by Carol Berg
The night passed undisturbed for the most part. In the middling hours of the night, I woke from dreams of suffocation to an unsettling scent of cold ash. But after an hour of anxious watching, I was convinced that it was only the result of our own fire being doused by the onset of the rain. We were well away from Dunfarrie and safe under the trees.
Over the next few days we traveled into the cooler hill country that bordered Valleor. As we rode through thick forests of dripping pines and birches, and between rocks covered with thick green moss, a constant drizzle seeped through the collars of our cloaks and the seams of our boots, leaving us as wet and miserable as if we’d been caught in a deluge. Baglos pestered me with questions: about the Four Realms, about the forest, about politics and trade, clothing and geography, weather and cooking and growing vegetables. Everything was which and where and how and why, why, why. Half a day of this and I was ready to scream. When I asked, “Could we not speak of something less trivial?” he began asking me about Karon and the life of the J’Ettanne. For example, was not it a sore trial for a Dar’Nethi to be wed to a mundane?
“My husband and my life are my private business, Baglos. Do you understand the word private?” I had given Baglos and D’Natheil my sustenance, my peace, such as it was, and my safety. They would get no more from me.
In deference to my ill humor, Baglos shifted his attention to D’Natheil and spent the afternoon speaking exclusively in his own language. I rode behind them, pronouncing my relief at being left alone. But two hours of unintelligible monologue did nothing to improve my irritation. When I asked the Dulcé what he was telling D’Natheil, he said that he was describing royal Avonar, its people, and things he knew of D’Natheil’s childhood, hoping to prod his young master’s memory. I hinted that I could use such information as well. But the Dulcé found the constant translation too awkward to keep up, so I was abandoned once again to my own thoughts. Annoying. As seemed to be my experience of late, what I asked for was not necessarily what I wanted.
On the next day, when the whole sequence repeated itself, I asked Baglos if he would teach me something of the Dar’Nethi tongue. To my satisfaction I picked up a few words quite readily. As I demonstrated the first results of my lessons, D’Natheil seemed pleased and motioned insistently to Baglos to teach me more.
When we camped that night, D’Natheil went through his martial exercises again, but this time with his sword. I had grown up surrounded by soldiers, but never had I seen anyone move with such grace or such ferocious intensity. He would make even Tomas look like a newly vested squire.
Near midday on the fifth day of our journey we came to a good-sized town called Glyenna. It was market day, a drab, colorless affair, where the animals were sickly and the wares of the poorest and most utilitarian kind. The sour-faced crowds milled about the poor display as if they had been sentenced to attend as punishment for the sin of cheerfulness. We planned to stay only long enough to fill waterskins and buy food, though Baglos had shown himself an incessant conversationalist at every stop and seemed to enjoy nothing more than coaxing information about anything and everything from anyone he could get to speak to him. But as I paid a peasant woman for our supplies, I caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired horseman in vehement discourse with a man wearing the colorful badge of a local constable. Rowan! The still, heavy morning suddenly closed in. I backed away, turned, and ran.
D’Natheil had stopped to gawk at a cockfight, and when I touched his sleeve, he growled and slapped my hand away, craning his neck to see better. As always, Baglos was gabbling with the raucous onlookers about why and how they watched such things and what kinds of fowl were best to use and all manner of useless information. Despite my whispered warning, I had to drag the reluctant pair away from the bloody, vulgar spectacle, watching for the sheriff as I led them through the crowd.
We were almost to the edge of the marketplace when a disturbance broke out just behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and, to my dismay, D’Natheil was sitting atop a filthy, ragged man. He had the man’s head dragged backward into an impossible angle and his dagger poised at the man’s bared throat. Two burly townsmen hung on to D’Natheil’s arm, a temporary reprieve for the squirming, whimpering victim. Baglos was babbling at the Prince and trying to pull him away.
“It’s just Hekko, the beggar,” shouted an old woman. “Meant no harm. Didn’t take nothing.”
A tradesman in a leather apron bawled for someone to bring the constable, as Hekko had been trying to steal the stranger’s silver dagger. More townspeople were gathering by the moment.
With a ferocious bellow, a powerful wrench of his shoulders, and a backhand sweep, D’Natheil dislodged his restraints, sending the two men and Baglos sprawling. His knife flashed toward the beggar’s throat.
“No!” I yelled, lunging toward him and grabbing his knife arm with both of my hands. “By the stars, you must not.” Though I had not the least faith that he could hear my angry remonstrance over the uproar, and my physical strength was surely no more threat than that of a child, the mad fire in D’Natheil’s eyes faded instantly into bewilderment. He loosened his grip on the moaning beggar and allowed Baglos and me to drag him away.
“He’s been to the war,” I said to the grumbling men pressing close as I shoved the Prince toward our horses. “It’s left him high-strung… touchy… you understand.” I jerked my head at Baglos, who pulled out a copper and tossed it to the bruised and shaken beggar. While the old woman continued her screeching, and two ragged boys inexpertly tried to pick my pockets, the rest of the onlookers nodded and shrugged and murmured about the war. By the time we were mounted, the crowd had begun to disperse. “Wait! Stop those three!” Over my shoulder I glimpsed Graeme Rowan struggling to get to us through the milling throng.
“Go!” I screamed, and we kicked our horses to life, leaving the bewildered citizens gaping.
We raced westward along the heavily wooded road, not slowing until the night was so dark we dared not risk the horses. We had left Glyenna a considerable distance behind, but I insisted that we walk another half a league into the thick trees before stopping. What a spectacle we had made of ourselves! My fury at D’Natheil’s folly had not cooled by the time we made camp.
“You will tell him exactly what I say,” I commanded Baglos as we unsaddled our horses in a high, rocky grotto. “Some things other than sorcery are frowned upon in Leire, at least among people of rational mind. To attack a beggar is the act of a coward, and to call attention to yourself in such a way is utterly stupid. Our lives are at risk because of your childishness. You will control yourself if you want any more help from me. Do you understand?” D’Natheil, his face blazing, turned his back on me. Baglos tried to smooth it over. “Madam, you must understand that D’Natheil has been trained as a warrior since he could walk. He is considered to be one of the finest—”
“That’s no excuse.” Annoying little twit. I wanted to strangle him and his master both. “It’s quite possible to control one’s reactions, no matter how finely honed. Warriors should be somewhat larger of mind than animals. Tell him that, too. Exactly as I said it.”
Baglos paled, but did as I asked, speaking softly to his master’s rigid back. The silence was long and awkward as we made our camp. D’Natheil threw his pack to the ground and kicked away the rocks that lay where he planned to make his bed. He kept to himself for the rest of the night.
With Rowan so close on our trail, I made sure we were on the road early and took extra care that we were not observed by any other travelers. Whenever I sought information about roads, I asked about Vanesta or Prydina, relying on my own geography skills to set us right and hoping that the sheriff would follow the wrong path. I considered taking the wrong direction for a while, and then looping around in hopes of throwing off pursuit, but I dared not delay. If Rowan was in company with the sorcerer Zhid, they might be able to follow us anywhere.
The journey would have been dismal even without the close pursuit and the rainy weather.
The border villages had suffered the most in the years of the Vallorean War, and in few of the rotting settlements that were still occupied were there any men at all between the ages of thirty and sixty. Strangers, especially sturdy young men of military age, were regarded with scarcely controlled hostility, and only grudgingly were we allowed to avail ourselves of food supplies.
As stiffness and saddle sores took their toll alongside the discomforts of constant rain, cold food, and sleeping on hard ground, I thought regretfully of my childhood when Papa would take Tomas and me on three-day riding excursions to see the site of his grandfather’s victory over Vallorean raiders or the hill where legend said that Annadis spent his vigil night before being named Arot’s successor. Twelve hours a day in the saddle had seemed life’s ultimate delight. My brother and I would sleep with the horses and dogs while Papa’s soldiers cooked, told stories, and stood watch for wolves. Rain just made our treks more adventurous. What dreary tricks fate can play on us.
After Glyenna, D’Natheil refused to engage in any conversation. He rode, he ate, and he brooded, and when we stopped at night, he practiced his swordwork and took his share of the watch. The Dulcé was anxious to pursue his teaching further but had learned not to press. His master’s anger was quick and heavy, though, in truth, D’Natheil’s withdrawal seemed to restrain his intemperate hand along with everything else. After a few days, Baglos might have welcomed a blow just as evidence D’Natheil was listening to him at all.
“Was D’Natheil always so changeable?” I asked Baglos one night when the Prince had disappeared yet again as soon as he had eaten his share of the night’s meager fare. “On one day I’m sure he’s going to put a knife in me as I sleep. The next, I could be the muck on his horse’s shoe for all he cares. And then… well, before I yelled at him… he would surprise me with one of those smiles, and I’d think he was going to ask me to dance.”
Baglos was scraping the last of the boiled turnip from the bottom of our cooking pot. “In addition to physical strength, intelligence, and extraordinary power, the family of D’Arnath has always been blessed with those amiable qualities which allow men to lead others in difficult times. In the matter of aggressive temper”—he glanced over his shoulder at the empty clearing—“they have been variously gifted… or afflicted as one might view it. As you see, D’Natheil was born with a full measure. When he was eleven, D’Natheil had a swordmaster who was quite serious about his task and rigorous in his discipline. D’Natheil scorned him, complaining that his skills were inferior, and grew increasingly impatient that no better master was brought in. One day the master was found dead in the sparring arena from a sword wound in his belly. D’Natheil claimed it was an accident in their practice, simple proof of his contention that the man was unfit to be his tutor. No one witnessed the incident, and nothing more was said. But I’ve heard the man was hamstrung.”
On the afternoon of the seventh day we dropped down into the high plains of eastern Valleor. Southward, to our left, soared the peaks of the Dorian Wall, needle-sharp spires piercing the heavy clouds. To the far west a lesser range called the Vallorean Spine split Valleor down the middle, and before us and stretching far to our right lay the valley of the Uker River, endless vistas of gentle hills and lakes, dotted with the darker green of patchy forests, eventually rising into craggy highlands many leagues to the north. It was beautiful country, the fertile heart of gentle Valleor, on that day pooled with fogs and mists.
King Gevron had raped the fields of Valleor, stripping them bare to feed his armies and then slaughtering any who tried to work them. Now, anything grown in the Uker valley must be shipped instantly to Leire. Only then could it be purchased, properly taxed and at highly elevated prices, for distribution in the subjugated land. The starving Valloreans had to watch as heavily laden grain wagons rolled past their villages, and never did they see even one-tenth of their land’s bounty returned to them.
Three more days brought us to Yurevan, the oldest city in Valleor, and Ferrante’s house, Verdillon, some half a league outside the city walls. The professor was the second son of a Vallorean count. Though unable to inherit the title or lands, he’d had a decent enough portion to escape the poverty of most University dons. As it turned out, his had been the luckier inheritance, for his brother the count had been hanged and the family’s traditional holdings confiscated after Gevron’s victory.
I managed to find the proper road, and my heart thumped a bit when I caught sight of the stone walls, thickly covered with vines of lush green. The gate was standing open when we arrived, and the grounds were as I remembered from my single visit long ago: sprawling cherry orchards, roses of a hundred varieties, spreading carpets of green grass. The gravel carriage road wound through the lovely parkland to a classic beauty of a country house.
The day was inordinately quiet, no sound of groom or gardener, dog or bird. Perhaps the heavy mist rolling in from the forest had deadened the noise on what should be a normally active day about the property. When we reached the flagstone courtyard before the front door, I dismounted and rang the bell. Ferrante had to be there. To have come so far to find only strangers would be too cruel.
D’Natheil stepped past me and pushed on the massive doors. They swung open easily. Wariness and foreboding shadowed his face, quieting my protest. The foyer was just as I remembered: highly polished oak floor, graceful, curving staircase, the display case still holding Ferrante’s greatest treasure, a thousand-year-old brass bowl dug up from the tombs at Doria. The air smelled of the cut roses that stood in every nook and the cleaning oil used on the dark mahogany tables.
“Hello!” My greeting seemed muted by the richly colored tapestries hung on the dark wood paneling. No lamps were lit to chase away the gloom of the afternoon. Bustling servants should have been taking our sodden cloaks and wiping our damp footprints off the fine floor, but no one came.
“Professor Ferrante? Is anyone here?”
Baglos whispered anxiously, “Perhaps we should go, woman. Though your rank would permit it, we do not look like we belong here, coming in the front door.”
Something was certainly amiss. D’Natheil could sense it, too. I started up the stairs toward Ferrante’s study on the second floor. “Hello,” I called again. “Professor?”
When we reached the upper gallery, D’Natheil pointed inquiringly at a pair of satiny walnut doors. I nodded. Quietly and carefully, the young man pushed open the door and led the three of us into the professor’s study.
Tall, paned windows welcomed the gray afternoon into the book-lined room, revealing the comfortable furnishings of thick rugs, brass lamps, and deep chairs. Professor Ferrante sat at his wide desk, but the brilliant, gentlemanly scholar would never again answer anyone’s questions. The front of his gray morning gown was drenched in blood, and his eyes gazed out at us, fixed in a horrified stare.
My skin crept. “We need to leave,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said a man’s voice from behind me. I whirled about to see Baglos’s eyes bulging. A long, thin arm was wrapped about the Dulcé‘s throat, and the point of a knife was poised at his belly. The hand that held the knife was shaking, but there was no mistaking its intent. The owner of the arm and the voice was obscured by the shadows behind the door. “Have you come back to review your handiwork? Pull down your hoods. Let me see those who would so foully murder a man of peace and intellect in his own home.” Anger and grief left the man’s voice hoarse. “Do it now—before I skewer this one!”
As I lowered the sodden hood of my cloak, ready to proclaim our innocence, I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Seri!” Baglos stumbled to the side, the knife fell to the carpet, and from the shadows stepped a bespectacled man, thin and slightly stooped, gray at the temples with creases at the eyes from too many years reading in dim light. A graying goatee lengthened his narrow face, causing a moment’s uncertainty before I recognized him. Then a small eternity of disbelief passed before I could convince my lips to say his name. “Tennice!�
��
In movements so swift one could see only the result, D’Natheil’s sword was drawn and touching Tennice’s belly. pressing him to the wall.
“D’Natheil, no!” I cried. “Baglos, tell him no. This is my friend… a friend who’s come back from the dead.”
Baglos spoke quietly and insistently to D’Natheil. After a long moment, the cold-eyed young man released Tennice, but he did not sheathe his weapon.
“Is it really you, Seri?” Once it appeared that he was not going to be spitted on D’Natheil’s weapon, the ghost lowered his hands and touched my cheek with his cold, but quite substantial fingers.
“He heard you die,” I whispered. “They made him listen. All of you were dead.” Now I was shaking. Dead was dead.
“And so I was or so close as to be thought so. I can tell you what happened and must hear the same from you, but first”—he turned to the grisly scene in the library and ran his fingers through his thin hair—“I’ve got to take care of Ferrante.”
“What happened here?”
“I’ve been in Vanesta for several days, searching for a book for Ferrante. An hour ago I rode in and passed four strangers on the service road behind the house. I thought nothing of it. Students are in and out all the time. But no servants were about, no grooms in the stable, and then I came up and found… this. When I heard your call, I thought you must be students or tradesmen. But when I stepped out and spied you coming up the stairs, I thought the murderers had come back. Who would do this to him? They didn’t even steal anything!”
This murder left me with a horrid, creeping sickness… a sensation well beyond that caused by the vile deed itself. I glanced at Baglos and D’Natheil, then down at my own soggy cloak, and my revulsion took on more substance. “What made you believe we were the murderers?”
“Your long cloaks, I suppose, and the colors. Two of those I saw riding away wore gray, one of them black. Like you, they had their hoods up, so I couldn’t see—”
