be getting out. They’re not hired to save blues. They’re hired to stick around and watch your back.”
The train crossed over the many-peaked skycar station. It slowed to a stop momentarily as they waited their turn to be shunted into the docking yard, then moved on as the royal privilege flag on the engineer’s car was acknowledged.
“The Cherazii deserve protection.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the Cherazii can take care of themselves.”
The car glided down into one of the many courtyards behind the station. With a gentle lurch, it bobbed to a stop and dangled above the cobblestones.
Quinnon unlatched the door and jumped down without waiting for the conductor to lower the steps. “I’ll tell ’em to take our car off the train soon as the Guard’s unloaded. We’ll cover more ground without the extra weight.”
She followed him to the door. If she sat still any longer, she would explode. Were it not for the infernal weight of her royal dignity, she would run laps around the courtyard. Perhaps the slap of her feet against the stones would numb the jitters in her muscles.
The conductor, in his snug blue doublet and velvet boater hat, rose from securing the steps and offered his hand. “Your highness, you honor us. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
“Very pleasant, Conductor.” Her voice sounded tight. She licked her lips and tried again. “Captain Quinnon and I travel on to Virere Ford, so if you’ll please make certain our horses are provisioned for another day’s ride?”
“Yes, indeed. Would you like to wait in the lobby? I’ll have it cleared to ensure your privacy.”
She waved him off. “Not necessary. We’re in a bit of a hurry, so I’ll stay close.”
She let him help her down, then walked around to the far end of the car and swung first one leg, then the other over the coupling. Separated from the conductor and his ministrations, she clasped her hands behind her back and leaned against the car. Inside, Rihawn squealed and stomped his impatience, and the whole car swayed on its cable.
The station, with its six sharp peaks adjoined by flat-roofed ticket booths in between, poured out a steady stream of passengers from every ramp. Depending on their destination—north to Réon Couteau, south to Virere Ford and Glen Arden, or west to the Illise coast—they were funneled into various courtyards and loaded into the trains.
Overhead, the skycars threaded their way through a web of cables, their glass walls glistening painfully in the sunlight. They moved with surprising silence, just a low swish and rattle. Except for the shadows sailing across the courtyard and the distant hammer of the mill engines on the far side of the station, she could almost forget where she was.
Thyra was one of the best stations on the line. No train left here without having every window shined, every compartment swept, and every provisions cupboard filled. Men in the station’s blue uniform bustled about the royal train, opening the compartment doors and unrolling ramps from the back doors and steps from the front.
The horses unloaded with a clatter, and the Guardsmen exited to check their equipment. A few cast sidelong glances at her, probably wondering what she was up to.
To get back on the skycar and continue south to Virere Ford? Or unload Rihawn and ride out from here? The wrong choice could add days, maybe even weeks, to her search. She closed her eyes and tried to contain the rumbling chaos of the Gifted’s presence enough to determine from what direction the pull was coming. The time had come to make her decision.
“There you are, my loveliest.”
She started up from resting against the car. “Eroll.”
Eroll Leighton, Duke of Thyra, leaned over the coupling behind her. He was an elegant man, slender and fair-haired, with a long face and laughing eyes. A close-trimmed goatee did nothing to hide his grin.
He took her hands in his and kissed them both in turn. “I think you have this nefarious plan to go away from me just so I’ll think you’re more beautiful when you come back.”
“A day of hard traveling never made any of us look the better.”
He released one of her hands so he could doff his jaunty cap. A white feather swirled all the way around its brim. Today, his usual frippery took the form of a blue doublet, its ballooning sleeves slashed with gold.
“You see, my princess, that’s the difference between us. I am willing to hint at a few—well, not untruths—but lesser truths, to ease my lady’s mind. You, however, would no doubt let me stagger in after a day of riding and fighting and other such glory-mongering, and tell me to my face I looked like a consumptive Riever.”
“I rather think your vanity could stand the blow.”
Eroll was her oldest friend—her only friend in some ways—the brother she had never had. As a child, she had been betrothed to his older brother, Phlin. After Phlin died in the war, the betrothal should have legally passed to Eroll, but he had understood her heart too well to press the matter. She had no desire to marry and no need. At the moment, her duties as Searcher outweighed her responsibility to produce an heir for her family.
Perhaps someday she would marry Eroll. Better him than anyone else. He was safe, he was familiar, and he understood her more clearly than anyone. More clearly than she understood herself sometimes.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “I had no idea you’d be in town today.”
“On my way to Ballion. Thought I’d get in a little zajele hunting before the season’s ent
irely over. But then I caught a peep of the royal flag fronting a train up there.” He pointed to the tracks overhead. “Thought I’d poke around on the off chance you’d decided to leave your behemoth of a black castle after all. And here you are.”
He looked around at the Guardsmen. “What is all this anyway? You’ve been holed up in Réon Couteau for months, and now you’re gallivanting through my town without even planning to wave at me on your way out? You do know court’s getting beastly dull without you back in Glen Arden.”
“Eroll, another Gifted has crossed.” Just saying the words lightened the burden.
“What? He’s here?” He looked around.
“Not here here. I haven’t found him yet.”
“Dear Garowai in the sky. Not that again.” The twinkle disappeared from his eyes, and he actually managed to appear serious, or close to it. He replaced his hat. “You were gone for months last time around. Came home a skinny wreck, if I recall.” His voice lowered. “Never seen eyes so big in a face as yours were then.”
“I was nine. This is different. He’s closer this time, I can tell.” She touched his arm reassuringly, though it was really for herself. “It will be better this time. I know it.”
“Can’t hardly be worse, that’s for certain.” He patted her hand on his arm. “So you’re unloading here? Headed where?”
“I don’t know.” If only she had someone to tell her what to do, someone to guide her. But Eroll was hardly the person to do that. He had followed her lead since they were children. Flirting and dancing and hunting were his areas of expertise, not this. This wasn’t anyone’s area except hers.
Searchers were never appointed until their predecessors died, so she’d never had the chance to meet and learn from someone who’d experienced the same things she had and made the same decisions. The Garowai knew all about it, of course. But the Garowai kept his own council.
She took a breath. “The Guard is riding into the Thyra hills. We’ve had reports Koraudian troops are attacking Cherazii caravans.”
“That’s got to be rot, doesn’t it? Koraud’s not ready to declare war. Not until—” He caught himself and straightened up.
“Mactalde is not coming back.” She shot the words at him as if they were bullets.
“’Course not.” But his attempt to look convinced only made him appear less so. “Where’s your Gifted?”
“I don’t know yet.” She turned in a slow circle. His presence dragged at her from every which way, but when she faced southward, it concentrated into a decided pull. “South, I think. Still south. I have to decide whether to get off here and ride out with the Guard or stay on the skycar until Virere.”
“The farther south he is the better, I say. Be a bad thing if he ran into these Koraudians before you found him—one way or t’other.”
An engineer in a black doublet and elbow-high suede gloves stopped behind Eroll and saluted. “Excuse me, my lady, Lord Thyra. Captain Quinnon says I’m to uncouple these cars.”
She nodded her consent.
Eroll climbed over the coupling to join her. “Perhaps I’ll come along for the ride, eh?”
She shook her head. “Wouldn’t want to interfere with your hunt.”
“Rot. It’ll be jolly fun either way. A hunt’s a hunt.” He flashed the grin that had famously dazzled the entire female half of the royal court.
Eroll Leighton was one of the most useless men she knew. He’d never done a day’s work in his life, never attended Council meetings, probably didn’t even know how to remove his own boots. But, for all that, he still managed to be outrageously charming. He made her laugh, something precious few people in this world could do. He would chase sundogs to the ends of the worlds if he thought it would make her happy. And he would never ask a thing in return. As long as he stood beside her, she wasn’t alone.
“Thank you,” she said.
His grin turned saucy and he gave her a wink. He knew all too well he was a handsome, dashing devil.
Through the glass walls of the car, she could see Quinnon tromping out of the station and across the courtyard. He saw her and Eroll and deviated his path to pass between the newly uncoupled cars and join them.
“Lord Thyra.” He gave Eroll a nod, which was about the most obeisance he gave anyone, noble or not, then addressed Allara. “Time’s come. Which way do we go?”
She turned away from them both to face south.
Eroll was right. If the Gifted were farther south than Virere Ford, she could afford to let him wait. But if he were in the Thyra hills, if he were anywhere near that Koraudian troop, she had no time to waste. She had to get to him first, before they killed him or, worse, realized who he was and twisted him to their purposes.
She turned back. “We’ll ride out from here. Lord Eroll’s coming with us.”
Quinnon gnawed the inside of his mouth. “Leaving the train now means a long day’s ride yet. And if we find those Koraudians, we’re likely in for an ugly fight. You ready for that?”
“No.” She moved to the rear of the car to unlatch the horses’ ramp. “But since when has that ever mattered?”
