by Byron Preiss
Ephrion squeezed the young man’s arm. “She is coming,” he said. “Please remember her position. Now is not the time to antagonize the Family.”
“The Family cares little for my opinions,” Hawkwind replied grimly, “as Evirae is quick to remind us.”
A few moments later he turned and ascended the steps to await the Princess. As he did, he spied her silk-draped palanquin, carried by four aides. There was respectful applause from the crowd as it approached the hill.
* * *
Down in the marketplace, Mesor was worried. He walked uneasily next to the palanquin, awaiting a message from Evirae. He still had no idea if Hawkwind had learned about the Fandoran spy. Evirae’s demand for the public meeting had already angered Hawkwind, and if the Monarch had any evidence against Evirae, she and Mesor would both be subject to arrest.
The palanquin started to turn from him then, cutting a path through the crowd. As it did, Mesor glimpsed Evirae’s long nails holding back a curtain on one side. He hurried closer. “Take care of the men,” Evirae whispered, “and watch carefully for any evidence of my husband’s agents.” Mesor nodded, and the palanquin bobbed toward the back steps of the hill.
Hawkwind turned to the crowd. Evirae would be joining him shortly. He did not have to raise his voice to call for attention. There was a silence of anticipation in the square already.
Despite his efforts to remain calm, Hawkwind viewed this latest stunt by Evirae with growing anger. It had no purpose but to agitate the people of Overwood just when he most needed their support. There were problems enough already—the murder of the child, the flooding of the mines—he had no time to spend on petty rivalry between Princess and Monarch. Yet it was for that purpose that he was here, for he knew he dared not leave Evirae to address the merchants alone with whatever plot she had planned. The charges of the Northwealdsman had done enough damage. Hawkwind could use this meeting as an opportunity to reassure the citizens of Simbala on that score, at least.
Evirae mounted the steps at the back of the hill. He acknowledged her with a formal smile. She would have the first opportunity to speak. In that way, he could answer any claims she would make to the crowd.
Hawkwind extended his arm, as if to give Evirae right of passage. She ignored him and walked quickly to the podium.
Hawkwind sighed. There is nothing, he told himself again, that she can do to change the truth.
Evirae looked out over the crowd. Her long painted nails glistened in the sunlight. She did not smile. “My people,” she said dramatically, “I bring news of importance to all of Simbala.”
Hawkwind arched his brow and waited.
“Our forest is in danger!” she said. “The Northwealdsman spoke the truth at the Dais of Beron. The murder of the child will not be the last unless measures are quickly taken to protect us—measures which Hawkwind refuses to consider!”
A gasp went up from the crowd.
“The Fandorans are attacking!” Evirae shouted. “War has been declared against Simbala! We must act now to defend ourselves!”
Evirae glanced back to get Hawkwind’s reaction, but he had turned in anger to Ephrion at the foot of the stairs. “She would not dare!” Hawkwind whispered.
From Ephrion came the answer: “She already has.”
Hawkwind started forward to challenge Evirae, but she waved an arm imperiously in his direction. “Wait,” she said grandly; “your turn will come.”
Before he could answer, Evirae resumed her speech to the crowd.
“Hawkwind knows that Simbala is in danger. He has known this since the Wealdsman’s tragedy was told at the Dais of Beron. Yet he has done little since. Why, I do not know, but his attitudes and background are, after all, somewhat . . . different. In this time of emergency we cannot afford the subtleties of political maneuvering. We must rush to action. I have risked both my title and position in the Family to speak to you now. I do so out of love for Simbala. Listen not to the miner or his maiden! Trust those who have governed for centuries! Trust the Royal Family to protect Simbala!”
Hawkwind could wait no longer. She is mad, he thought. This is treason!
Sensing Hawkwind’s anger, Evirae hurried. “We must defend ourselves from any attack by the Fandorans! You must trust Prince Kiorte. We stand together on this matter of state.”
No! cried Mesor to himself. She is cutting her own throat and mine as well!
The crowd was beset with speculation. Evirae’s husband supports her plan? Could that possibly be true?
Hawkwind pushed forward, his plans for diplomatic composure all but forgotten.
“People of Simbala!” he shouted. “Silence! You must hear what I have to say!”
The people ceased their gossip, but a whisper of suspicion continued to distract them.
Hawkwind scanned the sea of faces, seeing anxiety and concern. He spoke quietly, but with authority. “You must understand the real meaning of Evirae’s words! I have heard the same rumors as you have, and I have gone to pains to learn the truth. We have no evidence that the Fandorans are attacking. For two centuries they have not disturbed us. Why should this suddenly change? I have viewed the seas from Dragonhead. They are empty! No army approaches! The winds and currents are fierce this time of year. Only fools would launch an armada now—and even fools would be hard-pressed to cross the strait in safety.”
He studied the crowd again and saw hope arise in the expressions of concern. These people did not want war. His words were having an effect.
“Go back to your homes!” he continued. “Go back to your children! They are safe! I do not yet know what murdered the Northweald child, but it was not the work of the Fandorans! Please go home in peace! We will find the murderer!”
Evirae, face crimson, hurried down the stairs. “My people,” she said, “I also wish to see our country at peace—but I am not a fool! Monarch Hawkwind refuses to see the truth, and so I ask that the matter be decided by you!”
Mesor put his hand to his head. Five pairs of eyes caught the signal.
Hawkwind faced Evirae. “The people’s will is clear. There is no need for further speeches!”
Evirae glared at him. “I call for a Senate meeting!” She faced the crowd. “Is there a person here who objects?”
“A Senate!” shouted a Northwealdsman in the square. “Yes!” said another. “A Senate!” The cry was picked up by the crowd. Soon it was obvious that a majority had spoken, and the crowd fell silent, awaiting a response from the podium.
Hawkwind watched in anger. The first men to speak had all been Northwealdsfolk. This was more than coincidence; it had to be Evirae’s plotting. Hawkwind was sure of it, just as he was sure that Mesor’s presence was more than a simple show of support. He faced Evirae. There could be no alternative to calling the meeting now; to oppose it could arouse suspicion. If there was to be a Senate, however, Evirae would be unable to use it for her plan. He would call for a meeting on his own terms.
“We shall have peace,” he said into the silence. “I declare a meeting of the families to be called for tomorrow morn! Princess Evirae, you may leave!”
Evirae was furious at the dismissal, but Hawkwind’s expression was such that she stepped quietly from the platform and ascended the stairs. There would be time later, she thought, when the crowd will hear me alone.
Hawkwind watched her. Proper protocol required Evirae to leave the hill, but she waited stubbornly at the top of the stairs. Her flagrant disregard for him could no longer be tolerated! Although he had little interest in many of the formalities of the Family, he could not ignore the fact that, from her point of view, she was willfully ridiculing him in front of the people.
Hawkwind turned his back to the crowd and addressed Evirae. His words were spoken loudly; he wanted the people to hear them. “I have been lenient with you for too long, Princess Evirae. If you wish to play games with me in public, then you will learn what it is like to lose! Leave this meeting! I must address the people!”
Evir
ae waited a moment, just long enough to register her defiance. Then she faced the back stairs of the hill and descended.
Hawkwind talked to the crowd. “We will meet to discuss the protection of the peace tomorrow. Return now to your families and summon those who will cast the crystals. The meeting will convene in the Cavern of the Falls. Speak carefully until then. Rumors will not bring back the child. We must work together!”
He departed, cape swirling, to join Monarch Ephrion, and told his aides to bring up the horses. He was upset with himself for his outburst at Evirae. It had been foolish, for she would now think that she could provoke him at whim.
Ephrion had been correct. Evirae was more dangerous than he had thought. In the future, he would guard himself against her words.
The question of peace would now be settled by the people. This is as it should be, he thought; the truth will be a deciding factor. Yet Hawkwind was troubled. Truth and the Princess had been adversaries far longer than he had been ruler of Simbala.
Ephrion pulled back on the reins of his horse. “My son,” he asked, “why did you not expose her scheme? You knew that Evirae was intriguing with the Northwealdsman.”
Hawkwind swung himself into the saddle. “That would be Evirae’s tactic,” he answered. “I will not stoop to accusations. I will win against Evirae through the law.”
Ephrion smiled. “Good,” he said, “but perhaps it would help if I spoke to Lady Eselle. She still has some influence over her daughter.”
“No!” Hawkwind extended his arm for the hawk. “You selected me over Evirae. If I am worthy of the position, I must prove to the people that Evirae does not have their interests at heart, and I must do it in a way that does not divide the Family. If you plead with Lady Eselle, I will not earn her respect.”
Ephrion nodded with fatherly pride and said, “The hero is becoming a statesman.”
* * *
Evirae watched from behind the podium as the dark stallion vanished into the woods. The miner knows nothing of the spy, she said to herself, and nothing of Kiorte’s disappearance. It has gone smoothly, more smoothly than I had expected.
Mesor gave her his arm and Evirae left the podium regally, paying no attention to his words of praise as they returned to her palanquin. I have planted doubts in the minds of the merchants, she thought, and those who already mistrust Hawkwind will now think him a traitor. I must find Kiorte, she said to herself as she waved to the crowd, and I must return to the spy. There must be much he can tell us about Fandora.
* * *
Far below the palace, in another part of the caverns, Amsel stirred and opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was a throbbing pain in his back. He tried to turn his head, and felt it held by a rock in a strained position. He tried to lift his hands, but they would not move. As sensation returned, he realized that he was buried up to his neck in cold and clammy mud. He was lying on his back. The pain was intense, but not enough to make him fear that it had been broken.
He opened his mud-caked eyes with an effort that did him little good—he could see nothing. The tunnel was perfectly dark. The last two fingers of his right hand were free; he used them to dig feebly at the mud surrounding the rest of his hand.
It took a long time. He felt like cheering when he finally pulled his right hand and arm free of the clinging muck. He pulled the rock away from his head, and the pain in his back was relieved. Amsel rested a moment, then started to struggle out of the mud.
Eventually he extricated himself, although he was coated shoulders to feet with grime. He walked briskly back and forth, and the ache in his back subsided.
He felt over the slope of mud that filled the tunnel, but could find no trace of the guard. The man had either been buried completely or was on the other side of the cave-in. “At any rate, there is nothing I can do for him now,” Amsel said regretfully. He began to make his way down the pitchblack tunnel, feeling his way cautiously, one hand touching the wall. He was still bone weary, and had to stop every few minutes to rest, but the act of walking soon took away his stiffness.
The tunnel’s length was indeterminable—it seemed that he walked for days. He could not tell if he was following a broad curve or a straight path. The slope seemed to be steadily upward, however, and the sound of his footsteps soon changed. The mud and clay had given way to rock. Amsel smiled. He was nearing the surface.
How long had it been since he left Fandora? He was not sure—the days in the boat blurred together in a dream of sun and waves—but he knew that the entire trip had lasted at least a week. Could Fandora mobilize an army in that time? It was possible, with sufficient motivation, and Amsel knew all too well the effect Johan’s death had had on Fandora. Which meant that an armada could be on their way to Simbala’s shores.
“That must not be!” he said aloud, and the words came back to haunt him. The echo was almost frightening. Amsel felt lost and lonely, but he had no choice except to explore the tunnel and pray. “Johan, no more will die!” he said softly, and kept walking. Sometime later, he stopped to rest. The echoes of his passage faded, and all was silent. Then, far behind him, Amsel heard a tick-tick-ticking sound. For a moment it confused him; then, with a cold chill, he realized that it was the sound of claws hitting the bare rock.
Something was following him.
XX
Dayon stood in the prow of the lead ship, a small fishing boat that carried twenty men. It was dangerously overcrowded, and constantly shipping water in the choppy sea. The Strait of Balomar was over fifty miles long and less than twenty wide, and, save for the relatively calm fjords and inlets along the coasts of Fandora and Simbala, every one of those miles was dangerous. The clash of two seas filled the strait with a myriad currents. Also, the warm air from the Southern Sea and the cold air of the northern Dragonsea met here and fought. The combination of wind and currents produced towering whitecapped waves and strong undertows. On the calmest and sunniest of days the strait was inhospitable; on bad days, it could be a maelstrom.
On this day it was neither at its best nor at its worst, and so the armada stood some small chance of reaching the opposite shore. Dayon had ordered the boats to hug the coast for the greater part of the day, until they were near an area of the strait where the waters were the shallowest and the turbulence less. He knew that the winds and waves were capable of swamping ships much more seaworthy than these. He stared ahead at the whitecapped waves. He did not allow himself to think about all the men who would be directly affected by any decision that he made. He knew that if he did that, he would panic.
Jondalrun was also in the lead boat, and he stared in awe at the waves, some of them ten and twelve feet high, which appeared at random all about the ships, lashed into whitecaps by the winds. “I did not know it was like this,” he shouted to Dayon.
“There are so few who do,” Dayon shouted back. He kept his eyes on the waves as the armada moved slowly forward. His knuckles were white on the gunwales.
“Can you get us through?” Jondalrun asked.
“I can try,” Dayon said. “We’ll seldom have a better time. The moon is down, so it’s low tide, and the winds are relatively calm. Of course, that means the fog is bad, but we’re not likely to run into anything out here. If we can cross this stretch of open water, the opposite side should be as calm as the one we left.”
“How wide is this barrier of waves?”
“It varies from day to day. Sometimes only a mile or two—sometimes as much as ten. There’s only one real way to find out. We’ll have to go through it. Once we start, there’s no turning back.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” said his father.
Dayon gave instructions, which were relayed from ship to ship. All the men in the boats were to anchor themselves to whatever security they could—masts, oarlocks, benches, and remain that way until further orders were given. He ordered the boats to spread out as much as possible to avoid being hurled into one another, and to follow his lead as well as wind and waves would a
llow. Anxiously he watched the flotilla prepare. “Sails up!” Dayon said soon thereafter and he hoped that his terror was not visible to his father.
The configuration of the strait was remarkable. The shapes of the two facing peninsulas resembled two crescent moons. Each had a northern and southern promontory, which made the waters within relatively calm, though filled with strong eddies and currents. In the middle of the strait, where the oceans clashed with nothing to temper them, were the heavy seas that the armada now had to cross.
Those vessels with sails now unfurled them, and the wind hurled them forward, as though eager to test them against the sea. The others rowed feverishly, trying to keep up with their wind-powered countrymen, but to no avail. The seas quickly grew mountainous, and the waves seemed to come from every direction, with no rhyme or reason to them. The ships were lifted and dropped with a force that terrified the landbound majority of the crews. Dayon stood, steadying himself against a forward mast, studying the strait. Despite the worried shouts and cries of those in the boat, Dayon knew that it was one of the more favorable days. Nevertheless, he was frightened. Many of the ships were overloaded with men and supplies. Though he did not speak of this to Jondalrun, he was sure they would lose many ships. He looked at his father, sitting behind him, bailing steadily with a bucket as the waves broke over the side. More than anyone else, Jondalrun was responsible for putting these men in this position. Quite a few would drown before the crossing was made. Would his father be held accountable?
It had been each man’s decision to come—they had not been ordered into this army. They were here because they felt the mission was in the best interests of Fandora, Dayon told himself. He returned his attention to the waves.
Even as he did, however, over the roar of wind and water he heard the sound of cracking timber, and screams. He looked to his left—a raft, riding higher in the waves than the boat next to it, had been lifted up and dropped squarely on top of the boat, breaking it in half. Four men, shouting in fear, went into the water. Peering back, Dayon saw three come up, to be pulled into other boats. Dayon turned his gaze away quickly. He could not allow himself to feel responsible for them—he could not even allow himself to feel fear. He had time to think of only one thing—the distant Simbalese shore. As he had told Jondalrun, there could be no turning back.
