“The city is rich, well organized,” said Will. “Why does he need guards?”
“Ah well – the city is not so wealthy that it can be without soldiers. The preparation of the fountain there means the Emperor will soon come forth.”
“And there is a need for guards at that time?”
“Of course,” Moal sounded surprised. “The times are troubled, my friend. The Emperor may be eternal, but is it not said, “even the mightiest may be slain by a single arrow”? The Noyan will take no chances with the Emperor’s safety.”
* * *
“Come on,” Grabbing at Jed’s arm, Will tugged him from the inn. How did Jed always manage to find an inn? No matter where they went, the man had an almost superhuman ability to find ale.
“Where? What?”
“While you’ve been getting yourself merry,” said Will, “I’ve been gaining information.”
“So’ve I. I know who makes the best beer.”
“We need more coin, right?” said Will.
“I s’pose.”
“I know how to get some.”
“Good for you,” Jed slapped Will on the shoulder. “Then you won’t need me.”
“Hey!” Will grabbed Jed’s sleeve as the man turned back toward the inn. “Come on. You’ll thank me later.”
“You always say that,” grumbled Jed, following. “And I never do.”
* * *
As Moal had said, the Noyan was looking for soldiers. He gestured at them as they came into the room, and said two words. An interpreter stood nearby, a slave with an ugly brand on his cheek. He repeated the words in an assortment of tongues until he reached English.
“Fight. Now.”
“What? Each other?” Will eyed the slightly swaying Jed. The interpreter sighed. “No. Him.”
He pointed to the doorway. There, blocking the light stood the widest man Will had ever seen. Bare-chested, barehanded, he watched Will and Jed as though they were insects. Which, compared to him, thought Will, they might well be. The man smashed his fist into an open palm and barked something in the local tongue.
In a bored voice the interpreter repeated, “Fight.” He nodded at Will. “You first.”
Jed laughed. “Fight that? It’s not a man, it’s a monster.”
Will said nothing but watched the man enter the room. The floor shook. He’s big, thought Will, but is he fast?
“Fight,” roared the enormous warrior, the interpreter repeating like an echo.
“All right,” said Jed. “We understand.”
At the desk the Noyan pushed back his stool as if to leave. Will crouched, a fighter’s stance. He waved the warrior forward with his fingertips and began to circle. Watch him move, he thought.
No time, no time. The man stooped and rushed him. Hell, he’s fast.
“Come on, Will,” called Jed.
Will ducked under the man’s arm, came up under his armpit. He grabbed the wrist, trying to lock his opponent’s arm behind him, pushing forwards against the muscle-bound shoulder. The man shook his hand gently, as if Will were a flea, and pulled free. He pivoted like a snake, grabbed for Will again. Now, though, Will was awake and ready. He ducked again, coming up again under him, one strike to the kidneys, another, left, right. The man grunted, turned again. Will kicked up into the breastbone. Not too hard; too hard could kill.
The man grunted, shook his head in surprise, bore down on him again. Maybe he should have kicked harder.
Block, block against the punches, step forward and crunch! Will banged his head into the man’s nose, ignored the pain, stepped away as the man groaned, swayed and toppled forward.
“Well done, Will.” Jed turned to the startled interpreter. “An’ that’s just for starters. Wait until I’ve finished with him.”
The Noyan jumped up, his stool clattering, and fired a rapid volley of questions at Will. The interpreter struggled to keep up.
“My Lord asks where are you from? He wants to know who taught you to fight like this. He asks which weapons you use.”
Will smiled, rubbed his forehead. Seems as though he’d impressed them.
There was a groan from the floor. The huge warrior put his hand to his head. Blood trickled from his nose, and his eye was swelling blue. Will helped him up. The man weighed a ton. An equerry came running with bandages and helped the giant away.
The interpreter and the commander stared at Will with interest.
“What?” asked Will.
“No one has defeated him,” said the interpreter seriously. “To even touch him is a triumph. We have never seen him knocked out before now. Ever.”
“When can you start?” said the Noyan. Will looked at Jed. “Tomorrow?”
The commander spoke rapidly, the interpreter following as fast as he could. “My Lord says: ‘We have a small squad, elite fighters. Their style is similar to yours. You will join them. Come tomorrow to the Dragon Gate. Ask for their leader, Kasar. He is your age. Like you, he is an efficient fighter. You will have much in common.’” The interpreter paused. “You and Kasar will be an interesting pair. My Lord and I wonder which of you will prove the greater fighter.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Frivolity and Fireworks
At the end of the last Festival, great trees had been harvested, ready for tonight’s bonfire. The wood must have been bone-dry; the flames were so hot that, even up on the balcony, we felt uncomfortably warm.
“I had to stop them,” muttered Father. “They were about to pour pitch on it. To make it burn brighter! Can you imagine it? As it is, the cobbles will be cracked.”
“Relax, Father,” said Owein.
“He ought to be here,” Mother hissed. “I blame you, Dana.”
She was always blaming me. “What do you mean?”
“You humiliated him.”
It was about Alden. Again. Mother’s favorite, the son who loved dressing well and dancing. “It was an accident, Mother.”
Alden had always sulked. Once, when I was five and he was eleven, I’d dropped his toy from a window, smashed it on the flagstones below. He wouldn’t talk to me for a week after that, even though I’d offered him my special doll in exchange.
No doubt he’d arrive when he had a mind to return. I wasn’t going to fret about my brother’s temper, not when there was so much to see. Jugglers tossed burning brands to each other; the fire lit the faces of the audience but not their clothes, so it seemed that the courtyard was filled with a sea of disembodied heads.
A piper stepped into the circle of firelight and played a short lament while the jugglers bowed and bowed again, to howls of applause. Up above the crowd we clapped politely but did not cheer, for that was not becoming for royalty. They must have heard us anyway, or were well schooled, for they bowed again to our balcony.
A group of burly men, their shadows looming behind them, stood at the front of the crowd. They were clothed entirely in leather: aprons, gauntlets, thick chaps over their legs. These were the runners, the carriers of the barrels that yesterday had been covered in pitch and now were placed in a heap beside the gatehouse. Traditionally, the runners were blacksmiths, immensely strong, used to working in heat and fire, chosen from villages around the Kingdom. To be selected as a fire runner was a great honor, and a source of rivalry between neighboring villages.
A drummer entered the fire circle and joined his instrument to the piper; a dull drone with a deep thumping beat. The men stepped up behind them, forming a rough line as the crowd parted, leaving a corridor for the musicians. Stiff-legged in their leather, the smiths walked toward the barrels. They passed out of our gaze, but this was no matter; they’d return soon enough.
Mother pulled my sleeve. “Do you know where he is?”
“He’s probably sulking.”
“Well, he’s sulked for long enough.”
“Send a servant to fetch him, then.”
She snorted. “Imagine the gossips – that the Crown Prince is too petulant to attend the Firelight Festiva
l?”
“Well, and so he is,” I said.
“Maybe so, but I’d rather not emphasize the fact.” She opened her fan with a snap and waved it in irritation.
Right now, I didn’t care about Alden. The men, their pitch-smothered burdens pressed against their chests, entered the fire circle. Another, slimmer figure, the Fire Master, lifted a burning brand ceremoniously above his head and plunged it down onto the first barrel. It burst into flame as the crowd roared and cheered.
Holding the blazing wood in outstretched arms, the smith turned, running through the crowd, toward the gatehouse. The postern gate was open; he stopped there, by that dark break in the lighter gray of the Castle walls, and flung the barrel high. What strength those men must have! It clattered, bouncing down the steep slope of the mount, and plunged into the moat. From here we could see it floating, a distant, flaming spark. The second man followed, the third, the fourth, until finally, there were six barrels aflame on the moat. If they floated all the way around the Castle there would be good luck for the next harvest. Up on the ramparts the guards would keep watch when they could spare an eye from the fireworks.
Finally, the fire runners returned, their shoulders drooped as though they’d run a long race. Some would have burns on their faces or hands and many would have lost their eyebrows. But right now, no one was inspecting faces or eyebrows. For we were waiting impatiently for the highlight of the Festival: the fireworks.
The drummer and piper returned to the fire circle, flanking the Fire Master, a thin shadow against the bonfire’s glow. He waved his stick, struck a spark from the cobbles. The crowd roared, me with them. Mother elbowed me in the ribs. This was real magic! Not the golden showers of light that Rinpoche had showed me, but the conjuring of fire from empty air – this was what I wanted to do.
He struck a second spark, and a third. And finally, it happened; the string of the detonator caught, and the small light traveled, crawling along the line, as the crowd swayed, watching its progress up the wall of the keep, over to the ramparts where it grew and thickened, dividing along the other strings that had been set there. Some burnt fast, others slow. That speed, the Master had told me when I was small, was the art of fire.
“It’s not the striking of sparks, little one,” he’d told me once, when I’d asked him how it was done. “It’s in the tiny strings that the true art lies.”
I hadn’t believe him then and I didn’t today; no mere twist of cord could be as sensational as those frail lights in the darkness.
The flame reached the top and spread, traveling rapidly as the crowd held its breath. Then, “Aah!” we roared, as the first rocket exploded, a shower of green-gold light against the black night sky.
I screamed too. But it was not a gasp of pleasure but a shout of terror, for here was N’tombe at my elbow, appearing from empty air. Her hood was thrown back from her face and her eyes, the only part of her face visible in the dark, were wide and troubled.
Mother’s mouth opened in shock.
“What’s happened?” said Father, sharply.
Another rocket burst into the night as the people roared their approval. Any other time, I thought wildly, someone appearing out of nowhere would be a cause for concern, even panic. But not tonight. Tonight, no one noticed.
“The prisoners,” said N’tombe.
“What of them?” said Father, just as a third rocket lifted and burst, showers of purple flowers falling to the ground like malignant rain.
“They’ve escaped.”
If I hadn’t been staring right at Mother I wouldn’t have noticed it, but I was and I did. A tiny flicker in the corner of her eye. Not a look of surprise or consternation. A stare of relief.
“Can’t you pursue them?” Daddy asked.
The world flashed orange, then red.
“It’s not that simple. They have a hostage. The Crown Prince,” said N’tombe. “Your son.”
Mother swayed and would have fallen but for the press of the crowd. Owein put his arm around her, supporting her as she wilted, turning her face into his shoulder.
“How?” Father asked.
“I’m not sure,” N’tombe didn’t look at Mother. “The guards were drunk, the cells empty. The locks didn’t seem to be forced.”
“Sorcery!” Owein gasped.
My tutor shook her head. “If it was sorcery, I would know. As would the Guardian. We both felt nothing.”
“I’ll come,” said Father, his face flashing white in the shower of sparks that burst over the balcony.
“And I,” Owein was still holding Mother.
Mother shook her head. “No! They’ll kill him!”
“I need Dana,” said N’tombe.
“Dana!” Owein said. “But she’s just a girl!”
N’tombe smiled, her teeth flashing white against the dark of her hood, “I too, am just a girl.”
He swallowed.
“Besides, we can travel unseen. They won’t see us coming.” N’tombe took my shoulder. “Come. Don’t worry,” she added to Father, “I will bring her back.”
And I went, turned inside out, disappearing like the sparks above. The last thing I saw was Mother’s pale face, staring at me.
* * *
I felt queasy. “What did you do?”
“There are gaps in reality,” she said calmly, as though discussing the weather. “I stepped through one.”
“Can I sit down?”
“Of course.” The sky lit briefly in a flash from the fireworks, and I felt the shock of the thudding explosion through the tree trunk I leant against. Trees. She’d brought me to the pleasure wood.
“What are we doing here?”
“This place seems to work for you.”
“We’re supposed to be chasing them,” I shook my head, trying to clear the nausea. “What happened?”
“The cells were empty. And there was no guard. The prisoners were gone.”
“No guard?”
She nodded. “I need you to feel for Alden.”
“Alden and I aren’t the best of friends.”
“Blood calls to blood,” she said firmly. “Just find him, Dana.”
I settled my back against the hard wood of the oak tree. She was right, I always felt relaxed here in my own private woodland kingdom.
Nearby would be the sandy arena, with its straw-leaking dummy and multi-colored roof. I sighed, wishing Will was here, that we could return to training and carry no thought in our heads but the flash of blade, the next strike.
The grass was damp with dew and smelt of soil and growing things. Beneath, the life-giving loam was full of small crawling insects, creeping blind, weaving paths through the dark. I thought of those tunnels, and their small makers, each with their own role in the great play of life.
Like unlocking a door, the world swung open and welcomed me in. I stepped into the brightness, seeing again the golden lines, swaying, leaping from tree to tree, into the ground, arching across the ramparts to join with the singing song of the wild forest.
“Can you find him?” N’tombe asked, a swirling mystery of light beside me.
Alden. I tried not to think of the pretty boy with the golden hair, but of the man who loved games and merriment, dancing and flirting, the one who’d fought with me and lost, laughing even as he failed.
In another world, another reality, lights exploded from the Castle, showering improbable colors overhead.
Alden? Where are you?
It was a waking dream. As Rinpoche had taught me, I leapt into the brilliance.
“Dana?” A whisper of sound, like the sigh of the breeze, but it was enough. I reached for the man who called my name.
N’tombe, cloak spread out behind her like wings, flew beside me in the night. We raced on currents of air, following a heart with a beat like mine.
“Look out!” said N’tombe, covering me with her cloak. A darkness, a fist-shaped hole in the light, stretched toward us and we dived together.
“Faster,” she s
aid.
We flew low, just above the trees, hiding in their brightness. “The ferry will never take them,” she said. “They are trapped.”
But the ferry had brought them here.
“They have my brother.” We traveled fast, but ahead the darkness tumbled faster than the wind; it was like following all the shadows in the world. How could these people move so quickly?
“They’re on the river,” said N’tombe, suddenly.
She was right – it was hard to overlay the geography of the everyday on this uncertain world of billowing light, where everything seemed to shift and change.
“If they’re on the river,” I said, “they have a boat. They might not need the ferry.”
The speck of black moved south, traveling on the wide waterway that linked the Castle to the sea. Instead of the Crossing and the ferry, they were making for the Fens.
One did not think of a river as alive, but as a means to carry goods, or power a mill. Not a thing existing of and for itself. But there was power beneath its smooth surface; this river could break its banks and sweep away a bridge or a house or a city. Swooping above the water, I reached down, trailing my fingers and leaving a white wake behind. The energy of living things is a most potent weapon.
The water fizzed against my hand, cool and damp. Hanging above it like a cloud, I cupped my hands, scooping it up, putting it to my mouth. It tasted of life and green things growing. I reached for more, not because I was thirsty, but because the river felt like an ally; it did not seem to like the boat that passed through it like a knife through flesh. The water did not flow from my fingers but stayed, cuddling into my warmth. I stretched it, shaping it as a cook pulls dough, pulling it longer and wider, until it would no longer fit in my hand but stayed between my cupped palms, a skein of red-gold wool.
What to do? As Rinpoche had taught me, I followed my instinct. Like a fisherman casting a net, I reached out, throwing the river’s mass at the darkness. A wave of light crashing onto the ship, that lifted it, spinning, then ploughed it under.
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 26
