by Jenna Rhodes
An image wavered on the white-cresting river. He watched as it coalesced into the hooded form of the Ferryman, wading toward them. The tall girl leaned out of her saddle to drop a coin into his palm and Quendius watched with narrowed eyes as the specter took both horse and pony by the headstall and walked them into the river with him. His thoughts spun furiously. Why had she summoned him and how had she even thought the Ferryman, anchored to the Nylara River, would come to her? And how had he twisted his binding to do so? Yet here he was, giving them safe passage across the frothing mountain river, far from his own station and ferry. Quendius watched closely, intently, and then, just before emerging on the far shore, the Ferryman and his charges disappeared from his sight.
He watched and waited, but they never appeared on the far shore of the river.
Quendius sat back on his heels with a disgusted grunt. He did not know what had just happened. He scrubbed the heel of his hand over his face before standing and grabbing the reins of his horse who jerked his head back, startled. Quendius growled at him, and the beast subsided immediately. Relenting, Quendius rubbed his knuckles along the horse’s jaw. He, at least, had some sense and training drilled into him. He clucked to the horse and led him to the water’s edge for a drink. As the horse dropped his head to lip at the icy waters, a pounding hit Quendius in the temple.
He dropped one shoulder slightly, turning about, his back to the river. Not a pounding, exactly but . . . a heavy buzz. Yes. And more. His own sword made a chitta sound at his back. Lesser Demon that imbued it, it was nothing articulate, not as the great sword Cerat had been, but its talent for seeking blood and biting deep into whatever target Quendius swung it at made it invaluable. It responded now to whatever it was that had assailed his senses. Then, as he let those same senses course over the area about him, from the stone, he heard Rakka’s voice.
He knew the earthmover’s voice well. Narskap had crafted the weapon for him, in addition to Cerat, but the war hammer had refused to bond to him. No matter, it had served to bind great Diort to Quendius, for a while. Now Diort carried it, free of Quendius although not free of the Demon. Rakka would demand a price someday. Quendius knew it. Narskap had smithed it for that. Diort would learn, to his dismay.
Quendius scuffed the toe of his boot on the riverbank. In the meantime, Rakka sounded near. Very near. He pulled his horse away from the river and went in search of the Demon’s growl.
He trailed the low rumble to a rocky overhang, pausing for a moment before stepping into its shadow. He found himself in a tunnel, scarce wide enough for more than one to pass through, although high enough for that one to ride. Quendius put out his hand. It had been carved through the rock like a hot knife cuts through butter and cheese, and he knew the sign—the black fabric—of magic when he saw it. He dropped the reins in a ground-tie, moving forward quietly. The tunnel was not recently made, so he knew that Rakka had not done it, although the war hammer growled here and there in the passage ahead of him, and sounded at least once, its vibration buffeting his hearing. He could hear the slide of gravel and rock. Someone used the hammer to clear the tunnel, and that someone could only be Abayan Diort.
What have we here, my friend? thought Quendius as he followed cautiously. The rock itself held a low light, emanating from tiles placed at frequent intervals. They burned steadily, unlike an oil lamp, although their illumination stayed low. He paused once to see chalking under one of the tiles. It gave direction, as well as a time of arrival. The chalk marks were new, untouched by moisture or lichen or the vagaries of deep tunneling into stone. Quendius examined them a moment in wonder. An echo came to him, uttering words that sank heavily into his soul, words of ancient Galdarkan, words of Mageborn command. He knew them as soon as he heard them, he, a Vaelinar without a bit of magic in his blood, knew he listened to legends of old. More, he remembered what he heard, and he knew what it was. It etched indelibly into his being, his flawed, needy being, and filled him. He knew where he stood and how he would move and what he could do with this knowledge to destroy his enemies.
For this alone, he might let his old ally live when they met again.
Time and distance did not matter here, where the Mageborn had plied their trade. He could move at will, and so could any army which would follow him, as long as they were content to march in single file. Like ants, he thought. Steady but determined ants. Swarming when they reached their destination. He put back his head and let out a howl.
Abayan Diort had shown him how to walk on the old pathways of the Galdarkan high guardians.
Chapter Thirty
SEVRYN CROSSED ONE OF THE SEVEN SISTERS into Hawthorne after two days of hard riding and one crossing aided by the Dark Ferryman without incident. Wooden planks reverberated under hoof falls, and kites cried as they rode the sea wind over the city. Ahead of him on the right, he could see the high cliffs of Tomarq and the dazzle that was the precious Jewel and Shield. The cliffs buffered the harbor around which Hawthorne sat, and the winds that reached here were far less than those which whipped out on the open ocean. This was a natural harbor, a safe harbor, as long as no one thought to trespass into it. The capital, as Gilgarran had often told him, was a city of import because men made it so. But why was that? What was it about certain places that men felt made them important? Perhaps it was because, even in their petty bones, they could sense the natural alliances of the elements and their world into a fortuitous crossing, even as they could sense those places which were cursed by negative and evil alliances. Hawthorne was one of the good spots, a fitting capital; a sound place to center and begin things. Just so, Gilgarran had lectured Sevryn.
As he passed though the city walls, a frisson of worry danced down the back of his neck. This was one of those moments when his whole life, and those of the people around him, would change. He did not often have those feelings of being at a crossroads, but when he did, he was never wrong. Only this time, he could not see the way to go. He often didn’t, only that the moment had arrived. He supposed that would have to be enough. How many, after all, knew exactly when they held their fate in their own hands, exclusive of the actions of others? The moment held him longer, imprinting him, tasting as he acknowledged it, before it let him go and faded from his thought. But it had been there, and he had not imagined it, and now he had only to seize it. His fate.
He headed into the trade quarter, searching the side streets for a barely remembered alleyway and shop. He rode by it three times before he found it, but when he did, it leaped into his mind so clearly that he wondered how he had not seen it from the very first. The storefront was bannered: Feldari and Son. Gilgarran’s business had been with the son, who, no doubt, was now the father or perhaps even grandfather of this establishment. He handed Aymaran off to a lad who stood by the front door, waiting for customers, and gave him a coin to keep the horse comfortable. It took a moment to note the shops and storerooms on either side, the alley opening onto the streets, the height of the buildings, the ease or difficulty of gaining the rooftops and the traffic on the main street in general before he entered. This was how Gilgarran had taught him to view the world and this was how he served the queen. No matter what she thought of him.
“You don’t serve me at all doing this,” Lara said sharply. “You waste time, precious time, at a crucial moment. You can’t abandon me now.” Her apartment looked as though she had not allowed any of the maids in, her bed tossed and torn in the room behind her as she sat at her desk, her face half-turned to him as though she might deny he even existed if she blinked. Lamps and candles guttered low, running out of oil or having burned down to mere stubs.
“Osten is dead. Nothing brings him back, and Bistel will go as you appointed him, despite his disagreement with your plans. I’ll be gone but a few days, and you, Lariel, have to learn patience.”
Heat flooded her face, highlighting her cheekbones. “Only my brother dares to talk to me like that.”
“And so he would, if the moon hadn’t gotten into his eyes
and blinded him to everything but Tressandre.”
She slapped a rolled map upon her desk. The candles flickered. The hour was so early that black night still curtained the skies, and she looked to him as though she had not slept at all, which was likely. She reached back and knotted her hair at the nape of her neck to get it out of her way, which only served to the accent the anger in her expression. “You are going.”
“I intend to.”
“I won’t call guards on you, but don’t expect to be forgiven.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I’m not betraying you in any way, and all you have to suffer is my absence for a few days. I can even carry messages to Hawthorne if you wish.”
Neck stiff, she refused to look openly at him. “Tranta stays, and he’ll send out whatever I need to convey.”
“I’ll be back long before the appointed moment.”
“You do this for yourself.”
“For myself and for Rivergrace.” His voice softened a bit. “Osten fell and your life was endangered, and even though Narskap held a knife to Grace’s neck, it was you my body shielded. She saw that. He didn’t harm her, but he might as well have put that knife into her heart.”
“She knows your duty. Perhaps better than you do.”
He cut the air with his hand.
“He would have killed her if he had intended to.” Lara pressed him.
“I won’t bandy his intent with you. We both know they might have wanted a hostage they could dispose of later, and that we are lucky to have only lost Osten. That arrow . . .” He put a hand to where it had bitten into him and then left as if repelled. He had no understanding of that particular miracle. “That was a diabolical weapon.”
“Which did not work on you. Why not?”
“One of many answers I don’t have.”
“Your answers won’t plot out a successful war for me. I need my best men here.”
“I think I can contribute more by doing this first. Tiiva brought them across the border and died for it—” He paused at the thought of the grisly signpost Quendius and Narskap had left behind them, flaunting the wards which had once kept Larandaril safe and inviolate. She obviously held no further use for him. Rivergrace would have joined the remains if they’d taken her. He added more gently, “Quendius has only emphasized the point you already knew, that we have no safe harbor here.”
Lariel toyed with the map she had flattened on her desktop. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“That is between me and Gilgarran.” He smiled thinly.
“An even older loyalty.”
“Yes. I don’t relinquish them lightly, my pledges and loyalties.”
“I’ll hold you to that. Go, then. With my anger and need behind you.”
“May it spur me to do my work all the faster,” he said, bowed, and left her. He had walked but two or three steps down the hall when the door slammed shut behind him as though it had been kicked in frustration.
He could still feel her cold disapproval about him, or perhaps it was just the winter wind off the sea. It might not whip him or billow his cloak as if it were a sail, but it chilled him nonetheless. He read the bannered sign again. Feldari and Son. Gilgarran had trusted him to keep all the contacts secret, to hold close to his chest the network that Gilgarran had spent a lifetime building. His whole teaching with that gentleman existed upon and within secrecy. But if that network were not to be used, why build it? He took a deep breath and entered.
A Kernan, his dark hair peppered with gray and white, his apron rolled about an expanding waist, stopped his sweeping. He wore cuffs over his sleeves to protect them from ink stains. “May I help you, my lord?”
Sevryn recognized him, even if he hadn’t been recognized in turn, although the last time they had met, this Feldari had been perhaps fifteen years of age and now he looked to be in the last of his middle years, heading into the august years of seniorhood. He swept the hood of his cloak from his head to speak the passwords. “Greetings to you, as have been given to your father and your father’s father and his father before that, and as I hope to live to give to your sons and your sons’ sons some day.”
Feldari paled. His dark brown eyes squinted hard at Sevryn as he stumbled a step backward to be both stopped and supported by the high countertop behind him. His broom clattered to the floor.
Sevryn stepped forward quickly to take his elbow. Feldari could not tear his gaze away, his eyes now as wide as if he saw Death itself coming for him. “Have a care, Master,” Sevryn said. “One would think something unusual is happening.”
Feldari clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking as he tried to recover. “Quite right, right indeed. It’s cold outside. We have spiced wine warming on the back hearth. One moment, and I’ll have it fetched for you.” He paused after gulping down another breath. “We . . . I . . . heard he was dead. No word about you nor had your name ever been given. I can’t believe my eyes. You haven’t aged a day since I saw you when I was a knee-high stock boy. Well, perhaps a day or even a year or two, but not . . . not . . .”
“I understand, Master Feldari. That wine would go well about now, don’t you think?”
“Yes. Yes.” He raised his voice. “Alani, two mugs of that mulled wine, and quickly. I have business.” He looked at Sevryn. “Don’t I?”
“You do.”
Some time later, he found himself seated in a quiet vault below ground, tapers lit, with two wooden coffers left on a polished table in front of him. The Feldaris were scribes, record keepers, and contractors; and more than that, they were depositories. Gilgarran had owned several homes, but he did not assume they would remain inviolate while he traveled and plied his trade, so he counted on the discretion of a few businessmen about the lands to hold the goods he wished kept safe. Sevryn wasn’t at all sure what he’d find inside the chests or if it would help him at all with some of the questions for which he knew he had to find answers. If not here, then another day in another city. Sevryn stripped off his riding gloves, put his cloak behind the hilt of his sword, drew a taper close, and opened the first coffer after a bit of tinkering with its lock.
The lid fell back with an aroma of fine wood and pressed herbs drifting up, herbs that killed insects that might find their way inside to feast upon whatever treasures the coffer held. He brushed them off a few sealed purses, their leather strings still supple, their insides still bulging with coins and jewels and whatever else Gilgarran had placed inside. He sorted through the papers at the bottom, an assortment of maps and copies of contracts . . . he paused at that, wondering why, then saw Gilgarran had been keeping a somewhat surreptitious watch on the Oxfort trading empire. The map he wished for, he did not find.
That might make interesting and necessary reading later. What he needed now were the reports based upon which Gilgarran decided to raid the forge above the Silverwing and Andredia Rivers, the forge run in secret by Quendius until the two of them had raided it, causing Gilgarran’s death and Sevryn’s enslavement for nigh on to twenty years. He found a note or two on weapons deals and barters, but nothing upon which Gilgarran would act. His eyes scanned the other missives quickly, including a report speculating on the accession of young Lariel Anderieon to the position of Warrior Queen over the suit of her brother, Jeredon Eladar, and what Talents she might hold that would qualify her. It remained inconclusive, acknowledging that her grandfather had kept her gifts very secret and that only he knew what qualities he searched for in his heir. It had predicted correctly, however, that he would indeed pick Lariel over the more favored Jeredon.
Sevryn made an unhappy noise as he opened the second trunk. More maps and purses of gems and gold coins, money which he had not wanted traced for one reason or another, obviously not trusting the traders’ guild banks with all his goods. He sifted through the paper goods and found no word on the forges at all, no notes on the weaponsmith or the smithy slave working for him who knew how to imbue Demons into metal, let alone how to unbind and free them. What
news or intelligence had set Gilgarran at Quendius’ throat? Who had sent him word on Demons? He shuffled carefully through relics without finding what he needed. No hint at all about who might have been so incredibly strong of will as to be able call forth Cerat and bring him into this world to wreak havoc—and who had left him to possess whoever and whatever he could. Or, most pressing, how to get Cerat to quit his possessions.
He could, he supposed, go to any temple and tell them he was Demon-ridden and see what sort of exorcism they proposed, but he knew he did not trust the Kernan priests any more than he would trust Quendius himself with his life and soul. Nor could he endanger Lariel’s position with a tale of his possession for rumors of that would run like wildfire through the lands, and whatever dislike the people already held for Vaelinars, it would be double-fold. They had been here for centuries: distrusted, disliked, and finally allied and somewhat accepted, but the news of a devil at her side would sweep much of that good away. No, not for himself or Rivergrace would he destroy the frail balance of power the Vaelinars had achieved. No answers here, none that he needed. He would have to keep searching the depositories for Gilgarran that he knew of, and his stomach clenched a bit because he knew that his mentor had revealed much, but not all, to him.
He was going to close the second trunk when a bundle drew his interest.
It was a single folded letter, bound to a small leather book by a faded ribbon, that he reached for and drew out carefully.
He slid the letter free and opened it, paper crinkling faintly. He knew Gilgarran’s handwriting, although this was penned most carefully and legibly, as if intentionally leaving a record.
My Dear Lad,
If you are reading this letter, then I am dead. Unoriginal but true. As I know what it says, it stands to reason I won’t be reading it again. If you have waited years to retrieve this, to protect the integrity of our friends, my hat off to you, and I am long dead.
