Flushing deeply, Sir Alfric hastily laced himself into proper decorum and then fled out the door.
Chuckling at her jest, thankful she was not in for his reprimand, Odila walked briskly to the armorer. She had taken her breastplate to the armory yesterday to mend a torn leather strap and a bent buckle. They had promised to have it mended by this morning. Everyone she met looked sleepy and bedraggled or annoyed and put out. She passed by the man who was the relief for the night warden. The man was yawning and stumbling over his feet in his haste to report for work.
Had everyone in Solanthus overslept?
Odila pondered this disturbing question. What had seemed an odd and annoying occurrence was now starting to take on sinister significance. She had no reason to think this unusual bout of slothfulness on the part of Solanthus’s inhabitants had anything to do with the prisoners, but, just to make certain, she altered her direction, headed for the prison.
She arrived to find everything peaceful. To be sure, the warden was sprawled over his desk, snoring blissfully, but the keys still hung from their hook on the wall. She woke the sleeping warden with a sharp rap of her knuckles on his bald pate. He sat straight up, wincing and blinking at her in confusion. While the warden rubbed his head, she made the rounds to find that the prison’s inmates were all slumbering soundly in their cells. The prison had never been so quiet.
Relieved, Odila decided she would check on Gerard while she was here, to let him know that she knew people who might be able to swear to his identity. She walked down the stairs, rounded the corner and stopped and stared in amazement. Shaking her head, she turned on her heel and walked slowly up the stairs.
“And I had just decided he was telling the truth,” she said to herself. “That will teach me to admire cornflower-blue eyes. Men! Born liars, every one of them.
“Sound the alarm!” she ordered the sleep-befuddled warden. “Turn out the guard. The prisoners have escaped.”
She paused a moment, wondering what to do. First disappointed, she was now angry. She had trusted him, the absent gods knew why, and he had betrayed her. Not the first time this had happened to her, but she intended it should be the last. Turning, she headed for the stables. She knew where Gerard and his friends had gone, where they must go. He would head for his dragon. When she reached the stables, she checked to see if any horses were missing. None were, and so she assumed that the Knight must be on foot. She was relieved. The gnome and kender, with their short legs, would slow him down.
Mounting her horse, she galloped through the streets of Solanthus that were slowly coming to life, as if the entire city was suffering from the ill effects of a wild drinking bout.
She passed through the numerous gates, pausing only long enough to determine if the guards had seen anything of the prisoners in the night. They hadn’t, but then, by the looks of them, they hadn’t seen anything except the insides of their eyelids. She arrived at the final gate to find Starmaster Mikelis there, as well.
The guards were red in the face, chagrined. Their superior was speaking to Mikelis.
“—caught sleeping on duty,” he was saying irately.
Odila reigned in her horse. “What is the matter, Starmaster?” she asked.
Absorbed in his own troubles, he did not recognize her from the trial. “The First Master has gone missing. She did not sleep in her bed last night—”
“She was the only one in Solanthus who did not sleep, apparently,” Lady Odila returned with a shrug. “Perhaps she went to visit a friend.”
The Starmaster was shaking his head. “No, I have looked everywhere, spoken to everyone. No one has seen her since she left the Knights’ Council.”
Odila paused, considered this. “The Knights’ Council. Where the First Master spoke in defense of Gerard uth Mondar. It might interest you to know, Starmaster, that last night the prisoner escaped from his cell.”
The Starmaster looked shocked. “Surely, Lady Knight, you’re not suggesting—”
“He had help,” Odila said, frowning, “help that could have come only from someone who has mystical powers.”
“I don’t believe it!” Starmaster Mikelis cried heatedly. “First Master Goldmoon would never—”
Odila didn’t wait to hear anymore about First Master Goldmoon. Spurring her horse to a gallop, she rode out of the gate and down the main road. As she rode, she tried to sort all this out. She had believed Gerard’s story—strange and bizarre though it might be. She had been impressed by his eloquent plea at the end of the trial, a plea not for himself but for the elves of Qualinesti. She had been deeply impressed by the First Master, and that was odd, considering that Lady Odila did not put much stock in miracles of the heart or whatever it was clerics were peddling these days. She even believed the kender, and it was at that point that she wondered if she was running a fever.
Odila had ridden about two miles from the city when she saw a rider approaching her. He was riding fast, bent over his steed, kicking his horse in the flanks to urge it to even greater speed. Spittle whipped from the horse’s mouth as it thundered past Odila. She recognized by his garb that the man was a scout and concluded that the news he brought must be urgent, judging from the breakneck pace he set. She was curious but continued on her way. Whatever news he brought, it would keep until she returned.
She had ridden another two miles when she heard the first horn call.
Odila reigned in her steed, turned in the saddle, stared back in consternation at the walls of the city. Horns and now drums were sounding the call to arms. An enemy had been sighted, approaching the city in force. To the west, a large cloud of dust obscured the horizon line. Odila stared at the dust cloud intently, trying to see what caused it, but she was too far away. She sat for a moment, irresolute. The horns called her back to duty behind the city walls. Her own sense of duty called her to continue on, to recapture the escaped prisoner.
Or, at least, to have a talk with him.
Odila cast a final glance at the dust cloud, noted that it appeared to be drawing nearer. She increased her speed down the road.
She kept close watch along the side of the highway, hoping to find the location where the group had left the road to go in search of their dragon. A few more miles brought her to the spot. She was surprised and oddly pleased to find that they had not even bothered to hide their tracks. An escaping felon—a cunning and hardened criminal—would have worked to throw pursuers off his trail. The party had cut a wide swath in the waving prairie grass. Here and there small excursions slanted off to the side as if someone—probably the kender—had wandered off, only to be hauled back.
Odila turned her horse’s head and began following the clearly marked path. As she rode farther, drawing nearer to the stream, she came upon more evidence that she was on the right trail, sighting various objects that must have tumbled out of the kender’s pouches: a bent spoon, a shining piece of mica, a silver ring, a tankard with Lord Tasgall’s crest. She was among the trees now, riding along the bank of the stream where she had first caught Gerard.
The ground was damp from the morning mists, and she could see footprints: one pair of large booted feet, one pair of smaller feet wearing boots with soft soles, one pair of small kender feet—they were in front—and another pair of small feet straggling behind. Those must belong to the gnome.
Odila came to a place where three of them had halted and one had gone on ahead—the Knight, of course, going to seek out the dragon. She could see some signs that the kender had started to go with the Knight but had apparently been ordered back, because the small footprints, toes dragging, reversed themselves. She could see where the Knight had returned and the rest had gone forward with him.
Dismounting, Odila left her horse by the side of the river with a command to remain there until summoned. She proceeded forward on foot, moving silently, but with as much haste as she could. The footprints were fresh. The ground was just now starting to dry with the morning sun. She had no fear that she would be too late. She
had kept watch on the skies to catch sight of a blue dragon, but she had seen no sign of one.
It would take some time, she reasoned, for the Knight to persuade a blue dragon—known to be extremely proud and wholly dedicated to the cause of evil—to carry a kender, a gnome, and a Mystic of the Citadel of Light. For that matter, Odila could not imagine the First Master, who had long ago risked her life to battle blue dragons and all they stood for, agreeing to come near a blue dragon, much less ride on one.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Odila said to herself.
The horn calls were distant, but she could still hear them. The city’s bells were ringing now, too, warning the farmers and shepherds and those who lived outside the city to leave their homes and seek the safety of the city’s walls. Odila strained her ears, focused on one sound, a sound apart from the horn calls and the wild clamoring of the bells. Voices.
Odila crept forward, listening. She recognized Gerard’s voice and Goldmoon’s. She loosened her sword in its sheath. Her plan was to rush in, knock down Gerard before he could react, and hold him hostage in order to prevent the dragon from attacking. Of course, depending on the relationship between dragon and Knight, the blue might well attack her with no regard for what happened to its master. That was a risk Odila was prepared to take. She was sick and tired of being lied to. Here was one man who was going to tell her the truth or die in the process.
Odila recognized this cavern. She had come across it in her earlier attempts to capture the dragon. She and her patrol had searched the cave but had found no trace of the beast. He must have moved here afterward, she concluded, venturing forward. Concentrating on her footing, taking care that she did not crack a stick beneath her boot, or tread on a pile of rustling leaves, she listened intently to what the voices were saying.
“Razor will carry you into Nightlund, First Master.” Gerard was speaking, his voice low and deferential, respectful. “If, as the kender claims, the Tower of High Sorcery is located there, the dragon will find it. You need not rely on the kender’s directions. But I beg you to reconsider, First Master.” His voice grew more earnest, his tone more intense. “Nightlund has an evil reputation that, from all I have heard, is well deserved.”
A pause, then, “Very well, First Master, if you are committed to this action—”
“I am, Sir Knight.” Goldmoon’s voice, clear and resolute, echoed in the cave.
Gerard spoke again. “Caramon’s dying request was for me to take Tasslehoff to Dalamar. Perhaps I should reconsider and travel with you.” He sounded reluctant. “Yet, you hear the horns. Solanthus is under attack. I should be back there.…”
“I know what Caramon intended, Sir Gerard,” said Goldmoon, “and why he made that request. You have done more than enough to fulfill his last wishes. I absolve you of the responsibility. Your life and that of the kender have been intertwined, but the threads are now untangled. You are right to return to defend Solanthus. I will go forth on my own. What have you told the dragon about me?”
“I told Razor that you are a dark mystic, traveling in disguise. You have brought the kender because he claims to have found a way inside the Tower. The gnome is an accomplice of the kender who will not be separated from him. Razor believed me. Of course, he believed me.” Gerard was bitter. “Everyone believes the lies I tell. No one believes the truth. What sort of strange, twisted world do we inhabit?”
He sighed heavily.
“You have the letter from King Gilthas,” Goldmoon said. “They must believe that.”
“Must they? You give them too much credit. You should make haste, First Master.” Gerard paused, arguing with himself. “Yet, the more I think about it, the more I am loath to allow you to enter Nightlund alone—”
“I need no protection,” Goldmoon assured him, her voice softening. “Nor do I think there is any protection you could offer me. Whoever summons me will see to it that I arrive safely at my destination. Do not lose faith in the truth, Sir Gerard,” she added gently, “and do not fear the truth, no matter how awful it may seem.”
Odila stood irresolute outside the cave, pondering what to do. Gerard had a chance to escape, and he was not taking it. He was planning to return to defend Solanthus. Everyone believes the lies I tell. No one believes the truth.
Drawing her sword, gripping the hilt tightly in her hand, Odila left the cover of the trees and walked boldly into the mouth of the cave. Gerard stood with his back to her, gazing into the darkness beyond. He wore the leathers of a dragonrider, the only clothes he had, the same that he’d worn in prison. He had recovered his sword and sword belt. In his hand he held the leather headgear of a dragonrider. He was alone.
Hearing Odila’s footsteps, Gerard glanced around. He sighted her, rolled his eyes, shook his head.
“You!” he muttered. “All I need.” He looked away into the darkness.
Odila thrust the tip of her sword into the back of his neck. She noted, as she did so, that he’d made a hasty job of putting on his leathers. Either that or he’d dressed in the dark. The tunic was on backward.
“You are my prisoner,” she said, her voice harsh. “Make no move. Do not try to call out to the dragon. One word and I will—”
“You’ll what?” Gerard demanded.
Whipping around, he shoved aside her sword with his hand and strode past her, out of the cave.
“Make haste, Lady, if you’re coming,” he said brusquely. “Or we will arrive back in Solanthus after the battle has ended.”
Odila smiled, but only when his back was turned and he couldn’t see her. Rearranging her face to look stern and severe, she hurried after him.
“Wait a minute!” she said. “Where do you think you are going?”
“Back to Solanthus,” he said coolly. “Don’t you hear the horns? The city is under attack.”
“You are my prisoner—”
“Fine, I’m your prisoner,” he said. Turning, he handed her his sword. “Where is your horse? I don’t suppose you brought another one for me to ride. No, of course not. That would have required forethought, and you have all the brains of a newt. As I recall, however, your horse is a sturdy animal. The distance back to Solanthus is not far. He can carry us both.”
Odila accepted the sword, used the hilt to rub her cheek. “Where did the Mystic go? And the others? The kender and the gnome. Your … um … accomplices.”
“In there,” Gerard said, waving his hand in the direction of the cave. “The dragon is in there, too, at the far end. They plan to wait until nightfall before they leave. Feel free to go back to confront the dragon. Especially since you brought only one horse.”
Odila pressed her lips tightly together to keep from laughing.
“You really intend to go back to Solanthus?” she demanded, frowning darkly.
“I really do, Lady Knight.”
“Then I guess you’ll need this,” she said and tossed him his sword.
He was so startled, he fumbled, nearly dropped it.
Odila walked past, giving him a wink and sly look from out the corner of her eye. “My horse can carry both of us, Cornbread. As you yourself said, we’d best hurry. Oh, and you better close your mouth. You might swallow a fly.”
Gerard stared, dumbfounded, then sprang after her.
“You believe me?”
“Now I do,” she said pointedly. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Cornbread, but you’re not clever enough to have put on an act like the one I just witnessed. Besides”—she sighed deeply—“your story is such a muddle, what with young ninety-year-old crones, a dead living kender, and a gnome. One has to believe it. No one could make up something like that.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “So you really do have a letter from the elf king?”
“Would you like to see it?” he asked with a grudging smile.
Odila shook her head. “Not me. To be honest, I didn’t even know the elves had a king. Nor do I much care. But it’s good that someone does, I guess. What sort of a fighter are you, Cornb
read? You don’t look to have much in the way of muscle.” She glanced disdainfully at his arms. “Maybe you’re the small, wiry type.”
“If Lord Tasgall will even let me fight,” Gerard muttered. “I will offer my parole that I will not try to escape. If they will not accept it, I will do what I can to assist with the wounded or put out fires or however else I may serve—”
“I think they’ll believe you,” she said. “As I said, a story with a kender and a gnome …”
They reached the place where Odila had left her horse. Odila swung herself up into the saddle. She looked at Gerard, who looked up at her. He truly had the most startling blue eyes. She had never seen eyes that color before, never seen eyes of such clarity and brilliance. She reached out her hand to him.
Gerard grabbed hold, and she pulled him up to sit uncomfortably on the horse’s rump behind her. Clucking her tongue, she commanded the horse forward.
“You had better put your arms around my waist, Cornbread,” she said, “so that you don’t fall off.”
Gerard clasped his arms around her midriff, holding her firmly, sliding forward on the horse’s rump so that he was pressed against her.
“Nothing personal, Lady Odila,” he said.
“Ah, me,” she returned with a gushy sigh. “And here I was going to go choose my wedding dress.”
“Don’t you ever take anything seriously, Lady?” Gerard asked, nettled.
“Not much,” Odila answered, turning to grin at him. “Why should I, Cornbread?”
“My name is Gerard.”
“I know,” she replied.
“Then why don’t you call me that?”
She shrugged. “The other suits you, that’s all.”
“I think it’s because calling me by my name makes me a person, not a joke. I despise women, and I have the feeling you don’t think much of men. We’ve both been hurt. Maybe both of us fear life more than we fear death. We can discuss that later over a cold pitcher of ale. But for now let’s agree on this much: You will call me Gerard. Or Sir Gerard, if you prefer.”
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