He only hoped that Tiercel would be able to get more money in Ysterialpoerin. He’d drawn the last of his own allowance in Sentarshadeen, and traveling was more expensive than he’d ever imagined. Growing up, he’d never given a thought to the fact that Tiercel was noble-born while he was “merely” a member of the Merchant Class—since in reality, the Harbormaster’s Son would be more important in the City, someday, than the son of a Magistrate’s Clerk, unless Tiercel became a Magistrate himself—which seemed very unlikely now.
But if Harrier’s family was important, well, then he’d always known that Tiercel’s was wealthy, though they’d always had the good manners not to flaunt their wealth. And that was a very good thing, since the two of them were certainly going to need more money soon. Their journey wasn’t even half over.
It had been Meadowbloom when they left Armethalieh. They’d traveled through Sunkindle and most of Fruits, and would be lucky to reach Ysterialpoerin before the end of Harvest. And even then their trip wouldn’t be over. Far from it. He wondered when the Gatekeeper was closed by weather. Vintage? Or earlier? Were they running out of time to reach their final destination?
And even when they’d gotten where they were going, and did whatever they had to do there, they still had to get back again.
Not this year, he thought resignedly. He hoped the Elves wanted houseguests, because he wasn’t sure what else they were going to do once they got where they were going except wait for Windrack or even Sunkindle to unfreeze the southwestern passes again. If they even got there in the first place.
“I’m sure the pass is well-patroled,” Tiercel said absently. “Why do you suppose the wolves came down into the farms this year?”
Harrier sighed. It was obvious, but he did wish Tiercel hadn’t brought it up.
“Because something’s chasing them, Tyr. And whatever it is, I really don’t want to meet it.”
CENTURIES ago, travel through the Mystrals had been difficult and dangerous, but now—at least in summer—the journey was quick and easy, and they accomplished in days what had taken ancient travelers sennights and more. But in the end, Harrier won his argument. They ended up staying in inns through the Mystrals without Harrier having to argue Tiercel into it, because the Mountain Patrol absolutely forbade them to camp, requiring them to check in each night at one of the Traveler’s Inns. When Tiercel asked why, he was told that there had already been several deaths earlier in the year from wild animal attacks. Travelers were being strongly encouraged to organize themselves into large parties for their own safety, and night travel was strictly forbidden. There was even talk of closing the Pass entirely to pleasure travel.
(“Not that this is a pleasure,” Harrier had muttered.)
Tiercel had been miserable at the thought of being forced to sleep among people. He didn’t mention whether he still had the dreams since he’d started wearing Roneida’s talisman, but Harrier suspected that he did. There were mornings when Tiercel woke up looking as if he hadn’t slept at all, and Harrier had to take care of all of the work of saddling the horses and the packmule, since anything that Tiercel did would simply have had to be re-done anyway.
Despite Tiercel’s misery at their accommodations, Harrier was just as glad to be indoors. Even in the inns, they could hear the wolves howling in the night.
BECAUSE of the Mountain Patrol’s new regulations, the mountain inns they stopped at were (so they were told) fuller than usual. Harrier got the opportunity to catch up on all the gossip they’d missed crossing the Plains—and to hear the first news from the East.
“It’s going to be the ruin of my master, I assure you.” The speaker sounded cheerful, for all that he was prophesying immanent doom. Harrier recognized him, from what others had said, as the Wagon-master of a westbound train. He eavesdropped shamelessly.
“Ah, Kerreld, you say that every year.”
“But Baald, this year it happens to be true! In all my years bringing the early harvest down over the mountain, I have never seen the crops in the Dragon’s Tail fail so spectacularly! With the drought, no one expected the rice to do well, but then frosts killed most of the naranjes and my master hoped that the wheat and the apples would make up for it, though he wouldn’t be able to compete in the first markets there, of course. But half the fields of summerwheat didn’t even come up, and as for the apples . . . I would be ashamed to feed them to my horses!”
“Your horses are unlikely to be in the markets. People will buy them. If they can afford them.”
Harrier heard both men sigh.
“With what I’ve had to pay for extra guards on my wagons—” Baald said, sighing. “Guards! On the Delfier Road! The price of a bolt of Selken velvet will be triple in Ysterialpoerin what it was last year.”
“Triple?” Kerreld said, sounding surprised. “You’re gouging them, my friend.”
Baald snorted rudely. “Not I, but those Light-blasted Selkens! My factor in Sentarshadeen says the cost at dockside Armethalieh has doubled for Selken wares since the spring. Fewer ships from across the sea are coming into Port. No one knows why, only that the list of Missing Ships is longer than it’s ever been. But if the goods aren’t there to buy, costs must be passed along.”
Kerreld chuckled sourly. “Not that anyone will believe that, when a bushel of apples costs four times what it did last year. My master will be lucky not to spend all his time in Magistrates’ Court. Before, of course, he must declare bankruptcy.”
Baald clapped Kerreld on the shoulder. “There will still be work for the likes of us. And before you must seek new employment, I believe it is your turn to buy the next round.”
The two men moved off, leaving Harrier thinking hard.
Once he would have dismissed the talk of drought and blight out of hand as nothing to do with him. But the talk of the late frost reminded him of the cold back at the Inn of the Three Trees that had nearly killed all of them.
Could this, too, have something to do with magic?
The talk of the missing ships worried him far more, for it touched on something he knew well. Travel across the Deep Ocean was never completely safe, of course, and a ship or two was lost each year or so to storms. But to lose so many that it was actually affecting the price of foreign goods at dockside?
That wasn’t natural.
If it was no longer safe to sail to Armethalieh, the Selkens would stop coming. Perhaps they already had. The gossip he’d just heard was at least a couple of moonturns old—the Harbormaster’s son certainly knew how long it took a wagonload of freight to go from Armathalieh to Ysterialpoerin as well as he knew his sums and letters.
Harrier sighed, draining his tankard of cider. Should he tell Tiercel about this? Probably not. He’d find out on his own soon enough. And it wasn’t as if there were anything either of them could do about it.
ON the far side of the Mystrals, the land was still thickly-forested, and it was easy for Tiercel to imagine the great battles that had taken place here against the forces of the Endarkened. Unlike the west, the east was only lightly-settled; outside of the irregular triangle of land called the Dragon’s Tail defined by the eastern three of the Nine Cities, with Ysterialpoerin at its base, Windalorianan to the north, and Deskethomaynel to the south, the land beyond the Mystrals was much as it had been a thousand years ago.
Fortunately for them, their path took them directly through the heart of the settled lands: up the Dragon’s Gate Road to Ysterialpoerin.
After that, they would take the Triad Road from Ysterialpoerin toward Windalorianan. In Windalorianan, if the weather held, they could take the Bazrahil Road through the Gatekeeper Pass and head through the mountains toward Pelashia’s Veil.
There weren’t any maps after that.
TIERCEL hoped that even if he couldn’t get more money at the Banking House here, that the remains of their funds would stretch to at least a sennight in Ysterialpoerin. After so many sennights on the road, both they and their animals were tired, and the hardest part of the
journey lay ahead. He and Harrier had learned the names and locations of some cheap safe inns that catered to travelers, and he still had a few silver unicorns in his pouch.
But to travel farther would require more than a few silver unicorns. Pack horses, warm clothes, a lot of supplies . . . things that would require him not only to draw against his quarterly allowance, but against a portion of his inheritance as well. That had been available to him since his last Naming Day, since Lord Rolfort had felt that Tiercel should be aware of what his position in the City would someday be, and begin to learn to manage his own wealth responsibly. He’d always known that his father could revoke the privilege if he abused it, and he certainly never had. He only hoped that the money was there now.
And that Lord Rolfort simply hadn’t sent orders to take anyone into custody who called for it.
There was no way to know in advance.
And as much as he hated the idea of stopping in a city—where any sort of disaster could happen at any moment—Tiercel actually did want to consult the Great Library in Ysterialpoerin. Before the Elves had given the city to Men, it had been—so the ancient legends said—the capital of their empire, where all their ancient learning was stored. For a century after the Great Flowering, Elves and Men had lived together, as Elves had taught Mankind the secrets of their ancient learning before withdrawing over the mountains to the east. If there were books from before the Flowering in Armethalieh, there might be more in Ysterialpoerin. Elven books.
Maybe there was some shortcut to the Elven Lands.
He hadn’t said anything to Harrier, but whatever the talismans Roneida gave them were for, it didn’t seem to have had any real effect on the dream-visions he was having. And now that he suspected the Fire Woman was one of the Endarkened, the dreams were much worse.
It wasn’t so much that their content had changed—because it hadn’t—but the way he felt about it had.
All his life the Endarkened had been the monsters that the Blessed Saint Idalia and Knight-Mage Kellen, the Poor Orphan Boy, had destroyed to bring about the Great Flowering a millennium ago; nothing scarier than sugar decorations on Festival cakes, or the paper demons in Festival plays. Harmless and kind of exciting. When he’d been a child, Tiercel had played at Knights and Endarkened with his sisters, and of course he’d always made them be the Endarkened.
But now the Endarkened weren’t wondertale monsters any more. They were in his dreams. They were possible. They might be coming back. If he was guessing right.
He didn’t want everything to depend on whether or not he was guessing right. Having the Magegift didn’t count. It only made sense that hundreds of people might be born with it every year and just never notice. He wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t started messing around with the High Magick, would he? And the Goblins, and the kraken, and the wolves being chased down out of the mountains by something . . . that didn’t have to mean that the Endarkened were somehow being reborn, did it?
You might be able to fool Harrier with that argument, but you can’t fool yourself. If it’s not the Endarkened, it’s something Dark. And if it’s not coming this year, or even this century, it’s still coming. And the Fire Woman is definitely part of it. Who was she summoning? And what was she going to do with him when she got her hands on him? Tiercel had absolutely no idea, except that it was something bad.
What was worse—because the danger was more personal—was that he still had the sense of being watched. Whatever was stalking him—for whatever reason—was still out there. It was only a matter of time before it came after him—after both of them—again.
MIGHT as well get it over with, he thought nervously.
The Great Armethalieh Counting House had offices everywhere in the Nine Cities. It held all the wealth of the Nine, and bound them together in a web of commerce and trade.
They’d stopped first to find a lodging for the next few days, and a place to stable their horses. Harrier had paid close attention to the gossip in the inns through the pass, and was able to direct them to one that was both cheap and clean. It was far from quiet, and there was certainly no attached bath, but they were able to wash the worst of their journey-grime from them, and ask directions to the Counting House.
“Are you sure this is the brightest thing you’ve ever done?” Harrier asked. Tiercel had insisted on going in alone, warning Harrier that he might not be coming out. Though what Harrier could do in that case, other than throw himself on the mercy of the nearest Magistrate, Tiercel wasn’t entirely certain.
“We’ll be starving in the streets in another sennight if I don’t. In a moonturn if we sell the horses, maybe,” Tiercel said grimly. “Besides. That’s only the worst that could happen.”
“My Da would do it,” Harrier said, with feeling.
“He’d be afraid you’d buy a ship and turn pirate if you could get your hands on that much money,” Tiercel gibed.
“Independent trader,” Harrier corrected, with a faint smile. “And you know, I still don’t see why he took against the idea so.”
“You were twelve.” Tiercel sighed. “I’m going now.”
“Light be with you,” Harrier said automatically. “Ah, not that you’re going to need it, of course.”
Tiercel raised a hand in salute and walked into the building.
ALL of the Counting Houses were built in much the same style. He went first to the desk of the Junior Clerk and identified himself—presenting his signet ring as proof—and signed the book. From there he was passed to a Senior Clerk—to whom he confided his business—and from there to a Director of the Bank, who took him into an inner office.
“Quite a large withdrawal for a young man such as yourself,” Director Bernun said idly. “You are making inroads upon your principal.”
It was a master merchant banker’s talk, and Tiercel was familiar with it. “I expect to recover from it soon. Meanwhile, I am traveling, and my expenses are heavy.”
There was a knock at the door, but it was only a clerk carrying a tray. On it were several bags of coin—the funds Tiercel had requested, and he had specified that most of it should come in small denominations—stars and unicorns—as few folk could make change when confronted with a Golden Sun. But there was a bag of Golden Suns as well.
There were also two thick bundles of wax-sealed parchment. With a thrill of shock, Tiercel recognized his father’s seal.
“Letters,” Director Bernun said. “For you and a Master Harrier—your traveling companion, I presume. They arrived a moonturn past—by post-rider, so the news from home will be fresh.”
“Thank you,” Tiercel said. He picked up the two letters and tucked them into his tunic. They were heavy, and thick, and he could not imagine what it must have cost to send them by post-rider all the way from Armethalieh. If they had come a moonturn ago, they must have been written soon after his and Harrier’s letters reached Armethalieh. Though the letter was proof of the fact that his father accepted what he was doing, they didn’t really make him feel much better.
He tucked the money away into his belt-pouches—it made a heavy load—and thanked Director Bernun once again for his help. He could tell that the man was puzzled by the mystery that he represented but—in the tactful fashion of all good men of business everywhere—Bernun asked no further questions. Still, Tiercel didn’t really breathe easier until he was outside once more.
“LETTERS from home,” he said, handing Harrier his as he walked down the steps.
Harrier took it, looking as if he’d rather have been handed a live snake. “My Da wrote me a letter?” he asked.
“Someone using the Harbormaster’s Seal did. My father wrote me, too. So we know they got our letters.”
Harrier swallowed nervously and made no move to open his letter. “So. Where shall we go now? The Great Library?”
“No.”
“I need to report a death,” Tiercel said to the clerk on duty.
“This is the Guildhouse of the Forest Watch, not the City Watch
. I can have someone conduct you—” The clerk was about their own age. Like Simera had, he wore the unadorned green leathers of a Student Forester. He regarded Tiercel sympathetically, obviously thinking him some lost visitor to the city.
“She was a Forester. Her name was Simera.”
The boy got to his feet. “Please come with me.”
He led them further into the building, to another room where a graying bearded Centaur stood behind a high table. He, too, wore the green tunic and tabard of the Forest Watch, but there was an elaborate silver brooch on the shoulder of the tabard.
“These men have come to report the death of a Watchman, Watch Commander Nevus,” the boy said.
“Very well,” Nevus said, nodding. “I’ll take care of it.”
The boy bowed and retreated, closing the door to the room behind him.
“It’s a hard thing to lose one of our Watchmen. When we do, so often we never hear anything at all. I shall be grateful for all that you can tell me. Were you able to recover his badge?” He tapped the gleaming oval of silver metal on the left breast of his tunic.
Harrier and Tiercel looked at each other.
“I don’t think she had one yet,” Tiercel said quietly. “She was still an Apprentice. Her name was Simera.”
Under Nevus’s careful questioning, the story was quickly told. They left out Tiercel’s spells, saying only that Simera and Harrier had managed to kill all of the attackers with sword and arrows. It was almost true.
“At Windy Meadows?” Nevus asked.
“A little outside it, I think,” Harrier answered. “We might have made it a mile up the road before they took down our pack-pony. But everyone in the town was gone when we arrived there.”
The Enduring Flame Trilogy 001 - The Phoenix Unchained Page 22
