by S E Meliers
‘I should be on my way,’ Patience recalled herself. ‘My children will be anxious to see me.’
‘My Lady,’ the Hallow, and the EAerymen bowed respectfully.
Patience took five steps down the hall, before pausing and turning back. ‘I have no name for you,’ she said, surprising them. They had turned back to their conversation. ‘It strikes me as odd that I do not know your name,’ she said to the Hallow.
‘Traditionally,’ the Hallow was bemused. ‘Hallows are unnamed. We are marked by a rune and this device is used to summon us, if we are in particularly required,’ she bared a brand on her wrist.
‘Barbaric,’ the blond EAeryman snarled.
‘But you have a name,’ Patience could see it on the woman’s face. ‘One that they call you,’ she did not specify who they were, but it was evident. The Hallow blushed, surprising the EAerymen, who actually looked pleased.
‘My rune designates me as Spider,’ the Hallow admitted. ‘That is what I am known by, if you wish to ask for me.’
‘But that is not your name,’ Patience pushed. Having discovered this softness to the Hallow, she wanted a personal bond, a guarantee that what they shared was more than duty, so that this Hallow would have her welfare in mind in a more intimate way. She also had a new insight into the woman within the Hallow trappings, and she wanted that woman to acknowledge her. ‘That is not what they call you.’
‘Rogue, they call me Rogue,’ the Hallow examined Patience intently. ‘I know what you seek to achieve, my Lady,’ she added, but without anger. ‘You do not need to forge a connection with me. Have I not looked out for you since the first?’
Patience flushed. ‘Why is that?’ she asked the ultimate question. ‘Why do I matter to you?’
Rogue smiled. ‘Is it not enough to know that you do?’ she returned enigmatically.
Patience considered. There was no further illumination in the other woman’s eyes; but there was also nothing to cause Patience concern. ‘Yes,’ she said finally. ‘It is enough. I am curious, but I will accept what you give.’ She dropped a curtsey, one Lady to another, and turned back down the hall.
Shade
‘You are early,’ the white haired Prophet was not pleased.
‘How can I be early?’ he asked. ‘You see the future – surely you could see what time I was going to arrive?’ She sighed irritably and turned on her heel, striding off through the wanderer’s camp. He shrugged and passed his reigns to Sorrow. ‘She is happy to see me,’ he confided.
Sorrow looked at him doubtfully, and then at the wanderers who pretended not to watch the trio. ‘What am I to do?’ she asked as he helped Song down from her horse.
‘I do not know or particularly care,’ he replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘Sing a song; dance a dance; make friends with the locals. Just do not lose our horses, and do not let anyone steal anything from the packs.’
‘Who would steal from a necromancer?’ she asked sullenly. ‘Anything you own is more than likely cursed.’
‘True,’ he grinned. ‘And feel free to say that as loudly as you like whilst you stay here and watch my things.’ He offered his arm to Song. ‘My dear.’ She placed her hand lightly on his forearm, and he guided her across the camp, nodding pleasantly to the wanderers that they passed. ‘This will be intriguing,’ he said in an undertone.
She squeezed his arm, the faintest of pressures.
The Prophet waited by the entrance to her garishly painted wagon. When Shade met her gaze, she mounted the steps and disappeared inside. ‘Nice paint,’ he sneered quietly. Song’s lips quirked in a smile. ‘I hope she has tea brewed, I am thirsty after our travails.’ He handed Song up the steps and then followed her inside.
The Prophet sat on one side of a flat topped chest dressed in a lace cloth. Three glass goblets were set out near a glass pitcher of wine, a small wooden plate of cheese and fruit, and a candle flickered within the glass of a lantern arrayed upon the fine lace. A wealth in glass, he noted, and wondered if the display was on purpose. Song appropriated a cushion from the masses scattered around the walls, and fluffed her skirts out, sinking gracefully in their midst like the heart of a flower. He settled cross legged on the rug that covered the wooden floor, with a grunt. ‘Not the most dignified methods of sitting,’ he commented.
‘It keeps you limber,’ the Prophet replied with a hint of softening in her eyes. ‘How are you Shade, my friend?’
‘I would be better for a glass of that wine,’ he replied.
She inclined her head gracefully to Song, who poured like the hostess of a noble woman’s sewing party.
‘So, you found me easily enough,’ the Prophet prompted as Shade sampled the wine. It was a young vintage, but he kept his opinion to himself.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The dragon was most congenial, surprisingly. A most diverting form of transportation and one I must try again. When I made my rather grandiose departure from Lyendar, Honesty was sealing the castle from the city, and Cinder was on the verge of breaking through the city walls. I would not be surprised if he is in by now, and the castle will not hold long – their water supply has been contaminated and their food supplies dwindle.’
‘Cinder occupies the city, now,’ the Prophet confirmed.
‘Yes, well,’ he sipped his wine and pulled a face at its twang on his palate. ‘The dragon deposited me at a lake in Truen, and Song and her maid joined me shortly thereafter with horses and supplies. It was not hard to find a wanderer wagon – you are not commonly liked, are you aware of that? Hmm. Nice plate. EAeryian work?’ he sampled some cheese to take the bite from the wine. ‘So, here I am, again, ready to receive your orders.’
‘I do not order, I suggest,’ the Prophet smiled coyly.
He snorted. ‘Just so,’ he said rolling his eyes heavenward. ‘And Song sings in a fine husky alto when the mood takes her. Where would you suggest I go next, then? And what would you suggest I do there?’
‘Amori is a very pleasant destination,’ the Prophet topped up his glass. ‘And the Lady Patience is a charming hostess. Your interest in EAeryian plate may stand in your favour, as there are a couple of EAeryians staying in Amori who perhaps would be better off in Truen.’
‘Interesting, I do like the sea, and Song looks lovely wet,’ he said suggestively as he offered his paramour a sample of cheese. She opened her mouth, and sucked his finger as he popped the morsel on her tongue. ‘You should not do that,’ he murmured to her. ‘You know what that does to me.’ Song smiled serenely and ate her cheese.
‘I trust you did not lose the bowl in your Lyendar adventures?’ the Prophet enquired ignoring the byplay.
‘Song packed it safe and sound,’ he replied, returning his gaze to the white haired witch.
‘Contact me the first full moon after your arrival in Amori.’
‘The first full moon,’ he repeated, committing it to memory. ‘I hazard a guess that you will have further suggestions for me at that time?’
‘Perhaps,’ she flicked her hand, dismissing him.
He stood, groaning at the complaint in his legs from sitting cross legged for so long, and held out a hand to Song, who rose as gracefully as she had descended. ‘I hate that you can do that,’ he commented, mildly, and let her precede him to the door.
‘Oh, and Shade,’ the Prophet looked up suddenly, her face puzzled. ‘Watch out for the spider and the web.’
‘The spider and the web?’ he raised an eyebrow. ‘I am not particularly fond of spiders.’
‘I wish I could tell you more,’ she correctly interpreted his comment as a request for further information. ‘It is hazy. I just see spiders and webs. Just… be wary.’
‘I will do my best,’ he bowed from the waist and descended the stair. ‘Spiders and webs,’ he muttered. ‘How helpful. Always, she must end on an enigmatic note.’
Sorrow sat dejectedly on a log, the horses tied to the tree behind her. As they approached, she stood. ‘So?’ she asked. ‘You were not gone for long. It was a l
ong ride from Truen to here for a short meeting. Will we be staying the night? I hope not.’
‘No, back to Truen with us,’ he lifted Song onto her saddle, although he knew she could do it herself. They turned the horses in the direction of Truen and the campsite receded into the trees. Shade mused over the Prophet’s parting words, shuddering. ‘There is something about spiders,’ he said, ‘that the moment your mind dwells on them, you can feel imaginary legs crawling on your skin.’
‘Like fleas,’ Sorrow agreed. ‘Or lice. You start scratching.’
‘Hmm,’ he scratched behind his ear, then realised what he was doing when she smirked, and glowered. ‘Anything interesting happen whilst we were gone?’ he asked with transparently false interest.
‘Yes, actually,’ Sorrow replied tartly. ‘A Shoethalian with a scarred face asked me about you.’
‘How do you know he was a Shoethalian?’ Intrigued Shade reined his horse alongside of Sorrow’s and drew both horses to a standstill. Song drifted a little ahead of them, but remained within hearing.
‘Well,’ she shrugged. ‘His accent was not Rhyndelian and he was not a giant like EAeryians are reputed to be; it is the logical conclusion.’
‘Indeed. And what did he ask specifically?’
‘Whether you were truly a necromancer,’ she shot him a glance beneath her eyelashes.
‘And you said?’
‘That he should ask you that question, and not me,’ she glowered. ‘I do not like Shoethalians.’
‘No, I imagine not.’
‘I do not like you, either,’ she added under her breath.
‘That is fine with me; I am not trying to win your favours. Where did the Shoethalian go?’ he asked.
She sniffed. ‘He and a wanderer lass were riding out.’
He closed his eyes tight in frustration. ‘Which direction, you stubborn, unhelpful baby-killer?’
‘Towards Lyendar you insulting, rude, perverted murderer,’ she spat in reply. ‘And before you ask me, it was shortly after you left with the white haired harpy, so there will be a good distance between us.’
‘On the other hand, it is night,’ he replied, ‘so it may be that they’re camping not far from here, or have only gone for a short jaunt. You said riding out. Why did you think that?’
‘They said goodbye to the wanderer people,’ she sighed irritably. ‘I am not an idiot. Their saddlebags were full, they said goodbye, and they had rolled blankets on their saddle. The conclusion would be that they are riding out of the camp, and want to travel fast so are not taking a wagon. He had a foreign accent, and they were heading in the direction of Lyendar. Seeing as we just came from there, I know which direction it is in.’
‘With a wanderer lass?’ he queried.
‘Yes, a wanderer lass, who was not happy about the trip by the scowl on her face and the comments her friends made as she mounted up,’ she elaborated without prompting and a hint of sarcasm.
‘Interesting,’ he scratched his chin.
‘Why do you not ask your white haired friend about him if it is so interesting?’ she demanded grumpily.
‘Because she did not volunteer the information, in which case she most likely would not answer any questions I asked,’ he glanced at Song. ‘What do you think?’ She lifted an elegant shoulder in a half shrug. ‘Could be something, could be nothing. She said we were early. Maybe she did not want us to see him and hoped to have him gone before we arrived? Evening is an interesting time to set off on a journey, unless you do so to avoid someone’s arrival.’
‘I do not care,’ Sorrow sighed. ‘I regret telling you now. Can we just not go back to Truen? You can drink yourself stupid again, get thrown out of the tavern and fvccant Song in a semi-public place whilst I cringe and wish I were really, truly, and un-revive-ably dead.’
‘Tempting,’ he considered. ‘But, I think we should find out more about the Shoethalian.’
‘We will never catch them,’ Sorrow sighed.
‘We do not have to,’ he sighed. ‘Song will do what Song does best; and you and I will make friends with the wanderer.’ Song blew him a kiss and kneed her horse into a trot, disappearing between the trees. ‘Well, let us return to the camp and put your keen observation skills to good use, then, shall we?’ he turned his horse.
‘Wonderful,’ she sighed.
They rode in silence, the mage ruminating over recent events.
‘So, whilst we have this opportunity to chat companionably, would you like to tell me about how you and Song escaped the siege at Lyendar? I am intrigued,’ he said in a mercurial subject change.
‘You do not know?’ she raised an eyebrow at him. ‘That is interesting. I had assumed you had arranged it.’
‘Arranged what?’ he prompted.
‘Uh-ah,’ she shook her head slowly, slyly. ‘If she wanted you to know, she would have told you, and you said I do as she says.’ He glowered. ‘On the other hand,’ she amended wincing. ‘There is not much to say, to be honest. The dragon snatched you from the balcony, and we left the castle. No one seemed to notice us, but things were pretty hectic so that was not strange. Then, we went into a courtyard and she lifted some ivy to reveal a door. We went down some stairs and through an underground passage that came out in the city.
‘It was a little scary as we got to the city wall, as there were arrows and bits of rock and all sorts of things flying every which way, and lots of screaming and shouting and, of course, the main gate and portcullis were blocked, but she went around to the side and into a stable. There were our horses and a cart, all hitched up and ready to go, as if the stable boys had just disappeared after finishing their work. The stable had a back opening just wide enough for us, and it led into this sort of tunnel. It was dark, and I had no idea how the horses knew where to go, but after a while, we reached the end, and there was light, and when we rode out, it was out of a hill and into a forest,’ she shook her head in wonderment. ‘We slept, rode, slept, and then you were there.’
‘Well, that is both enlightening and bewildering,’ he remarked. ‘And totally in character for Song.’
‘Who is back,’ Sorrow said in surprise as the mute woman rode out of the trees at a canter. Song’s hair had fallen out of its elegant twist and bounced around her shoulders and her back, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. Her dress was torn in several places, dirty, and missing one sleeve entirely. She was grinning.
‘It is fun, evidently, to chase Shoethalians through the Truen forest,’ Shade commented. ‘So, my sun and moon, what did you discover?’ he asked as she reached them. ‘You were not gone long, were they camping nearby?’ Song nodded. ‘So, who is the Shoethalian?’ Song’s fingers fluttered, and she pulled a long face. ‘A Priest?’ he was surprised.
‘How do you know that she means a Priest?’ Sorrow frowned.
‘He is Shoethalian, and their Priests have a penchant to amputate fingers of non-believers,’ he fluttered his fingers at Sorrow. ‘It is all about context.’ He turned back to Song. ‘They are going to Lyendar?’ Nod for yes. ‘To re-join the Prince? And the witch?’ Rolled eyes. ‘Yes, quite,’ he agreed. ‘Up to her eye balls in it,’ he explained with heavy patience to Sorrow. ‘Well done, my love. I guess we can go to Truen this evening, after all. Maybe,’ he grinned, ‘we can indulge in Sorrow’s suggested activities.’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Sorrow grumbled. ‘So, you went to all this trouble to find out about the Shoethalian and now you intend to do nothing with the information?’ she asked as they changed directions yet again and headed back towards Truen.
‘Not at all, my infant smotherer,’ he smiled serenely. ‘I intend to do all sorts of things with that information. I just have to consider what it means, first of all. Haste leads to stupid mistakes, and I, my dear un-dead thing, am not a stupid man.’
‘What does it mean when your ally is consorting with the enemy?’ Sorrow asked baldly.
‘A very good question,’ he acknowledged. ‘Considering the ally, I would s
ay there is a greater game afoot then I have been informed. Should one meddle where one is not fully informed? Considering the esoteric nature of the ally, I am not entirely sure.’
‘You are frightened of the white witch?’ Sorrow was astonished.
‘Terrified,’ he smiled thin lipped.
‘What frightens a necromancer?’ she shook her head in wonderment.
‘What indeed?’ he agreed.
Chapter Seven
Cinder
Cinder ground his teeth and tugged his shirt over his head. The arrow wound was proving troublesome. It was not healing as it should and he felt hot and weak. The healer tsked as she unwound the bandages exposing the injury. There was an ugly crust on the wound, and an opaque creamy oozing that did not bode well. The flesh around was red and raw looking. ‘I am going to apply a wet bandage,’ the healer decided. ‘When the bandage dries, the dead tissue will adhere to the cloth, and when I remove the bandage, the dead tissue will come away with it.’
‘Sounds appetising,’ Cinder grimaced.
‘You over-exert yourself, my Prince,’ the healer reprimanded gently. ‘It does not help the healing.’
‘One often needs to do so, when one is at war,’ he replied wearily. ‘I will try to do less, if it pleases you. I am sure the enemy will be glad of the respite.’ The healer applied the new bandage and he tested it, nodding his approval. ‘Good. I thank you,’ he acknowledged, pulling his shirt back on.
As the healer departed, Granite entered. ‘My Prince,’ he bowed.
‘Yes, Granite,’ Cinder poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘How goes it?’
‘Ironwood has taken Honesty.’
‘Good,’ Cinder grinned, a fearsome display of teeth. ‘Have him brought to me.’
