Thus far there was no trouble, and all the signs of human passage in the lands surrounding them were old. Perhaps the goddess Lianna was watching over him?
He hadn’t told the witch Lianna the whole of the goddess’ myth; he wondered if she knew it. Each spring, it was said, Lianna came down to earth to do battle with her half-brother Umbar, who claimed dominion over the world during the winter months. The sheer force of their confrontation shook the very ground men stood upon, and the northlands resounded with the agonized groans of Umbar’s ice as it was split into shards by the convulsions of the earth beneath and carried away in pieces by chill, swift-running rivers. Yet even so Lianna’s triumph was not complete, for the earth was still cold, and in the end she must come to her half-brother’s bed and seduce him, so that the heat of their passion might warm the earth, and allow the bright summer sun to claim the sky for a season.
Personally, Andovan suspected that the god of winter had long ago resigned himself to his yearly defeat, and kept up the fight at this point simply because it won him the lady’s sexual favors . . . but that was another story.
What a mystery this mortal Lianna was! How she obsessed him, in the hours they traveled! And when he finally heard Netando make mention of her witchery the force of his obsession trebled. Who was she, really? Why was she part of this odd company? At first he had thought that she was somehow connected to the mystery of his illness, but no, his gut instinct assured him that was not the case. Wouldn’t Colivar’s spell have alerted him if it were? Then for a short while he had thought that she and Netando might be lovers (and he’d felt a surprising spark of jealousy over the matter), but now that he’d had a chance to observe them more closely he did not think that was so either. Did she have an interest in Andovan? His masculine ego would have been happy to believe it, but he was never quite sure. Not that there weren’t moments he knew such a thing was on her mind. He could tell it by the brief flash of heat in her eyes when she spoke to him, the lingering of her touch upon his arm, and the thousand and one other nuances of a woman’s desire that an attractive young prince learned to read at an early age. Yet, just as clearly, no door was being opened for him. She might spark his interest with a brief hint of fire, but then it was as quickly gone, and all the walls of her spirit were like fortified steel again.
She had been hurt badly, at least once. He had seen it before in women and knew the signs. And if his guess about the child in the Third Moon was right, and this witch had also been manhandled at a young age . . . it was little wonder she did not trust men. Or take lightly the thought of bedding one of them.
That in itself was enticing, in a strange and somewhat disturbing way. He had grown up in a world where women were easy conquests, if not falling for his masculine charms outright, then to the dual seductions of wealth and power that he embodied. He could probably have bedded any woman he chose, save perhaps those princesses of such high rank that their marital favors could alter the fates of nations . . . and even in those cases there was often room to maneuver, providing the outward signs of chastity remained undisturbed.
Yet here was a woman he could not even court openly as a woman, lest he be labeled a sodomite . . . a woman who was clearly intrigued by him, but not necessarily in a way he comprehended or desired . . . a woman who had been injured in the past, so that one wrong move might cause her to withdraw into herself, behind such barriers as no mere prince could ever breach. It was all strangely enticing. Energizing, even. It even seemed to him that when she touched him something of his accustomed strength flowed back into his limbs, and his skin tingled with a mysterious heat. Was that witchery? Or just his overactive imagination? All he knew was that he had not had any real interest in a woman since his illness had begun, and feeling all those instincts come alive again inside him was like emerging from a dark, dank cave into the blinding light of day.
Not that he had much of a chance to explore such possibilities. She apparently did not know how to ride, and so established a perch for herself upon the driver’s seat of Netando’s own carriage, from which she commanded a view of the entire caravan. When the scouts were being briefed she caught Andovan’s eye, and an enigmatic smile hinted at secrets that might be revealed if only there were a private place to share such things. But there wasn’t, and she knew it. Maddening.
They spent the first day traveling hard, making progress as quickly as they could through the rocky foothills, anxious to reach the heights before nightfall. The road grew narrower and steeper by the hour, and the air grew colder as well as they moved up into higher latitudes. After the stifling heat of the shoreline, it was a relief to all but the black-skinned Durbanas, who gathered cloaks around themselves tightly and muttered invectives about the “northlands.” As if they had any real idea what the northlands were truly like, Andovan thought.
Thus far there was no real danger of ambush, as the terrain did not favor concealment, but Netando was not a man to take chances, and so Andovan and the other scouts were ordered to ride on ahead of the party, spreading out on all sides to inspect the nearby terrain while the caravan laboriously followed. The road was precarious and narrow and bent back on itself more times than Andovan cared to count, but the scouts on their horses forged directly up the slope and thus secured the heights well before the rest of the caravan caught up to them. There they rested, surrounded by the charred circles of dozens of past campfires, and the ruins of an inn which had apparently been burned to the ground after its owner was caught passing information on to the bandits of the region. The ruins had been left in their current state as a warning to those who might follow him, which was all very well and good as a dramatic statement but it did not make for convenient traveling. A caravan entering the highlands in summertime was hard pressed to make it to the first shelter along the route by sunfall; a caravan in any other season would not stand a chance of it.
How beautiful the sunset was, viewed from the crest of the mountains! Here there was no screen of trees to mask the horizon, only barren, windswept ridges, over whose western edge the full glory of the sun god’s descent could be appreciated. It was much more stunning than the view approaching Gansang. Or perhaps he had simply not bothered to appreciate the beauty of Gansang’s sunsets, with Colivar’s spells driving him to distraction. Now . . . either those spells were gone or they had somehow been transformed into a subtler power that was satisfied to see him moving in the right direction without the need for constant prodding. That should be a relief to him. Shouldn’t it? Or was his strange attraction to the redhead “boy” witch making him lose sight of his true purpose?
Colivar said his spell would guide me for as long as I needed it. If it has faded now, then I no longer need it. Which means my quarry is likely in Sankara, or somewhere on the route there. So I am heading in the right direction.
What if his quarry was the Witch-Queen herself? Now that was a chilling thought. Colivar had assured him she was not the one behind his sickness, but Colivar was his father’s enemy and could only be trusted so far. The political tension between Danton and Siderea was well known, as was Danton’s hunger to extend his influence into the prosperous Free Lands, and the latter’s determination to keep him out. Could the Witch-Queen have used her power to weaken Andovan as part of some byzantine plot to bring Danton down? Or perhaps simply to distract him, so that he wasted his royal energies seeking a cure for his son instead of plotting the annexation of Sankara?
If so, Andovan would know it as soon as he saw her. He was sure of that now. He remembered how strong Colivar’s power had been outside Gansang, the last time his quarry was close by, and had no doubt that when the day came when he actually stood before the source of his disease he would recognize her instinctively, as certainly as a salmon knew the pool in which it was spawned.
And then what? he wondered.
It was still a long way to Sankara. There would be plenty of time to come up with a plan before he got there, he told himself. Though it made his blood run cold to t
hink that his adversary might not only command witchery, but political power as well. Still he was a prince himself, and not without his resources if he chose to reclaim them, and once he knew who and what he was fighting he could make the appropriate choices.
The sun was nearly gone by the time they reached their destination, and Andovan’s strength was nearly gone as well. The inn Netando had brought them to was a far cry from a warm, welcoming lodge like the Third Moon. This stone hostel was perched on the crest of a bare granite ridge overlooking a cliffside so steep that only a few scraggly bushes had managed to cling to its surface. A wide stone wall with a fortified gate secured the southern side of the property, but only that side; in all other directions the ground was so treacherous that approach by armed men would have been all but impossible.
Nevertheless, Andovan took note of the high watch-tower that commanded a view of the entire crest and its surroundings, and a low, crenellated barricade running along the cliff’s edge, which would offer protection for archers should they be required.
That the caravan was expected was obvious. A servant opened the heavy gate for them as soon as their name was given, and Netando showed some papers to the armed men who guarded it. After a moment they waved the whole company into the courtyard, and horse by horse, wagon by wagon, the company passed between the narrow gates.
Inside was a courtyard flanked by stables and barracks, clearly designed to accommodate such groups as this. The hostel itself was built out of stone, and seemed to rise out of the granite slabs beneath it like some natural protrusion. With his father’s eye Andovan assessed its defensive capacity, and nodded his approval to see the slate tiles that guarded its roof, the narrow windows that faced the courtyard, and a pair of main doors heavy enough to keep all but the most determined intruders from entering. The owners did not expect trouble to breach the outer wall, but if it did, they were prepared to deal with it. Andovan was willing to bet there were siege tunnels as well, probably ending up somewhere far down the side of that cliff, out of sight of the walled property.
All of which did not come cheaply. He saw Netando and Ursti turn over sizeable purses to the owner, who accepted them without counting their contents. Of course. No experienced merchant would dare to cheat this man, not if he wanted such shelter available to him on future journeys.
Then he tried to dismount from his horse, and that took enough effort that everything else faded from view. He nearly stumbled when he hit the ground and was forced to lean against the animal’s flank for a brief moment, catching his breath, before he could move on.
Be grateful for small things, he told himself. You did not black out during the ride. You still have enough strength to stand upright. You made a reasonable show of strength while out on patrol, so that the others will not know you for the sickly, pitiful creature you are.
He managed to get through the motions of stabling his mount, though his feet were so numb that he stumbled several times. Someone said something about food being laid out in the main building soon. Someone else said something about a billet being provided for him in the barracks. It was all a blur.
Then she walked by, and somehow his stubborn Aurelius pride managed to stiffen his backbone enough that for a brief moment he looked like the hearty and healthy young man he was pretending to be.
“The heat has faded, it seems.” Her smile was a thing of shadows and secrets.
“Some heat never fades,” he responded, and he managed to keep what he hoped was an equally enigmatic smile upon his face until she had passed him by and disappeared into the inn . . . at which point he would have fallen to the ground had not a passing Durbana caught him by the arm and held him upright.
“Taste for boys, eh?” The guard’s grin gleamed whitely in the gathering darkness; the sweet scent of sardo root spiced his breath. “Or only witches?”
Before Andovan could get over his surprise and answer, another guard clapped that one on the shoulder. “What do you care? I hear your father sodomizes pigs.”
“I hear your mother suckles them.”
“I’m all right,” Andovan told them. “Really.”
The black man snorted. “Demons feed on liars, s’maar. You look like death. Go sleep for an hour, you will thank me. Food will not come for at least that long.”
He had other things to do, he wanted to say. A woman to follow. Enticements to whisper. A private corner to be found somewhere where he and she could talk quietly, without half the caravan gathering round to listen and make ribald jokes about it.
But even thinking about doing those things made his head hurt. The man was right. He needed to rest a bit before doing anything else. An hour would do it.
Somehow he found the place he had been assigned to sleep, and the worn straw mattress that had been set aside for him. Then he lay down and shut his eyes and finally, gratefully, surrendered to exhaustion.
Someone woke him up later in the night to bring him food and drink. One of the black men. He couldn’t see which one it was, in the darkness, but he was grateful.
He dreamed strange dreams in which he was surrounded by men from the caravan. He was standing naked among them, but no one seemed to notice. For some odd reason that pleased him.
He did not awaken again until morning.
It was wet and dreary when they left the next day, with a fine mist that hung heavy in the air, soaking everything that was exposed to it. Kamala thought Netando might ask her to banish it, which would have put her in the awkward position of refusing his first request. Ethanus had taught her to have a healthy respect for the long-term ramifications of weather-work, and besides, no real witch would be willing to expend the kind of energy it took to banish rain, especially just to make traveling more comfortable. But apparently Netando understood that, for though he looked pointedly at the dismal landscape ahead and then at her, as if giving her the opportunity to volunteer her services, he said nothing about it.
In such conditions the scouts and the guards had less than perfect visibility, so Kamala took up her station beside the driver of Netando’s coach rather than inside, where it was dry. She could have caused the rain to pass to either side of the coach, leaving her and the driver protected, but again, no real witch would waste her power like that. So she settled for a subtle spell to keep the wool of her cloak dry while she drew the hood forward over her head, a one-time application of sorcery that was minimal in its cost, and focused her special senses on the road ahead.
Talesin looked miserable, though he was trying hard to hide it. The dreary weather seemed to sap his energy even more than usual, and she could see what a strain it was for him to maintain a façade of strength in front of the other guards. She had wanted to take him aside the night before and seek the cause of his weakness—there were few things she could not cure for him, if she set her mind to it—but Fate had been unobliging. Tonight, she promised him silently. Whatever your illness is, I will find the cause and deal with it. She owed him that much for the little girl he had saved . . . especially now that she understood he had not been strong enough to defend himself in the Third Moon, should any of the men have chosen to challenge him. It was, all things considered, a rather remarkable display of courage.
He was not a man used to being weak, she guessed that much. He had the instinctive body language of one who was accustomed to his own strength and took that strength for granted. She was intrigued by the contradictory mystery of it, and oddly pleased by the sparkle in his eye as he touched a finger to his forehead in leave-taking as a gentleman might, before riding off into the mists ahead. Why had he not sought her out the night before? Had she misread his intentions? She had waited for hours to see him, had stayed up long into the night amid interminable tales of battles won and financial markets conquered, just on the chance he might come to the inn to find her, but he never appeared. Later she took a walk in the courtyard to see if he was there, in the shadows, but the shadows were empty, too.
She could not ask after him without
revealing more about the two of them than she wanted the others to know, so in the end she had simply retired to the room she’d been assigned. There were several other men from the company in it. Netando had seemed less than certain she would accept that, but she knew the hostel was being strained to capacity by the double caravan, and besides, it meant very little to her who was sleeping in what room. She had wrapped such spells around her person that the others would persist in seeing her as a boy even if she suckled a babe in front of them. She even tested the matter by taking off all her clothes and standing in the middle of the room when it was her turn at the wash basin. One of the men made a crude joke about the pubic hair of young men—it made no sense to her but was clearly some kind of traditional male humor—but no one else even looked at her twice. It was an odd rush of power to fool them so easily, trivial but pleasing.
In the morning there was no chance to seek out a private rendezvous, only time to eat, cast a quick divining to see if anything was waiting outside the gates to devour them (nothing was), and then each man took up his station again, with her at one end of the company and Talesin at the other.
They followed a road along the crest of the ridge for several hours, while ahead of them the thickening mist obscured any sight of the coming terrain. After a time Netando ordered the scouts in close, knowing there was not much that human eyes could accomplish in such a fog. Witchery was another thing. Kamala knew from the maps Netando had shown her that they would soon be flanked by steep mountains, at which point their road would turn downward, into a network of valleys and seasonal riverbeds that connected the few navigable passes. It was in this region that the danger of assault was highest, particularly in those narrow passages where the caravan must spread out thinly, and where the danger of flash floods was as pressing in this season as any threat bandits had to offer. Checking for floods was an easy thing for her, as the one that might threaten them in an afternoon was clearly in the making that morning, and might easily be detected. Not so with human intentions. Divination was the most difficult of all the sorcerous arts, as one could only foresee the possible outcome of fates that had already been set in motion, but she made a good show of it. If someone was planning to strike at Netando’s caravan in specific, and had made plans accordingly, she might be able to catch wind of that. If it was anything less specific she was not so sure . . . but there was no reason Netando had to know that.
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