Taliesin glanced at Jaelle. “What do you think? Is this place safe?”
“No tavern is ever safe,” Jaelle said, “but I am hungry as well.”
“Then let’s go in. I have money.” Taliesin shook a small bag, and the coins jingled inside. Jaelle gave a nod and reined in her horse. The first to dismount and tie her horse, she waited for her friends at the tavern entrance. “I’ll go first,” Taliesin said. “Everyone keep quiet and stay together. I’ll do the ordering since my accent sounds similar to what’s spoken here.”
Taliesin pushed the doors open and walked inside, followed by her three friends. The tavern was dark, and the air smelled musty. Cobwebs hung from the rafters and straw littered the floor. Two men wearing traveling cloaks leaned against the bar and talked over tankards of ale, while a handful of farmers, seated at poorly-made tables, ate their late dinner. Taliesin picked a table in the corner and waited for Jaelle to slide along the bench before taking a seat herself. Wren collapsed on the bench and placed her head on her arms, which she had crossed on the table. She’d removed her scarf, and her short, black hair stuck out like the feathers of a bird. Rook leaned his spear against the wall, looked around to count the heads of the customers, then sat with his back to the table. Arms crossed, and silent as the grave, he kept his attention on the front door and clearly expected trouble to appear at any moment.
“Will you be eating, then?” The tavern keeper called. He was a thin man with a nose that slid from his face as if broken in a fight more than once. “We have fresh fish!”
“Sir, we would eat crumbs if that is all you had,” replied Taliesin. “Fish will do.”
“Well, I also have a shank of lamb, just off the spit,” he said. “It should suit you four; I know not everyone enjoys river fish. How about some ale to wash the dirt from your throats?”
At Taliesin’s nod, the man wiped his dirty hands across his apron, filled four tankards with ale, and brought them on a tray to the table. A young girl, about fourteen years of age, came out of the back room with a platter of leg of lamb, stewed vegetables, bread, cheese, and a carving knife that she placed on the table. She went to fetch plates and forks, returned within seconds, and set them on the table before returning to her duties in the kitchen. Taliesin looked at her dirty hands and wished for a place to clean up, but didn’t see any washroom, so she wiped them on her cloak.
“It won’t kill you to eat with dirty hands,” Jaelle said. She took the knife and cut into the lamb, carving it for them. Rook produced his own dagger and stabbed a potato, lifted it to his mouth, and stuffed it in. He made yummy sounds as he chewed. “Doesn’t he ever talk?” Jaelle asked.
“I suppose he will when he’s ready,” Taliesin said.
Wren lifted her tankard. “Rook comes from the Isle of Valen. He might not talk, but there is nothing wrong with his hearing. He has other ways of communicating; he speaks with his hands. I can translate for you. It’s easy to learn, so I can teach you, too, if you’d like.”
Rook turned and swung his long legs beneath the table. He studied Jaelle while he stabbed a piece of lamb with his dagger, chewed it thoughtfully, and drank the ale. Setting aside the knife, he gestured with his hands and conveyed to Jaelle that he, along with Wren and Taliesin, were members of Raven Clan. He pointed at himself and went through the story of his capture as a child, how he came to join Raven Clan, and how he felt about Wren. All this was conveyed to Jaelle with such ease she had no trouble following along and understanding Rook, and grew a new appreciation for the dark-skinned warrior. Reaching into her jacket, Jaelle drew out a deck of well-used Tareen Cards and spread them out on the table. Rook leaned forward and tapped a card with a long finger. Jaelle turned it over and smiled.
“The card of Love. I am not surprised,” Jaelle said. She pushed the card toward Wren. “You have no cause to worry, my friend. Rook loves you deeply.”
“I wasn’t worried. I know how Rook feels about me.”
“You are lucky. Most men lie.” Jaelle held her hand out toward the cards. “You pick one, Wren. Let us see what the future holds for you.”
Wren shook her head. “I’d rather not. The Tareen Cards frighten me.”
“They are but cards.” Jaelle took a sip of ale. “There is no reason to fear your future.”
“When you have visions such as I do, it is hard not to be fearful. I see so many terrible things, Jaelle. I’d rather not. I don’t want to know about my future.”
Reaching out impulsively, Taliesin picked a card and flipped it over. The figure of a skeleton riding a flaming skeleton horse was painted on the card. The word below the figure read DEATH. She turned the card over with a shaking hand and reached for her tankard. It was warm but tasted good. Jaelle explained the card represented more a death of old ways and bad habits than of impending doom, but Taliesin could only think of Roland being devoured by Wolfmen. Only Rook still seemed interested in the cards, and at Jaelle’s bidding, he selected two more.
“I’ll be back,” Taliesin said. “Service is poor, and I am thirsty.”
Taliesin stood and went to the bar to order another round. The two travelers at the bar looked at her, saying nothing as she paid in coin, but she noticed dark-blue tunics beneath their cloaks. Maldavians, she thought, probably soldiers. Trying not to give them any reason to question her, she turned her head and scratched her neck, trying to see if they wore greaves or carried swords. They had both. The bartender came over and slid a large pitcher of ale toward her. She grabbed it and turned just as a group of more cloaked figures walked into the tavern. Blue and black cloaks, and all were armed.
“Greetings, Your Grace! We are relieved you could join us,” a man said at the bar. “Sir Duroc and I have scouted ahead. We’ve seen no sign of Wolfgar or his pack.”
His companion added, “Lord Valesk assured us he’ll sweep the forest and have every Wolfman skinned by nightfall. Sir Gallus, give him the duke’s ring. A gift. Proof of his father’s loyalty. They weren’t hard to convince to join us when they heard you were nearby.”
A familiar figure stepped forward and pushed the dark-blue hood off his face. Taliesin’s eyes widened as she recognized Prince Sertorius, no longer dressed as a Knight of Chaos, but wearing Maldavian blue. She quickly lowered her head and was glad the hood did not fall from her face, for she did not wish to be recognized. She held the pitcher against her chest and veered away from the prince. Her escape seemed clean until his men stormed through the door, and briefly surrounded her as they made a hasty charge toward empty tables and benches. Jostled from all sides, Taliesin was spun around and she heard someone chuckle when she sloshed beer on the front of her leather bodice as she tried to get free.
The men made crude comments about where she’d spilt the ale, but before anyone dared to wipe her dry, Taliesin brushed by the men and returned to her table. Setting the pitcher aside, she sat with her back to the men.
“Do you know those men?” Jaelle said, refilling her tankard. “I see spurs. They must be knights. What Order do you think they are?”
“Knights of Chaos. They are dangerous,” Taliesin whispered. “Do not look at them, Jaelle. I don’t want them to question us.” Her heart, already pounding, quickened at the sound of approaching footsteps. She now regretted her hair was no longer black; it would have helped. A look of delight appeared on Wren’s face and Rook nodded, equally impressed by whoever stood behind her. Jaelle didn’t turn and Taliesin was grateful for that.
“Pardon me for interrupting, however, I could not help but notice you are Ghajaran,” a melodious, seductive voice said. “It’s interesting there are so few of you and no wagons. Three women and one man, well, that’s practically unheard of. Where is the rest of your tribe? Behind you? Ahead of you? Or are you on your own?”
Only one man possessed such a voice or talked in such an annoyingly arrogant manner. Taliesin knew without looking Prince Sertorius stood directly behind her. She smelled wood smoke and lamb and sweat and wonderful cologne. She caught herself sa
gging forward, remembering the boy, fearing the man, and shivered when he spoke.
“That’s our business,” Jaelle said. “Who wants to know?”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Prince Sertorius. I’d introduce you to my knights, but we left the squires and servants outside with the horses. To avoid rancor and jealously among my men, I would prefer you did not tarry long after your meal. Three beautiful women will only invite trouble. My men have not seen their wives and loved ones in a long time. I’m sure you ladies understand my problem.”
Taliesin said nothing but thought, `What a conceited lout. Handsome and horrible. I am quite certain no lady ever told him no, and I’m sure his men never stopped to ask before they forced themselves on a woman. His problem was he can’t control his men.’ She hoped he had said what he wanted and would return to his men; the bartender was bustling about to feed them all. She imagined the prince was hungry and tired, but the royal fool remained at their table. Someone walked over, gave the prince a tankard of ale, and returned to his comrades, leaving the prince to flirt.
“Perhaps you know the whereabouts of a certain young gypsy girl I briefly made the acquaintance of, only yesterday,” Sertorius said. “I’m sure I’ll never see her again, since I have traveled so many miles since meeting her, but when one meets a green-eyed, red-haired Ghajaran girl, it is hard to think of anything else. What is your name?”
“My name is Becca,” Wren said, with a flash of her teeth.
Taliesin groaned as the prince laughed and kissed the girl’s hand. Wren sat, her hand held to her cheek, and it was Jaelle’s turn to start to wiggle. Neither girl was fickle, yet that was precisely how they behaved. Prince Sertorius must possess a magical charm that caused women to act like idiots.
“The gypsy girl I met claimed to be the Shan’s fifth wife,” Sertorius said, gazing at Jaelle. “Her name was Jaelle. Wouldn’t it be a coincidence if that were your name? Surely, a girl like you has a lovelier name than Jaelle. Now wait—let me guess. Is it Shanna, Tywa, Ladeen, Mary, Pasinapa, or Angeline?”
“It’s not Pasinapa,” Jaelle said. “And there are many green-eyed girls in our tribe. I’ll remember to scratch out the eyes of the one pretending to be me. I am Jaelle, the one and only, and my father is the Shan.”
Taliesin felt like thumping Jaelle. The less the prince knew about them, the better chance they had of escaping. Any moment, he would question her and she’d be discovered the moment he saw her eyes.
“Well, I do get around,” the prince said, with a hearty chuckle.
Much to Taliesin’s horror, Jaelle immediately stood up, twisted to face the prince, leaned forward, and gave him a full view of her abundant cleavage. Sertorius was not the only man who stared or was lock-jawed and silent. A gloved finger touched the tip of Jaelle’s chin, turning her head ever so slightly as her knees buckled. She sank onto the bench and batted her long, black lashes at the prince. Taliesin wanted to kick her under the table.
“You are quite lovely, Jaelle,” Sertorius said, in his honey-smooth voice.
“Whoever gave you my name last night was obviously attempting to trick you. I’m sure it was Malaya. She dyes her hair bright yellow or orange and goes to the nearest town in hopes of catching a husband.”
“I met this girl in the Volgate. I pulled her out of a pool of water.”
“That couldn’t have been Malaya, then,” Jaelle said.
Taliesin couldn’t resist and kicked Jaelle in the leg. The girl let out a hiss, but fell silent when Sertorius drew his dagger. He grabbed Jaelle’s arm before she realized what was happening and pressed the knife to her throat. Wren pulled Rook to the table, while Taliesin tried to make herself look smaller by hunching over.
“As much as I am enjoying this little game, I have a feeling you know who I am talking about,” Sertorius said. “Tell your companion to remove her hood, Jaelle. Call her by name and tell her I wish to see her face.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as Jaelle helplessly stared at Taliesin and whimpered as the knife pressed against her throat. Taliesin stood and heard a voice in the back of her head. ‘Oh, don’t do that. Act as if you’re going to vomit and run out of the tavern. No one wants to question a girl puking out her guts.’
Without hesitation, Taliesin covered her mouth with her hand as if she was gagging, making it sound loud and convincing, and rushed to the door. Emitting horrible noises, she went out the door, aware men were laughing and pounding on the table with their forks and knives. But it was no better outside. A large group of men stood near their lathered horses, drinking from wine flasks, and watched as Taliesin went around the side of the building. Leaning against the building, she breathed slowly and tried to be calm. Minutes slid by with no sign of her friends, and her attention drifted to the squires and servants. No one had raised an alarm, but if her friends hadn’t followed, it was clear they were in trouble and needed help; she had to go back for them.
Taliesin lifted her chin and marched around the building, just as the door opened, and without missing a beat, she spun around and headed to Thalagar. Wren, Rook, and Jaelle hurried out of the tavern. Playing it cool, Taliesin busied herself making sure the cinch to Thalagar’s saddle was tight enough and waited until her friends approached before raising her head. A small figure slid around Thalagar and caught Taliesin’s arm.
“That was a close call,” Wren said. Despite the concern in her voice, she grinned. “How clever of you to fake you were getting sick. Jaelle told them your name is Agnes. Not a very nice name. The prince didn’t believe her at first, but when she told him you’re pregnant, he let us go. Jaelle told him we were meeting a larger group of gypsies at the border, where you will be turned over to the Djaran to repay a debt. The prince seemed to believe her, because he let her go and gave her a gold coin for scaring her.”
“I don’t look pregnant!” Taliesin grimaced. She’d spoken too loudly. “Why would the prince buy a stupid story like that? He has to know Jaelle was lying. He knows I’m the one he fished out of the pond last night. Best get on your horse. We need to leave right now.”
Rook and Jaelle walked to their horses. The burly Sir Barstow and Sir Morgrave, with his drooping mustache, followed on their heels. Wasting no time, Taliesin removed a bright scarf from Wren’s neck, tied it around her head, made certain her red hair was hidden, and went about fussing with her saddle.
“Don’t gawk. Get on your horse,” Taliesin said. “And do it now.” She climbed into the saddle and watched the girl run to the white mare. Rook came to help her, like he always did, but she climbed right into the saddle. He walked to his horse, a wounded expression on his face, mounted, and took hold of the silver spear he’d strapped to the front of the saddle. It was an expensive weapon, and Taliesin noticed a few squires admiring it.
“We must be going, Sir Barstow,” Jaelle said. “I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding. Please thank the prince again for being so gracious. We must meet the others before nightfall. Perhaps we’ll meet again one day.”
“Hold up,” Sir Barstow said. “We travel in the same direction. You may need our protection on the road.” He stuck his thumbs under an immense leather belt strapped around his tunic and chainmail. “You have but four hours to reach the river before sunset. If you don’t cross by then—if delayed for any reason—you will find the night comes with great danger.” His nearby companions nodded and grunted in response. “See, even my brothers-at-arms know it is not safe at the border at night. There is safety in numbers. I can’t let you ride off on your own. You’re such a pretty thing. Stay a while longer.”
“Ride with us, Becca,” Morgrave said, though he looked right at Taliesin. She made an ugly face. He was far more threatening than Sir Barstow. In his thirties, Morgrave was in his prime. “You have no idea what lurks out there, waiting to devour Agnes’ unborn child. Wolfmen have been on our trail for days.”
“She has a man,” Sir Barstow said. “Leave her be, Morgrave. You have a better chance with
the pregnant woman than with a virgin. Come to think of it, Agnes doesn’t look pregnant to me. How many months does she have to wait? Riding a horse will certainly jar the baby around, and no one is that stupid to ride when they’re that far along.”
Taliesin hugged her arms around her middle stuck out her gut, trying to look fat, and kept her head down, not looking directly at the knights. Trying to play her part well, Taliesin said, “Two months,” making her voice sound deep. Sir Morgrave and Sir Barstow stared at her and their hands dropped to the hilts of their swords. She saw in their eyes an unusual blend of malice and fear.
“We must be going, gentle sirs.” Wren rode between the two knights and Taliesin, and offered a sweet smile. “Don’t rush the prince—he’s tired. Let him rest a while longer. I’m sure we won’t meet any Wolfmen on the road. We’ll be fine, I assure you.”
“Farewell,” Jaelle said, pulling on her reins.
“Remember me, dear Jaelle.” Barstow puffed out his chest as she rode by.
With a quick tap of her heels, Taliesin set her horse into a canter. She rode right by her friends, away from the armed men, and onto the road. She heard her friends following and let out a sigh of relief that ended the moment she spotted a black bird flying across the road ahead. She hated omens. A black raven crossing in front of a rider meant danger ahead. To someone in the Raven Clan, it should be a good omen, but Taliesin had heard it said too many times by others not of her clan. When they were half a mile from the tavern, the gypsy girl let out a shout and kicked her horse, hard. Thalagar and Jaelle’s horse broke into a gallop. Rook and Wren kept up behind, pushing themselves and their horses. Their horses ran for several miles until, at last, Taliesin slowed Thalagar to a trot.
“You think they are following us?” Jaelle said. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d met Prince Sertorius last night and gave him my name? I hate the prince, and I hate that type of man. In general, I hate men, but that Sir Barstow is a beast. As if I’d consider bedding him.”
Seeker of Magic Page 29
