by Jenna Rhodes
She had no answer for him, not yet, not in this dream.
He smoothed an unruly lock of hair away from the corner of her eye with his thumb. “I have the scribe here, waiting.”
She blinked and twisted about to see Mallen kneeling nearby, his instruments at the ready. The old scribe winked at her and raised his pen in readiness. Diort rubbed her shoulder. “If you are ready.”
“I dreamed of Bregan.”
With Bregan gone running, disaster could surely follow. “We were following, but you were struck down.”
“But now I know what he is up to, and he must be stopped!”
“Colobrian!”
Soldiers answered, with the aforementioned Colobrian in front. They dropped to their knees. “Abayan Diort.”
“You may encamp here. It’s fruitless for all of us to be in the chase. I will follow, as I am the madman’s guardian.” Diort’s gaze rested on Ceyla a moment. “Any idea in which direction from here?”
She looked into Diort’s eyes. “We need to get to Calcort.”
“We will then.” He waved at Colobrian and the others. “Dissect the trail between the border and Calcort, just a few scouts. Send word if you cross him, though that seems dubious. The oracle sends us to Calcort.”
His men jumped to their feet in obedience.
“Listen, Mallen, and listen well.”
Ceyla shook her head. “We haven’t time.”
“We have as much time as it takes. Your first fear, when you woke, was that you would not remember. Every waking moment takes us that much farther in the direction of your fears. The scribe awaits.”
Ceyla raised a trembling hand and the elderly scribe leaned forward and pushed a water vessel from his blue-veined and ink-stained hand into hers. “I await,” he told her gently.
She spoke then, telling of visions in the past and mostly in the future of the things she had dreamed. She drank only when her voice faded to such a reedy whisper she did not think anyone could hear her, swallowed, and then spoke more.
The wind deposited him on a scruffy bit of herb garden in the corner of the town. He only knew it was an herb garden because of the familiar, and slightly delicious, aromas that enveloped him when he stood up and dusted himself off. The wind slapped him in the chest, and Bregan instantly deduced that he had been an ingrate and dropped to his knees to lift his voice in a prayer of thanks. The God spun away then in a whirlwind, the omission mitigated somewhat, and Bregan got up a bit clumsily and righted himself. He scratched at his head, dislodging another fragrant bit of herb, and peered out of the garden.
It took a moment for him to realize where the whirlwind had borne him, and why. He stood in Calcort, slightly juxtapositioned from the infamous Farbranch Vineyard and Cider House, as he read on a sign which showed only the slightest amount of weathering. The Farbranches, it seemed, had not lived there all that long.
As they should not be living there at all.
Bregan bent to secure the straps on his Vaelinar-made brace that caged his right leg, giving it both strength and flexibility. The metallic cage showed little wear. If he’d had a sword made of the same stuff, he’d rarely have to hone it for sharpness or notches and wear. He did not. The straps, of the best coachmen’s leather, had to be replaced from time to time, but the gadget had done well for him. He ought to take it off and not be the hypocrite he was. But if he took it off, he could neither stand nor walk easily, let alone run or hold a swordsman’s stance, and he did all of those things rather well. Cursed if you do and cursed if you do not, he told himself, and let himself out of the herb garden.
He hadn’t known exactly where he was going when he’d bolted from Diort’s gentle care, only that a destination lay ahead of him and he had to get to it. He still would not have made it, stumbling through the wilderness, if the God of Wind had not picked him up and delivered him. Now that he’d seen the Farbranch name, his duty struck him in the middle of his throbbing forehead.
Tolby Farbranch must die. To that end, he began gathering his power as he walked into the street. Will. Intent. Target. His fingertips tingled as the magic he called to him began answering. He did not, however, turn to the farmhouse and its outbuildings. The target pulled him, as if having caught him up by his earlobe, down the street where he could see a crowd gathered at the pub he knew as the Bucking Bird. In his lesser days, he’d both drunk and gambled there, freely and stupidly. The side of his face felt on fire until he turned directly into both the sun and the face of the small, Calcortian tavern. He could hear the murmured asides of the crowd.
“Hear that? Tolby says the queen lived.”
“Did she? I missed that bit!”
“What troubles would we have at all if not for the bloody Vaelinar?”
“Naw, don’t you believe it. Galdarkans, Bolgers . . . we got trouble aplenty with or without ’em.”
The crowd shouldered one another aside to have a go at the broad windows lining the building, shutters thrown open for listening and viewing. Goblets and cups flashed in hands as frequently as did grumbles.
Then someone stepped back from the window. “That’s it. Beats all, doesn’t it? Took a knife to the throat and she still lives. Th’ black and silver tried to do her in!”
“’Taint natural.”
“That be the truth of it. ’Taint natural.” Talkers and listeners began to drop their empty cups for the tavern servers to retrieve.
A Kernan backed into Bregan who’d moved ever closer to the crowd and the doors. He turned around. “Sorry, master. Feet and hard cider don’t always mix well, aye?” He pulled at his hat brim in sincere apology.
Bregan’s foot stung despite his boot and he lifted a finger—not a hand, mind you—and pointed at his fellow Kernan. A bolt shot out, yellow-gold, thin and fiery, striking the offender in the chest and dropping him to his chin in the dirt road. A woman screamed as she saw him felled.
“Get out of my way,” Bregan ordered. “All of you. Now. This retribution comes from the Gods of Kerith, upon the head of Tolby Farbranch for the lies he serves up in the name of other Gods!”
He raised both his palms and his hands disappeared in a fiery halo of light. The crowd scattered before him, and he inhaled deeply in pride as they recognized his worth. He felt as if he could shut off the light of day, if he wished.
If it be the will of the Gods.
They hadn’t asked him to, yet, nor did he think he had developed the power, but he would attempt it. His chest swelled at the thought. No more trading for mere gold and gems for him. He traded in power. It filled him.
“Tolby Farbranch!” he called. “Come meet your punishment!”
• • •
Ceyla watched as both Diort and his lead tracker leaned out of their saddles to survey the ground ahead of them. Her head still hurt from her dreams of the day before—or perhaps it was from hitting the ground when her body had abruptly folded—but she gained little satisfaction from knowing part of what she’d glimpsed she’d interpreted correctly. Bregan had indeed slipped his caretaker and gone running into the wilderness, with little or no preparation such as a horse or waterskins. Driven, the caretaker had communicated.
Driven mad, she had no doubt. She’d seen Bregan when Diort first came upon him as a Mageborn, and she knew the delusional ravings which ravaged the poor man. She’d seen him taken on a quest against the Farbranch heir which was why they now halted on the trail while her thighs burned like fire from the rough riding to get this far in a hurry.
Diort finally swung off his mount. He wore Galdarkan desert garb, and his voluminous pants hid the muscular lines of his long legs. He went to one knee by the sign, and craned his head to look back at his tracker. “I’ve seen nothing like this. What do you, if anything, make of it?”
“I cannot say, sire, except that it appears he disappeared into thin air.” The tracker pulled a face of b
oth apology and puzzlement before wrapping his scarf about his face.
“Impossible.”
Ceyla let out a sigh. “Ponder it all the two of you want, but I’ve already told you what happened.”
Diort very slowly and deliberately turned to look at her. “Do repeat it then.”
“The Gods picked him up and carried him to Calcort from here.”
The early, barely morning sun glanced off Diort’s frowning face. “We are half a day’s ride from there. At a run.”
“Then we have a chance at making it in time before he kills Tolby and the children.”
“Which you foresaw.”
“You heard my words.” Ceyla’s hand twitched irritably on her reins, and her horse tossed its head from side to side in answer. “I said he would attempt it and the subsequent results. Whether he succeeds or not depends on whether you succeed or not, forewarned as you are.”
“I have to ask myself what is the will of the Gods. If Bregan was transported there . . .” Diort straightened and stepped back to his horse.
“Perhaps it might occur to you to ask if the Gods of the Mageborn are the Gods of Kerith.”
Abayan closed his mouth. He blinked once or twice in thought before tweaking the stirrup to his feet and stepping up. “I had not thought of the enigma in quite that fashion.”
He arranged his reins across his palm. “Perhaps if I do, it would solve a number of questions. If I am to comply with your vision, Oracle, then I should get to Calcort as soon as possible.” Without waiting for an answer, he kicked his horse’s flanks, setting him into a run. Ceyla’s horse threw its head up to answer the challenge, leaping after. Behind her, the tracker let out a smoldering curse and sprang to get aboard.
• • •
Tolby reached the children first before the scream’s ringing tones even finished. He gathered them up in his arms, Evar protesting until Tolby put his tobacco-scented lips to his forehead, saying, “Peace, my boy. Quiet. We’ve trouble.”
Merri stopped in mid-yawn, her chubby little hand curled over her mouth. “Twouble?”
“Indeed.” He kissed her little fist. “Now be quiet for Grampa.”
He watched the room empty, or attempt to empty, through the doors and if not the doors, by the wide open windows. His brace of Vaelinar guards dropped back to flank him.
The taller of the guards, a copper-skinned, hard-muscled woman identified the voice for him. “That’s Master Trader Bregan.”
“And babbling about Gods.”
Tolby hugged his grandchildren closer. To the public, the two were presented as the heir, precious Merri with her Dweller looks, her ears only slightly pointed, her eyes of subdued hues for Vaelinar blood, and her nanny’s son Evarton looking more like Jeredon every day to the point where they would soon not be able to carry off the lie about the twins. Neither were expendable, both equally precious to him and their mother, and Lariel who had never been conscious to meet them. If Bregan had come, deranged of mind and intention, to take those twins away from him, he would have to have all the Gods of this kingdom and a dozen more to get through Tolby Farbranch.
“Tolby Farbranch! Don’t let yourself be branded a coward by the Mageborn!”
He had to admit, Bregan’s voice had a bit of a ring to it. He handed one toddler to one guard and the other to the second. Firmly, he pointed to the backroom. “Back door that way.”
His tone brooked no disagreement. The two Vaelinar guards went to the back.
Tolby headed to the door.
• • •
Nutmeg straightened and rubbed the small of her back, and then rolled her shoulders to ease the strain of working over the loom in front of her. Handmade from the finest woods, the loom occupied a very large part of her workroom as did various children’s toys: blocks, a rocking chair made Dweller child size and a second chair, bigger and more elegant for a Vaelinar child, and various dolls and animals stuffed with colorful patchwork skins. But the room stood absolutely silent when she stopped the loom. Nutmeg pushed her stool away and bent down just to make sure no one curled up on the floor under her work, because Merri often liked to find a corner below and watch the colorful threads at play as the shuttle moved back and forth. Evarton, of course, would have been at the bucket of blocks and toy soldiers while his quieter sister watched the loom. But neither of the children was in the room, and Nutmeg had forgotten when they’d left. Corrie had probably swept in and taken them while she worked out the intricacies of the pattern she wished. Probably. Should have. Undoubtedly, most capably had.
Irritated at herself for not knowing where the toddlers were, Nutmeg tugged at the hairband holding back her curly, unruly mop and walked into the main farmhouse, refastening the wrap about her rebellious crop. She ought to take the shears to it. Summer was coming and with it the hot, lazy days that ripened the fruit in the vineyard and left the back of her neck and even her scalp damp with perspiration. Nights she would tie her hair up so that she could feel a bit of a breeze through open windows and under the small ceiling fan her father had installed in her room. She called gently, “Corrie?” not wanting to wake anyone if the children had gone down for a nap. It was about the time of day that claimed Merri for a short one, although they’d grown so much now she couldn’t predict naptimes.
Corrie came out of the kitchen, drying her fingers on the apron wrapped about her ample waist. “Taking a break, Mistress Nutmeg?”
“And looking for the little ones.”
The Kernan nanny frowned a bit. “Tolby didn’t tell you? He was supposed to! He took them with him down to the Bird for a bit of cider and a walk. He’s giving one of his tales down there.”
Nutmeg sighed. “He’s a gossip, through and through. Is Lily with them?”
“No, your mother’s gone to the shop. The guards followed, though. Do you want me to go fetch them?” She fussed with her apron. “I should not have let them go!”
“I’ll go down and see what is in the wind.” Nutmeg brushed herself off, bits of fluff and floss drifting about her skirts as she did. Corrie dropped a very slight curtsy before returning to the kitchen.
She wasn’t the first nanny they’d had—the first had been a wet nurse who’d moved on when the babies’ teeth came in—but Corrie had left her own family for theirs, and made herself indispensable. Her two . . . the heir and the unspoken of second . . . were a handful. She did not like representing Merri as the only heir to Larandaril and Evarton couldn’t be hidden much longer, she feared, because of his resemblance to his father Jeredon. Merri held some of the same resemblance, but her Dwellerness tended to overwhelm first impressions and Nutmeg did her best to ensure that casual acquaintances did not get close. Already the Vaelinar guards had begun to mumble among themselves. She would have to request Bistane change these two out, if their secret were to be kept. Merri posed as little threat to the ambitions of the ild Fallyn dynasty as possible. She looked Dweller, despite her delicate ears and her shining eyes with their multiple colors. Nutmeg knew that Tressandre had descriptions and perhaps even quick-study portraits of the child, and that Tressandre hopefully felt that she could depose the child easily as not being Jeredon’s or Vaelinar enough to follow as Lariel’s heir. Not that Nutmeg could know a mind as devious as that Vaelinar’s, ever, but it seemed the likeliest reason that Merri’s life had not been taken yet. That and vigilance. Tolby had taken them from Larandaril and, it seemed, just in time after the news came in about the latest attempt on Lara’s life.
Evar, now. Evar would be a real worry in the next few years, especially as he grew. People would say that he did not resemble Corrie at all, who stood in as Evar’s mother, and that he did look like Jeredon; even as that brave man’s face faded from their memories, there were portraits enough of him at Larandaril that would remind them. They’d been lucky in their deception so far: Corrie’s substitution for the first nanny had gone nearly unnoti
ced, the two Kernan women being quite alike in ample stature and graying brunette hair and even brusque manner of speech for both had come from the same region, to the southeast. No, it wasn’t the nanny Nutmeg had to fear. It was her son himself as he daily and undeniably grew into his birthright.
Nutmeg fanned her face as she stepped onto the road and cast her attention to the south, to where the Bucking Bird stood, nearly out of eye and earshot—praise good red apples—for she hated the sounds of drunks and screaming . . .
Screaming! She could see a sudden flurry of action that carried into the road, patrons spilling here, there, and everywhere, and her heart jumped in her chest. She whirled quickly and ran to the cider barn. Nutmeg hung on the barn door, panting. “Dayne! Dayne! They’re attacking the Bucking Bird.”
Verdayne Vantane swung about from the rough-hewn worktable where he had been patiently drying ancient manuscript leaves. His hands shot out to grab both his aryn staff and his sword sheath. “Who? The children?”
“Dayne Vantane, this is serious! I cannot tell from all the yelling and screaming down the road, but Dad is there and the children are there. They toddled after Tolby, and Corrie is frantic. I’m frantic!”
He had already crossed the barn and passed her in the doorway, but took a step back. Sword buckled on, he had fingers free to squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll bring them back,” he told her before breaking into a run straight at the heart of the trouble.
Nutmeg inhaled and followed after.
• • •
“Blasphemers!” screamed Bregan, his thinning hair standing on end as if it had a life of its own as he yelled. The two Vaelinar guards, having taken the children out the back way and told them to run home, came forward now, shoving the crowd aside to reach a clear spot in the street opposite him.
“Master Trader,” called she of the copper skin. “Rest easy. There are none here who wish to argue with you about the Gods.”
