The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  She must have frowned, for Tiiva added, “I hear he asked for ild Fallyn hospitality.”

  “I have no hold on his personal affairs nor would I wish to,” Lariel reminded her aide. “He seems to be returning, at any rate.”

  Dismissed, Tiiva made a shallow curtsy, before almost turning about, and pausing. “I’ll alert the staff to freshen his rooms. Oh, and we need to order a staghorn count. It’s been a handful of years, and I believe you were worried about their restocking. If the herd needs to be thinned, now would be a good time to stock the larder.”

  “Do it, then.” Lariel looked up from the scroll a second time, seeing a faint sheen over the small piece of paper that indicated something hidden for her eyes only had been writ as well, and her gaze met Tiiva’s. “Ah. Would you care to ride out yourself, with a few to assist?”

  “As you wish, Queen Lariel. I will admit that a day or so away from my duties would be most refreshing.”

  Lariel gestured. “Go, then. Take anyone you need but Jeredon.”

  The corner of Tiiva’s mouth twitched ever so slightly before she inclined her head and left, taking the stairs with the same light, deliberate, gown-sweeping steps as she had descended them. Lariel gave her an ever-so-brief glance, weighing her reaction over Jeredon. She noted it as she made her way through the building toward the Rider’s Gate, knowing that her aide seldom showed any emotion and wondering if it had been played out for her, however quickly, on purpose. Jeredon and Tiiva. Not a bad match, if one were to consider matches instead of other business at hand.

  Lariel pushed impatiently through the Rider’s Gate and found Sevryn seated on an upturned crate, harness and saddle in his arms, watching a stable lad trying to coax his horse into behaving. The hot-blooded animal, though covered with trail dust, did not look at all tired, and pranced from side to side, eyeing the lad suspiciously as if he might bite or kick the youth. Sevryn was being no help at all, using his Talent now and then to whisper a word of command only the horse could hear, keeping him in an alert state, ears flicking back and forth to listen and obey.

  Lariel reached over Sevryn’s shoulder and took a firm grip on his ear in a sound pinch. “Let the boy do his work,” she suggested.

  Sevryn froze and cleared his throat. After another pace or two back and forth, the beast began to quiet down and finally dropped his head and let himself be led away. The stable lad did so with a look of quiet triumph on his face. Sevryn waited till they had rounded the corner before shifting his body, removing his ear from her hold. “See that? No harm done. Stuffed him full of confidence.”

  “Like you, that beast of yours is often too full of himself.”

  “That’s why we had him gelded,” Sevryn responded lightly. “Trying to do the same to me?”

  Lariel laughed. “Never.”

  “That is good to know.” He hefted his saddle in his arms. “You look a bit overworked this morning, my queen. I suggest a cold glass of apple cider while I do my duties here and clean up, and then we can talk about my journey. I haven’t much I can tell you, I fear.” They entered the tack room in tandem, and he put his gear up on the pegs and barrels, then turned to her, half smiling. The bustle of stable workers continued beyond them, and the restless kick of a hoof against a wooden wall echoed.

  The smile never reached his eyes. Disturbing eyes, storm-gray and yet one colored except for the pupil, eyes that were not of Vaelinar and held no hint whatsoever of the Talent he carried within his genes. Sevryn was that which no one had run across before, and that very feature which always disturbed her made him invaluable. No Vaelinar would even dare guess that he carried their magic in his veins. Decades of outbreeding on Kerith had proved otherwise. She saw the pink pucker of a new scar along the curve of his throat, and as his attention followed her gaze, he shifted uncomfortably and pulled the collar of his shirt up to cover it.

  “Later, then,” she agreed. “I’ll meet you in the kitchens, since you look underfed as well.”

  She did not hear his answer as one of the stabled horses let out a long whinny, and the tack door closed on her heels as she left. Lariel took up a chair in the kitchen, ignoring the workday around her, and asked for a glass of cider as he’d suggested, dropping the scroll carelessly as she did, and the glass spilled when she reached for it, inundating the message. With a tsk of fuss, Laraiel wiped the scroll and table over quickly.

  Faint words rose to the surface under the wipe of cider, the mild acid proofing the ink he’d used. Ild Fallyn looks to the east. And there are spies in Larandaril. Lady Tressandre sends a request for an Honor Duel with the Warrior Queen.

  Lariel frowned heavily over that last. Duel! Who did Tressandre think she dealt with? No wonder Sevryn did not give words to that last request; once spoken, rumors would spread through the holdings like wildfire. Tressandre made it plain that she chafed under Lariel’s rule in Larandaril. She would take the title from her, if given the opportunity. Well, that opportunity would not be extended! With a mutter, she crumpled the scroll and tossed it in the kitchen fire, watching it flare orange and then turn to blackened ashes as she drank her juice and pretended to warm herself a bit. The juice held no flavor at all as her thoughts mingled with the flame, dancing on the brick hearth. Sevryn had told her three things, one she had feared inevitable, one unthinkable, and the last a total shock to her. Of all places on Kerith she had deemed safe, her own Larandaril was the foremost. Now, it was not. That, too, had been inevitable, she supposed. She knew the moment she stepped outside her holding that the world could not be held secure. But this place, her home, her heart, always had been.

  Till now.

  She finished her juice and set it aside, leaning back in a rare moment of leisure and letting an expression of boredom and relaxation settle on her features, despite her racing mind. When Sevryn came in, she must have looked half asleep, basking in the warmth of the kitchen, for he laughed softly and said, “The kitten has been in the cream, it seems.” He sat down, clothes changed, his hair wet and slicked back, the points of his ears plainly visible and the new scar neatly hidden away from view under a high collar. “Any way I can get a meal now?”

  “Of course.” Lariel raised a finger, and the second cook nodded, grinning, bustling away to the larder and warmer pantry to throw together something for Sevryn. Lariel stood and got a wet cloth, leaning over Sevryn to wipe down the table, explaining, “I spilled my juice. Other than that, your advice was sound.”

  “Can’t have a Warrior Queen looking peaked.” He crossed his legs at his ankles. “Where is Jeredon?”

  “Out training. How were the roads?”

  “Muddy.” Sevryn eyed his boots, which he’d scraped though they could hardly be called spotless, and tapped the top of them. “Should be a good planting year if it lightens up, otherwise rust will get to the crops.”

  She nodded. “So I have heard. You’re coming with me to Calcort?”

  He winced slightly, one hand going almost unconsciously to his rib cage and rubbing there. “If you need me, I will attend.”

  “I do. I need as many ears as I can have about me, for there is much to hear in the provinces these days. I intend on going to the Conference there. It’s been a session or two since I’ve gone. Summer court in Calcort seems prudent.”

  He shrugged as if disinterested. “Rumors only, m’lady queen. Always rumors. It keeps the rest of us from being bored to death.” He dropped his crossed feet squarely to the floor, sitting up and paying attention only when the second cook approached with a platter and crockery for eating. Sevryn managed a crooked smile. “This business comes first, if you don’t mind.”

  Lariel speared a bowl of berries from his platter, saying, “I don’t mind at all.”

  They sat in silence, eating, Lariel wondering if he had anything further to tell her, and he no doubt wondering if he really had to return to Calcort, where the Kobrir assassin had gone after her and he’d stood in the way. She smiled faintly at the memory, at chance meetings, and fate
. Using her fingers, she ate her berries, enjoying the burst of sweet yet tart flavor in her mouth, promising of lusher, riper flavor yet to come. They both ate, Sevryn heavily and she lightly, discussing things that seemed important but weren’t really, trading insignificant information, his attention on devouring his meal and hers on wondering when and where they could speak freely.

  Time, she realized, was no longer on her side. Even a river did not flow forever.

  Keldan saw the blaze from the treetop in which he perched, smoke-colored against the looming rain moving in, and an orange glow flickering wildly off the storm’s edge. He blinked and rubbed his eyes to be sure he saw what he did, then yelled down. “Da! Da! Tolby. The beacon’s afire!” He flew out of the tree limbs in a mad scramble, letting the last branch whip him to the ground where he landed in a crouch and straightened. His father turned slowly, expression not comprehending, and Keldan grabbed him by his coat flaps to face the northern horizon.

  “The beacon is burning!” When Tolby’s eyes widened in realization, Keldan let go, saying, “I’ll run and get Hos and Garner,” legs bunched to dash away even as he spoke.

  Tolby grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, stopping Keldan in his tracks. He looked toward the north with eyes gone dead. “Your brother already knows. He had militia patrol today.” Then he let go and said, “Get Garner and your mother and the girls to the house. Now. And don’t the two of you lads be gadding off. I want you here. Understand?”

  Keldan stared into his da’s face and nodded slowly. He’d seen his father angry before, but he’d never seen him frightened. Tolby let go with a little shake and pushed him off, and Keldan ran like he’d never run before, his shirttail flapping behind him. Tolby stared for a long moment at the beacon hill, the brilliant oranges of the flame stark against the edge of the storm clouds behind it, black and gray. It could be something as simple as a small party of Bolgers out looking for cider again, or it could be something unthinkable. He turned decisively, throwing his tools into the cart bed and startling the pony who flung his head high against the harness before swinging himself into the cart, leaving behind ladders and baskets. The pony let fly with his heels before lunging into the harness and rattling down the orchard lane with all the speed of his shaggy little body, cart jolting along after. Tolby reined him toward Beacon Hill.

  Too late Hosmer realized that two kinds of hounds followed, the bellers, those that howled his trail back to the riders, and the stalkers. It had been a stalker that nearly took him down at the beacon and as his bone-tired mount tried to pick a way down the hill, the roar of the bonfire growing fainter and fainter, another leaped at them.

  Pain ran from his foot to his waist as jaws clamped down and then ripped, the thrust of sudden weight bowing the horse to its knees and tearing Hosmer out of the saddle. He thrust the torch down, sweeping the flame past the hound’s ear and across his body with a scream of rage. Hosmer let go the reins, falling free, and rolling away from both beast and horse. The gelding scrambled to his hooves, eyes wild, and kicked out, scoring the hound across the hindquarters as it swung about to turn on Hosmer.

  He’d dropped the torch. It lay on the ground between them, orange flame sputtering a bit in the dampness of trampled grass and dirt. The hound yelped and snapped as it rolled from the kick, and the horse bucked away, but the hound swung about on Hosmer again, intent on its true and only quarry. The hot blood and flesh of the horse would fall to its jaws later, its glowing yellow eyes seemed to tell Hosmer, but he was its prey now. It dropped to a low crouch, growling with a deep bass tone, and crept after him.

  Hosmer crawled on his back, elbows under him, one hand bent stiffly, trying to free his sword. The harness and belt twisted about him, and he couldn’t grasp it. He stayed down only because it kept the beast off him for a few more moments, and because he was listening to the sounds about him. How many stalkers were near? How long did he have before he’d be swarmed, with no hope at all? He thrashed, longcoat and sword harness constricting him as he flailed. The hound snarled, legs bunching for a pounce. He got the hilt of his sword in hand, finally, cold metal filling his palm, and he coiled his fingers about it.

  They both leaped at the same moment. Hosmer kicked, shoving his boot under the torch, flinging it upward, as he threw the rest of his body up. The torch flew into the hound’s arcing body, flame spewing across the beast’s sleek skin as it lunged after Hosmer. The hound swerved just a hair, enough that Hosmer could parry with his short sword, and he moved with the weight of the beast, letting it carry past him, slicing as they moved. The torch bounced to a stop across his boots, as the hound fell off the blade to the ground and rolled, snarling in pain and fury. It whirled about and charged.

  He snatched up the torch and braced himself. Jaws stretched wide, huge enough to bring down a bull, and he stared down them. He wanted to slice, letting the hound’s momentum carry him past again, but the beast wrenched himself in mid-leap, squaring himself off, and Hosmer found himself off-balance. Orange-yellow eyes glowed with a fierce intelligence, jaws gaping wide, ivory fangs gleaming. He struck with both hands, with nothing left to guard his throat as the hound met him face-to-face. Hot drool dropped onto his face and teeth sank into his throat as he fell back, hitting the ground hard, breath swooshing out of him, waiting for the jaws to close.

  They never did.

  The beast’s weight pinned him down as the light in its eyes faded and its muscles went slack and jaws let loose. Hosmer gasped for breath, choking at the fetid smell of the hound, and managed to wiggle from underneath, aching in every joint. He did not know if the torch, sunk deep in the earlier gash, killed it, or if it was the sword plunged into its barrel-wide chest.

  Nor did it matter. He tugged his sword loose and staggered back. His horse whickered and came near, nostrils still aflare with the smell of the hound. He dragged himself astride, struggling to get his sword back in its sheath as the horse moved away, quickly, as though the smell of blood and death could be outpaced.

  Somewhere down the hill, each step jolting him in the saddle, Hosmer realized his right pants leg had gone all slick with wetness. He leaned over to look at himself, and saw blood dripping along the cuff and boot shank to the ground. His horse came to a stop as his weight shifted, throwing his head up nervously, nostrils wide both with the need to breathe and with the scent of blood on them both. Hosmer rubbed the palm of his hand over his face. He couldn’t ask more of his horse who’d already given so much. He’d either make it home . . . or he wouldn’t. He nudged the fingers of his hand downward, trying to see where the blood began, and found a long gash in the fabric, raw skin showing through, and sucked a sigh of pain. He could wrap it, but he couldn’t tie it off.

  He shrugged out of his longcoat, binding his leg as well as he could, the gash running from mid-thigh to mid-calf. He couldn’t probe to see how deep it was, just bending slightly to tug his coat about it made his head spin and his ears pound with that loud deafness that came just before passing out. He had to stay on the horse or that which had torn the Barrels apart would catch him.

  He lifted the reins again, and his horse began to pick his way along the slope he had avoided again, wheezing now and then as they traversed the long way down. The horse’s legs trembled as they moved and Hosmer talked to him quietly, a running litany of encouragement and, well, memory. He talked to him of the orchards and the beehives they kept, sweet with honey, and the Silverwing in all its seasons. He talked of harvest and making cider, of breaking ground for new trees, of budding time and flowers. He reminded the horse of Nutmeg and quiet Rivergrace, of the love between his mother and father, and the strength the two of them gave all of them. He talked until his throat grew dry and hoarse and he could talk no longer, but continued in a broken whisper, guiding his mount downward step by step, feeling his leg bleed out and his mind grow weak. His thoughts faded, then, slowly, his words.

  He woke suddenly, grabbing for mane and reins, about to slip from the saddle altogether, and fo
und himself in the thick brush and groves at the base of the hills. His horse snorted as the bit jerked in his mouth, and Hosmer righted himself. He could hear the renewed howling behind him, far behind, but it wouldn’t stay far behind long. He closed his eyes.

  Da, forgive me, but I can’t lead them to you . . .

  He leaned over the weary horse’s neck, his voice coming out in a faint croak. “Take me where they won’t find my body,” he managed, reining the horse away from the small track which would lead to the river road that led home. The horse took a reluctant step forward, then swerved abruptly, almost unseating Hosmer altogether. A figure emerged from the blur of his weariness.

  “Well done, lad, but not done enough.” A long hand reached up to snare the bridle, pulling the horse to a stop in his tracks, and Hosmer looked down into a remarkable face, elven, with eyes of gray and black and white lightning in them. The Stranger ran his free hand along the horse’s head, a soothing stroke, and both of them relaxed at his touch. “A fine horse you have, but you’re not asking enough of him. He is tashya bred. He has the bottom in him to take you home, and enough left to keep you ahead of the pack.” The other continued to stroke Hosmer’s mount. “You’ve not asked enough of yourself either. Go home, lad. It was ill luck that crossed our paths this day. The hunters are after me, but they found you and others. They’re Ravers and they’ll not stop till they’ve taken down all the quarry within reach of here. You must get home, and keep your family safe.”

  “I’ll lead them after me,” Hosmer husked in protest.

  “No. They already have your home in their sights. Trust me on this. I cannot stop them, although I will delay them a bit.” The Vaelinar let go of the bridle, placing the palm of his hand under the horse’s jaw and murmuring a few soft words in his lilting language that Hosmer did not understand, but the horse seemed to draw in. He threw his head up with a proud whinny.