“Which way?” Jermain shouted.
“South.” Ranlyn’s voice was almost lost beneath the sound of the horses’ hooves. Behind them, the noise of the camp faded as they drew away from it.
Jermain nodded and dropped back to let his friend lead. The Hoven-Thalar was by far the better horseman and, in addition, Jermain had not been able to replace Blackflame’s bridle. Though the horse was well trained and responsive, it required concentration to guide him using only knees and voice.
As soon as they were well away from the camp, Ranlyn turned west. Jermain’s surprise at this choice of direction faded quickly. Their pursuers would expect the fugitives to head south, or southeast, to join the rest of the Hoven-Thalar; with luck, they might be confused long enough to give Jermain and Ranlyn a good start, perhaps even long enough for the fugitives to cross the border into Sevairn. Not that Sevairn was much safer for Jermain than the vicinity of Carachel’s army, but at least the Border Guards along this part of the Sevairn border were unlikely to be actively looking for him.
They crashed onward, more interested in speed than silence. As the trees grew denser, the ride became a nightmarish echo of his flight from the Border Guards almost a month before. This time the immediate enemy was not their pursuers but the gradually deepening twilight. Travel at night would be almost impossible in this forest, yet they could not afford to be too close to Carachel’s army when daylight came. There were other similarities, though. Chief among them was the fact that once again Jermain had been betrayed by a man he trusted, one he had thought honorable and worthy of respect. By a friend. He closed his mind to the cold knot of bitterness, and concentrated on riding.
As the daylight grew dimmer, Ranlyn and Jermain slowed their mounts, until finally they were moving no faster than a walk. Ranlyn still led the way, and from the twists and turns he was making, Jermain guessed that the nomad had some goal in mind. He was, therefore, not surprised when, just before it became too dark to travel safely, they reached a small stream.
The two men dismounted. They stood in silence while the horses drank, then Ranlyn said quietly into the darkness, “A burden shared is less than half as heavy. Will you speak of what troubles you?”
Jermain frowned. Was he so easy to read? “What ‘troubles’ me is what might have happened. It’s as well that you came when you did.”
“Ah.” Ranlyn paused, then said softly, “I fear I have brought grief upon you, friend of my blood. For that, I sorrow.”
“It is my fault, not yours! How could I have been so blind? Carachel . . .”
“Do not blame yourself for having been deceived. A man who can so greatly deceive himself must indeed be skilled in lies.”
“Carachel knows exactly what he is doing! Don’t try to excuse me that way. Even his wife would condemn him if she could; she tried to make me listen and I refused.”
“Perhaps he does know. Yet I have seen more of him than you realize, and I think he has for so long thought himself a man of virtue much misunderstood that he does not recognize what he has now become. And I think he longs for companionship; I saw grief in his face when he knew your rejection.”
“You defend him? He would have destroyed the Hoven-Thalar completely!”
“Have I not made use of him in preserving my people, even as he would have used me in preserving his?” Ranlyn replied. “Yet I do not seek to justify him; I say only that he may once have been a man of goodness, and still thinks himself so.”
“I do not believe it,” Jermain said in a flat voice.
Ranlyn’s head turned to study Jermain through the gloom, and Jermain’s lips tightened. This subject was not of his choosing; he had no desire to speak of Carachel now, not to anyone, and to Ranlyn least of all.
But Ranlyn did not continue the conversation, as Jermain had expected. Instead, he inclined his head and held it briefly bowed, then turned and began unsaddling his horse. A little irritated, and unable to say why, Jermain did likewise.
They spent a cold, uncomfortable night beside the stream. As soon as it began to grow light, they saddled their horses and went on, riding in the stream itself to hide their trail from their pursuers. Blackflame wore a spare bridle from Ranlyn’s pack; it made the ride considerably simpler for Jermain.
They rode at a steady pace, rather than trying to gallop through the water, and again Jermain was reminded of a recent journey. This time, the memory was of his trip north with Carachel and the fellowship they had shared during their morning rides, before Carachel had donned the serpent ring and cast his traveling spell. . . . Jermain thrust the memory of friendship out of his mind and nudged Blackflame to a faster walk. In a moment, he was beside Ranlyn.
“We have a problem,” Jermain said without preamble, and in a few terse sentences described the way Carachel had compressed their journey. “And there’s no way we can outride that,” he finished.
“Nor is there need to,” Ranlyn replied. “Be at ease; I have dealt with such as he in times past, and the wearers of the Ring of Two Serpents hold no power without their talismans. He shall cast no spells until he finds us and reclaims his ring; that is the chief limit of the power of the Servants of the Red Plague.”
Uneasily, Jermain looked down at his belt pouch, and another thought struck him. “Then Carachel won’t stop looking for us after a day or two. He’ll keep after us until he gets it back.”
“Yes.”
“Well, at least he’ll have a hard time catching us if he can’t use magic. No one in that camp has a mount as good as these. And unless he has better trackers than I think he does, he’ll have to be lucky even to find us in this forest.”
“I would not say so much. We carry the ring, and it calls to him. He will come for it if he can, but it leaves no easy trail for him to follow, only a pulling at the strings of the heart. We can avoid him for many days.”
“Wonderful,” Jermain said sarcastically. “I already have one king trying to kill me; I didn’t need another. Especially not one who’s a wizard as well. It’s a strange debt clearing you’ve given me that brings danger at our heels, and not one I’d have chosen willingly.”
For the first time, Ranlyn looked disturbed. “Are you not under the protection of the Lady of the Tower? It was her amulet that guarded you against the wizard; I am sure of it!”
“The Lady of the . . .” Suddenly the pieces fell together in Jermain’s mind, and he stared at Ranlyn in consternation. “Amberglas?”
Ranlyn nodded. “Indeed yes. She has long been a friend to me and my clan.”
“Then Amberglas is the one who promised you safe passage through Fenegrik Swamp?” Jermain found it difficult to reconcile the power such a promise implied with his memory of Amberglas.
“Have I not said it? She owed no debt to us, yet she pledged us her help against the Red Plague. The Hoven-Thalar debt to her is great.”
“I see.” Jermain did not feel capable of a more complete response. He remembered his conversation with Amberglas about his travels among the nomads, and wondered if she, too, had tried to use him. But she had asked nothing of him, and if she had told him less than she might have, it was only prudent to keep such plans secret from a chance-met stranger. He smiled slightly to think of Amberglas as prudent.
Abruptly, Jermain frowned. He knew that Amberglas was not the scatter wit she seemed, but it was all too easy to think more of her apparent vagueness than of the abilities she displayed less frequently. He would have to be careful not to underestimate her, even if it was unlikely that they would meet again. His frown deepened. His judgment seemed rather poorer than usual lately. He had been mistaken first about Amberglas, then Carachel. And about Eltiron before that.
Jermain shook his head angrily, trying to dismiss the unwelcome thoughts of Carachel and Eltiron. Ranlyn looked at him inquiringly, but he shook his head again and slowed Blackflame briefly, so that they returned to their position behind Ranlyn. Conversation was not what he wanted at the moment.
They left the st
ream at midmorning, riding up a flat shelf of stone that formed the northern bank. Jermain nodded his approval; there would be no hoofprints in the riverbank to mark the place for Carachel’s men. “That was a stroke of fortune,” he said as they rode away from the stream.
“The gods of fortune look with greatest kindness on those who do not ask for their favors,” Ranlyn replied.
“You knew that rock was there?”
“I knew,” Ranlyn said. “I have had much occasion to travel in these lands of recent years.”
“Do you know how close we are to the border?”
“Another day’s ride by common measure; less for such mounts as ours. And we may easily shorten the time if we speed our going.”
“Not so fast, my friend. The last time I tried to get into Sevairn, the Border Guards nearly killed me; I’m not anxious to repeat the experience.”
“The swordbearer Vandaris seeks you. Would she not arrange safe passage?”
“She might try, but I’m not willing to bet either of our lives on her succeeding. Marreth is the one who’s king, and only the King commands the Border Guard.” Jermain saw puzzlement in Ranlyn’s face, so he explained his encounter with the Border Guard in greater detail. “They had orders to kill me,” he finished. “And I doubt that the orders have changed.”
“If we must choose between the sandstorm and the nest of snakes, I would prefer the snakes,” Ranlyn said. Jermain looked at him, startled. “A careful man may keep from waking snakes, and a quick man may slay them. The sandstorm is a surer death,” Ranlyn explained smoothly.
Jermain laughed. “And the Border Guard are the snakes? Well then, we had best plan how to keep from waking them. If I recall correctly, there’s a major guardpost just south of here.”
They discussed the matter as they rode, and decided to turn their route slightly northward, to avoid the guardpost. Jermain was a little surprised at the ease with which Ranlyn agreed to the change. After all, the new path would take him farther away from the Hoven-Thalar clans, which were presumably heading southeast.
Once the question of direction was settled, they urged their horses to greater speed. Though they had seen no sign of Carachel or any of his aides, Jermain did not doubt that the wizard would follow them. Even if he did not, Jermain wanted as much distance between themselves and Carachel as possible, and Ranlyn seemed to agree. For the rest of the day, they alternated their horses’ pace between a steady trot and a brisk walk.
A little after nightfall, they reached the general area of the border between Sevairn and Barinash. The precise boundaries of the kingdoms were not well defined, particularly in such well-forested regions, and the two men spent a nerve-racking two hours picking their way through the dark forest, hoping that neither the Barinash nor the Sevairn guards had chosen this night for a long patrol.
They continued riding almost until the middle of the night. When they were well past the part of the forest where border patrols were likely, they stopped and tended to their tired horses, then ate a meager dinner of their own from the store of food in Ranlyn’s bags. When they finished, Ranlyn insisted on taking the first watch. After a few moments of fruitless argument, Jermain capitulated. He rolled himself in his cloak and lay down near the horses; in a few minutes, he slept.
CHAPTER 15
Eltiron sat stunned. Vandaris and Terrel, betrothed? If that was what Terrel had been talking to Marreth about, at least one of them must be mad. In theory, the King had the power to give his sister in marriage to whomever he pleased, but Vandaris would never accept such an order from Marreth, particularly when Marreth had announced his intentions in such an arbitrary way. And why in Arlayne’s name would Terrel want to marry Vandaris?
“I don’t suppose you’d care to explain why you haven’t consulted me about this,” Vandaris said. Her tone was mild but managed to carry to the far end of the hall without difficulty. Eltiron swallowed, wishing he were somewhere else.
“It is the responsibility of a king to provide for the welfare of his house and family,” Marreth said. He looked very pompous and pleased with himself. “It is also a king’s prerogative to reward those who serve him well. This marriage will do both with a single stroke; our most noble and loyal Lord Terrel Lassond will be allied to the royal house through our beloved sister, Vandaris, which—”
“Horse liver. What’s your real reason, frog face?”
Marreth’s composure deserted him. “You’re a disgrace to the royal house of Sevairn. My house! Running around with mercenaries and stirring up trouble—I should have done this years ago! You need someone to keep you under control, and I haven’t got time!”
“You mean, you couldn’t do it if you tried,” Vandaris retorted affably.
“You’ll marry Terrel tomorrow!” Marreth shouted, ignoring the embarrassed stirrings of the nobles and ambassadors. “I have the right, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
Vandaris’s laugh shocked Eltiron almost as much as Marreth’s announcement had. He turned and saw light flash from the hilts of Vandaris’s daggers as she leaned back in her chair. “You’ve really done it this time, Marreth,” she said, shaking her head. “Too bad you didn’t ask me about it before you made a fool of yourself in front of the whole court. You can’t marry off someone who’s already married.”
A ripple of astonishment ran across the crowd and died. Marreth stared at Vandaris in confusion. “You? Married?”
“I sure didn’t mean Lassond, beetle brain.”
“Impossible!” Marreth brought his hands down on the table with a crash. “When could you have gotten married?”
“Oh, it could have happened any time in the last twenty years or so. Actually, it was right after the campaign in Tindalen, about sixteen years ago.”
“Some soldier or other, I suppose! Well, I’ll have the marriage declared null, and you’ll marry Terrel Lassond anyway!”
“Don’t be stupid. You don’t want to offend Lisaren Corriel.”
“Ha! What do I care about a mercenary?”
“He’s the Queen of Tindalen’s brother. Besides, even a king can’t declare a marriage null if it has issue.” Vandaris smiled sweetly at Marreth’s rapidly purpling face. “Tarilane, meet your uncle; he’s not much, but he’s the only one you’ve got, so make the best of him.”
There was a brief silence while everyone assimilated this new revelation, then Marreth began cursing incoherently. Vandaris shook her head in mock sadness and reached for her wine goblet. Marreth, infuriated by her composure, bellowed and lunged toward her. He shoved Crystalorn out of his way, chair and all; plates scattered as he bounced off the edge of the table, and the dark-haired woman on his left screamed. Still shouting, Marreth reached for Eltiron, who was the only person still blocking his path to Vandaris.
Eltiron caught a glimpse of Marreth’s face—red, strained, and twisted with rage. Another plate crashed to the floor as the King lurched against the table; then Marreth gasped and clutched at Eltiron’s arm. Eltiron stared in shock as Marreth slid slowly to the floor, half under the table.
For an eternal instant, no one moved. Then Vandaris shoved her chair back and knelt beside her brother. Eltiron watched numbly as she felt at Marreth’s neck for a pulse, shook her head, and closed the eyes that were staring unseeingly past Eltiron’s left shoulder. She hesitated, then gently removed the golden circlet from Marreth’s head and stood up. A whisper ran across the crowd like wind over a field of grass, dying suddenly as Vandaris held up the circlet.
“King Marreth Kenerach is dead,” she said in an expressionless voice, and looked at Eltiron.
Eltiron heard a low wail from the woman who had been Marreth’s dinner partner. Terrel looked white and sick; everyone else seemed simply shocked. Vandaris set the circlet in the center of the table. “The King is dead,” she repeated, still looking at Eltiron. “What orders do you have, Your Majesty?”
“I—” Eltiron swallowed hard. He rose awkwardly to his feet and almost tripped on Marret
h’s body. He swallowed again and tried not to think about where he was standing; phrasing a suitable response was difficult enough without that added distraction. “I regret the inconvenience to my guests, but under the circumstances I do not think this a good time or place for feasting. I will order the meal served in the Long Hall for those who wish it.” He glanced at Vandaris, who nodded encouragingly. “For myself, I beg to be excused. Until I have conferred with my . . . advisers, I can make no firm plans. I bid you good eve, my lords and ladies.”
Eltiron bowed and sat down rather quickly, pushing his chair backward as he did, so that he was no longer sitting directly above the body. He wanted to change to another seat, but he was not sure his legs would hold him up long enough.
Vandaris remained standing. “You have heard His Majesty’s commands. Let it be done.” She swept a cold gaze across the room before she turned and stepped down from the platform. Tarilane hesitated, then slipped quietly from her chair and followed.
The nobles stirred, then began slowly moving toward the doors. Most of them pointedly avoided looking in the direction of the royal table; a few, bolder or less tactful, studied the tableau openly. Except for Marreth’s dark-haired woman, who was weeping delicately into her slender hands, no one still remaining at the royal table moved. Eltiron thought of the rumors that would be circulating in another hour and shuddered.
A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned. It was Crystalorn. She seemed a little shaken, and she kept her eyes turned determinedly away from Marreth’s body as she asked, “Well, now what happens?”
“I don’t know,” Eltiron admitted. He looked around. The hall was nearly half empty. “Where’s Amberglas?”
“Isn’t she here?” Crystalorn looked startled.
“I haven’t seen her since the sword games. I suppose I’d better get someone to look for her; we may need her later.”
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