by Byron Preiss
Once across, they paused while Hawkwind emptied his boots of the water that had poured in over the tops, and dried his feet on his cloak. Then they proceeded. The passage now wound steeply upward, and fresh cold air blew down on them, making the torch flicker.
They came out of the passageway into a vast, hollow cup of rock. They were in one of the huge eye sockets of the skull-shaped rock. Far below them, spread out in a panorama of black velvet, was the Strait of Balomar. Cottony streamers of fog and mist entwined about the cliffs’ spires, and they could see occasional phosphorescent bursts of plankton in the waves, like stars exploding. The breakers sounded like faint, faraway drums. The sky overhead was clear, and the half-moon was low in the west, illuminating the distant fog-shrouded cliffs of Fandora.
“It is not the best night for viewing,” Hawkwind said. “Still, we might see something.” He pulled a spyglass from his belt and held it up to his eye.
“What do you see?” Ceria asked after she felt he had made her wait long enough.
“Very little. The moon is bright, but the fog is thick. I can see no sign of any activity.”
“Yet the Northwealdsman insists that a Fandoran ship was seen in the waters,” Ceria mused.
“Perhaps a fishing vessel, carried over by the currents and wind,” Hawkwind said. “Much of this would be cleared up if there were more contact between our two lands. The strait’s treacherous waters have prevented it, but still, it should be. It is something I wish to initiate.”
There was a sound behind them—a footfall on stone. Hawkwind turned quickly. Ceria saw the movement. He does expect something, she thought.
A guard emerged. He was panting as though he had run through the passages. “Monarch Hawkwind,” he gasped. “Two men are passing on horseback in the woods nearby! They stopped for a moment, and I overheard them speaking. They had the accents of Northwealdsmen.”
Hawkwind handed the torch to him. “Stay with the Lady Ceria,” he said. “I will question them.” Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he hurried down the passageway.
“But it is black as the mines in those tunnels!” the guard said to Ceria. “How will he find his way through them without his torch?”
“He will,” she answered.
Hawkwind emerged from the crack in the rock, startling Lathan, who held the horses. “The Northwealdsmen—we shall catch them!” he said. “Show me their way!”
“But . . . my liege!” stammered Lathan. “They ride stallions of the Northweald—we cannot hope to overtake them!”
“We shall overtake them,” Hawkwind said. His hawk circled over his head; then, as he leaped upon his horse, it flew ahead of him, toward the forest. Lathan mounted and started after Hawkwind, but the Monarch’s mount seemed itself like a hawk in flight. It leaped away through the concealing wall of the forest and was gone. Lathan, clinging close to his horse’s neck, feeling branches and vines lash at him in the dark, had time to wonder just how Hawkwind could ride so swiftly and surely through a forest in the black of night.
* * *
Willen had met his compatriot from the Northweald at their prearranged rendezvous, just at sunset. Willen said nothing of his meeting with Evirae, though her words had been tumbling about in his head constantly. He told his companion that he had been late simply because things had become more involved than he had anticipated. His companion, whose name was Tweel, pressed him about the confrontation with Hawkwind, and Willen angrily told him to leave off until he had had a chance to order his thoughts. They had ridden in stiff silence for a time after that, while the sun went down and darkness filled the woods.
The fog and ground mist thickened, shrouding the trees. After a time, Willen, feeling that he owed Tweel some word of explanation, reined up and said, “There is much news to tell. Most of it must wait until we return to the Northweald, but I can tell you this entire matter encompasses more than we had imagined. Much more.”
“In that case,” Tweel said, “we had better ride all night. We are near the sea now—I can hear the breakers and smell the salt on the night air. If we strike north at a steady pace, we will reach the Northweald by dawn.”
They put boots to their mounts and settled into an easy canter that the horses could keep up all night. They had not done so for long, however, before Willen became aware of a strange sound rising above the regular beat of the hooves. At first he thought it was his imagination. Then he thought it the wind. It grew louder, more insistent—a high, keening sound. He looked about him as they rode. The trees rose like giant grasping fingers in the fog. Vines seemed to curl and twine like huge vipers coiled in the trees. Then suddenly there was an explosion of air about his face, and a shriek in his ears. The world tilted as his horse shied, and it was good fortune that Willen did not find himself thrown in the bushes. He hung on grimly, and managed to control the animal’s panicked flight with difficulty. He saw that Tweel was in similar straits. Willen caught a glimpse of something dark, swooping against the stars. At first he thought it was a huge bat; then he realized that it was a hawk, wheeling about the horses’ heads with claws extended.
At the same time, he saw a rider on a large black horse burst through the fog and forest like a slow shattering of glass. Willen caught his breath—a bandit perhaps, or a Rayan?
Then the moon illuminated the intruder’s face, and the Northwealdsman gasped as he recognized the Monarch of Simbala.
The hawk flew back to circle above the oncoming rider. Willen glanced at Tweel; his companion was as pale as the fog when Hawkwind reined up. His face was like marble in the moonlight. He looked at Willen. “I gave you leave to return straightaway to the Northweald. There is a good reason, I presume, why I should not have you taken back to the prisons of Overwood.”
Willen glanced at Tweel, then back at Hawkwind. Such was the Monarch’s authority that Willen was on the verge of confessing why he had been delayed—but then he remembered his pledge to Princess Evirae. He was not at all sure who was to be trusted in this alien world of political intrigue, but he was a trustworthy man, a man who kept his word.
“I had business of my own to attend to,” he said, and was relieved that his voice had once again remained steady. He kept his eyes on Hawkwind, with no idea of what would happen next.
At this point, Lathan joined them, and stared at the scene before him. Though he had heard none of the dialogue, still he could feel the tension between Hawkwind and the two Northwealdsfolk.
Hawkwind stared at Willen; Willen swallowed, but returned the gaze steadily. Tweel was silent. He was acutely aware that Hawkwind was within his right to have them both imprisoned for Willen’s refusal to answer.
“I will ask you again,” said Hawkwind. “Why have you remained in the forest?”
“As I said, I had business.” Then, somewhat lamely Willen added, “I was also detained by royal guards, until I convinced them that I had your guarantee of safe passage. Also, I became lost in the woods, and had trouble meeting my companion.”
“A Northwealdsman, lost in the woods?” Hawkwind asked skeptically. “This I find hard to believe.”
“Nevertheless, that is my answer,” Willen said.
For a moment the tableau held—Hawkwind, the hawk now upon his shoulder, glaring down at Willen; the Monarch’s black steed moving restlessly about, snorting, its hooves stamping the ground fog into tiny writhing tendrils of mist. The moon began to impale itself on the black silhouettes of treetops to the east. At last Hawkwind spoke. “Very well. I will not force you to tell me. Doubtless you have your reasons for refusing. Both of you may go.”
Shocked and relieved, Tweel and Willen lost no time in turning their mounts toward the north. As they disappeared into the mist and the trees, Hawkwind turned to Lathan. “Follow them,” he said softly. “Even if it takes you all the way to the Northweald. Follow and learn what you can, and return to me by tomorrow eve.”
With no further words, Hawkwind reared his horse and rode away. Lathan watched him leave, floating t
hrough the mist like a dark ghost, and the chill he feit was not caused entirely by the cold night air.
* * *
It was quite late at night, and few lights burned in the windows of Simbala’s homes. In the bedchamber of the tree castle of Prince Kiorte and Princess Evirae, an oil lamp, fashioned from a huge faceted geode, sat in a niche carved from the living wall. It illuminated the bedchamber—a small and private room, reached by spiral stairwell. The bed’s oiled wooden frame fitted snugly on one side of the room, its canopy covered by a green tangle of pintala vines. Occasionally one of the fragrant pods on the vines would burst with a soft sigh, adding a pleasant, subtle fragrance to the room.
Evirae lay among the furs and silks that covered the bed. She stared at Kiorte, who stood looking out of a window formed by a huge knothole. Evirae tapped her nails against each other nervously, with a sound like crackling leaves. Her hair, no longer bound up in the impressive style she wore by day, fell about her in tangled red tresses, covering as much of the bed as the furs did. She took a deep breath, as though to say something, but no words were spoken. Instead, after a moment, it was Kiorte who spoke.
“I asked you a question, Evirae,” he said softly. “Why will you not tell me what you discussed with the Northwealdsman?”
Evirae said, “I intended to tell you, Kiorte.” To herself she thought: Carefully, now, very carefully. He knows much, somehow.
“Did you,” Kiorte said dryly. It was not a question.
“Yes, I did. I merely wanted to question him further about his problem; since you and I are members of the Royal Family, I felt we needed to know of it.”
“It is admirable that you have taken such an interest in the affairs of the Northweald, Evirae. Especially since last week you professed an inability to understand why Lady Graydawn would want to live among such . . . ‘animals,’ I believe was the term?”
“Kiorte! How can you say such a thing? It was the death of the child that touched me.”
“I was not aware that you cared for children any more than you cared for the Wealdsfolk—but we shall let that pass. I still cannot rid myself of the suspicion that if one of my windships had not chanced to pass over the bower where you had your meeting, I would have heard nothing of it from you. I know you, Evirae. Schemes come to you like eagles to an eyrie. There is something mysterious going on, and I know you have a part in it. Will you tell me, or must I find out on my own?”
Receiving no answer, he turned and looked at her. She glared at him in return and said, “If you intend to treat me like a scullery servant who has stolen the silverware, then I have nothing at all to say to you!” She turned away from him and faced the wall. Kiorte noted how she exposed one leg provocatively, as an incentive for him to forget the argument.
Kiorte sighed. Although he loved Evirae, he showed it in the same cool way that he exhibited all degrees of affection. There was no passion, no spontaneity. He knew this and viewed it not as a fault, but as befitting his position and profession. Kiorte’s dedication was reserved for the Brothers of the Wind and for Simbala.
Evirae watched her husband anxiously, not daring to push her words of rejection further. She had put too many lies between them already, and she had little understanding of how to repair their marriage with truth. Trust implied a surrender of the upper hand in their relationship, and this was something Evirae could not accept. She would have to wait for him to come to her. If she could not control Simbala, then at least she would control her husband.
To Evirae’s surprise, Kiorte walked across their room to the stairwell and descended it. The stairs spiraled down through a richly carved ceiling to the main hall of the tree that housed them. Kiorte took his cloak from a guard at the foot of the stairs and walked out the door.
Evirae rolled over in bed. At times like this, she regretted her long nails—they made it difficult to clench her fists. She pounded the flats of her palms against the silken sheets, and then was quiet, listening hopefully for the sound of her husband’s return.
It did not come.
She was angry and upset, but more than that, she was worried. Evirae had never been sure of Kiorte’s affection, had often thought that it came largely out of a feeling of pride in being wed to the Princess of Simbala. Marriage in the Overwood was a mutual decision, but in the Royal Family it was often a question of politics. As Princess, Evirae had been free to select whomever she had wanted. To the Family’s surprise, it had been solemn Kiorte. The only time she had ever seen him really smile was at the helm of his windship. He was aloof from the Family and from the politics within it. That very quality had attracted her to him. She equated it with incorruptibility. Aside from Monarch Ephrion, Evirae viewed Kiorte as the only man in the Royal Family who could not be swayed by her charms. It made keeping the upper hand a challenge to her.
She lay there on the bed, feeling like a lonely child. Kiorte did not understand the importance of what she was doing! She had been denied what was rightfully hers—the Ruby of Simbala; she had been passed by in favor of a commoner! She felt the blood begin to pound in her temples at the thought of it. The indignity! The pain! To walk down one of the tree-lined lanes of Simbala and know that women laughed behind their fans at her, that men chuckled and made jokes about her status! Evirae, Princess of Simbala, denied her Queenship by a miner! She could not allow the farce to continue. She would have Hawkwind removed from the throne, she would feel the weight of the Ruby on her own forehead, and then . . . She was not sure. Things would take care of themselves. She would be the new ruler of Simbala, and she would see that everyone jumped when she spoke.
Then suddenly she sat upright, scattering the furs and silks to the floor. Through the open window she had heard the tread of boots upon the steps outside. Kiorte was returning! Hurriedly she threw a robe about herself and rushed down the stairs. She would show him how contrite she was, how much she was sorry. Then, with his masculine pride assuaged, perhaps he would forget about her conversation with the Northwealdsman until she was ready to tell him the truth.
She waved the doorman away and opened the massive door. Yet it was not Kiorte who stood there, knuckles raised to knock on the wood. She paused in astonishment, staring at a windrider who held a sealed envelope. He looked at her, disconcerted. Evirae tugged her robe tighter about her.
“Yes?” she said haughtily.
“Your pardon, lady. I have a message for Prince Kiorte . . . ”
“I will accept it for him. He is . . . indisposed at the moment.”
The windshipman, a young lad with tousled hair, blinked in confusion. “Beg pardon, but the captain said to give this only to the Prince.”
She drew herself up, and her green eyes froze him with the glare that she did so well. “I am the Princess Evirae, if it has escaped your notice! Are you refusing to give the message to me?”
“No, milady, of course not.” He handed it hastily to her; she tore it open and stepped inside to read it, saying, “Bide a moment,” over her shoulder.
When she had finished, she stood quite still for a time, not daring to believe such luck as this had come her way. It is destiny, she said to herself. Obviously destiny. I am meant to rule Simbala—else why should so fortuitous a circumstance have put this information in my hands?
She sat down at a small writing desk and penned a note on a sheet of vellum. She sealed it with a drop of candle wax and the signet of her ring, and gave it to the messenger.
“Return this to the captain,” she said. “Tell him I know of this affair. It is Prince Kiorte’s wish that the Fandoran captured in the strait be transferred to the location specified.”
The messenger bowed and left. Evirae tugged on a bell pull, then sat down and dipped the quill in the inkwell once more. She wrote feverishly. A moment later, an aide entered the room. Evirae sealed the letter and handed it to him.
“Take this to Baron Tolchin immediately,” she said. “See that it reaches him—wake him up if you have to—and tell Mesor I wish to see him
at once.”
When the aide had gone, she sat hugging her knees for joy, but the joy was soured somewhat by the knowledge that her husband had not returned.
* * *
The troops from Borgen Town had camped for the night outside Durbac Town. A shortage of supplies had caused much dissatisfaction, especially from the scoundrels Tenniel had recruited when it seemed that Borgen Town would be short its quota.
A large brigand named Grend, with one ear missing and a huge black beard, approached Tenniel. “Not enough food!” he complained. “We are hungry!”
“Every man was to pack what he could comfortably carry for the journey,” said Tenniel. “What happened?”
The brigand smiled a toothless smile. “We had nothing to pack.”
Tenniel felt he could not assail Grend for his poverty, so he looked westward to Durbac Town. “I suppose we must requisition supplies from that village, then.”
Grend smiled again, as at a private joke.
Tenniel led the troops to Durbac Town. They were greeted in the main square by a crowd of women of all ages, and several old men. “What do you want here?” a tall, spare, gray-haired woman asked firmly. She wore a faded but clean shift. Tenniel hesitated—he was unsure how to begin. “Where are the Elders?” he asked finally. “I must speak with them.”
“Two have gone to war,” the woman replied. “Iben, the third, came down sick yesterday. I am his wife, Vila. I am in charge now.”
Several of the men behind Tenniel murmured in astonishment or snickered. A woman in charge of a town? It took Tenniel a moment to comprehend this.
“We need food,” he said foolishly.
“So do we,” Vila replied. “You should have left with more provisions. Return to your own town and restock.”
