Deborah Hale (21 page)

The other men looked to Rath, a question plain on their features—might this be a trick?

“Lower the ladder,” he ordered. “They can only come up one at a time.” Only a death-mage would stand a chance against the throng waiting above.

Something about the voice had troubled him vaguely. It had a hollow, lifeless tone when it should have rang with relief. Perhaps the fellow had been spoiling for battle and was disappointed to find no enemies.

A man crawled up the ladder. Rath recognized him as one of Idrygon’s Vestan warriors. The young fellow squinted against the light, his gaze roving until it fixed on Rath. He stumbled through the crowd gathered around the mine entrance, which parted to let him pass.

“Highness.” He bowed before Rath.

“Aye, what did you find down there?” He didn’t like the slack, dazed look on the young fellow’s face.

“Death, Highness. Blood. Can you not smell it from up here?”

“Whose death?” Had the miners somehow caught word that a liberating army was closing in and risen up against their captors? “Whose blood?”

“Our countrymen, Highness.” The young soldier raised his hand to his mouth and bolted a short distance.

In the heavy hush that clamped down over the pithead, every hollow, agonizing retch slammed home the truth with sharper force than words could have.

That ambush had not only bought the Han time to retreat, but time to rob Rath’s army of their victory.

“Go below and fetch them up,” he heard himself order. “I do not want a single body left below. And bring water for the passing ritual.”

They could do nothing more for those men now. Having failed to free them in life, he and his men must free them in death.

“May the Giver grant you understanding, Delyon.” Maura tried to make the words sound like a casual parting pleasantry rather than the desperate plea they were.

After a week spent fruitlessly combing the palace, she tried to pretend the hollow feeling in the depths of her belly was hunger.

“I’ll go fetch us something to eat,” she said. “Then I’ll have another look around the women’s chambers to see if anything there nudges my memory.”

Hard as she tried to sound optimistic, the effort failed.

Delyon did not seem to notice, though. Hunched over his scroll by the soft glow of a greenfire twig, he squinted at the strange symbols with rapt concentration.

“Go with care,” he muttered, more from habit than from true concern.

Maura heeded his warning just the same. It would be seductively easy to let down her guard now that they’d been here awhile and she was becoming familiar with the palace. She’d begun to recognize some of the palace night guards and took care to avoid the most vigilant. But she must not let herself be lulled by this deceptive sense of routine. Her task had not become less dangerous just because she’d grown used to it.

The sound of women’s voices greeted her when she slipped through the wide arched entry into the kitchen. Had she misguessed the time, or were the scullery maids about their work later than usual? For a moment she hung back, wondering if she had better save her nightly foraging until later.

No, she decided at last. She did not want to interrupt her night’s work once she started. Nor was she anxious to risk the kitchen’s early-morning bustle when her invisibility spell would be wearing off and her reflexes dulled by fatigue. She crept toward the larder, grateful for the rattle of cutlery and the soft babble of voices to cover the pad of her footsteps.

The women were talking so rapidly in Comtung that at first
Maura was able to let it wash over her without understanding. Then a stray word caught her by the ear and made her freeze.

Nadgifo.
Mountains.

Maura strained to pick up more.

“Best they do it now before the snows come.”

The other two women made noises of agreement that were much the same in any language.

Then one lowered her voice. “Why do you reckon such a great army has marched eastaway if all that talk of the Waiting King is lies?”

“Hush, Yora!” The woman who spoke sounded older than the other two. “None of our business, is it? All’s I know is there’ll be less work ’round here with so many of the officers gone.”

“Wish they’d taken the death-mages with them,” said the one called Yora in a loud whisper. “Gives me the shivers having so many of them stalking about the palace lately.”

A loud jangle of loose metal hitting the floor made Maura jump.

“Mind your tongue, young fool!” the older woman snapped. “If you fancy keeping it!”

Perhaps to divert the others, the third woman chuckled. “I reckon it’s worth cleaning up after this leave-taking feast to have so many gone. I’m just glad I don’t have to trek over Pronel’s Pass to keep all those warriors fed on their march.”

“How long do you reckon they’ll be gone?” Yora did not sound chastened by the scolding she’d received.

“Not near as long as I’d like,” muttered the older woman, just loud enough for Maura to catch.

The other two scullery wenches responded with laughter that held a sharp note of bitterness.

“Enough now,” ordered the older woman at last, “before one of the guards wanders by and hears us.”

She began gossiping about some people whose names meant nothing to Maura—her family, perhaps, or some of the other
palace servants. Under cover of the women’s chatter, Maura stole into the larder and foraged some of the food left from the feast.

Her mind was only half on the task, if that. She hurried back to the cellar.

“Our time has run out, Delyon!” The words that had been boiling inside her gushed out. She thrust the bag of food toward him, too anxious to think of eating, herself. “The army is on the move. That must mean the troops from Dun Derhan have reached the Dawn Coast, or soon will.”

As he glanced in the direction of her voice, Delyon did not look as though her news alarmed him. “That may be, but—”

“But? There is no
but.
We have not found the staff—I have not felt the faintest flicker of a memory, though the Giver knows I have tried. Someone must get to Rath and your brother to warn them of the trap the Han mean to spring on them. We cannot afford to tarry here any longer! We must leave tonight if we are to have any hope of crossing the mountains ahead of the army!”

“So we shall!” Delyon shook his scroll toward Maura and almost hit her on the nose with it. “Bearing the Staff of Velorken, just as we planned.” He began to chuckle and could not seem to stop himself. “I cracked it, Maura! This cursed, blessed writing. I know what it means, every word. Just as I thought, it is a spell for delving deep into the memory.”

His eagerness buoyed her spirits, but it could not banish all her doubts. “Knowing the spell is one thing. Do we have the ingredients we will need to cast it?”

So potent a spell might require some rare herb—perhaps one that had grown in Abrielle’s time but had since disappeared.

“We have plenty of everything we will need.” Delyon’s grin broadened and his voice fairly crackled with excitement. “Summerslip, madfern, dreamweed and queensbalm. The only thing wanting is a bit of hot water for the infusion.”

“That will be easy enough to get.” Maura told him about the kitchen wenches she’d spied washing dishes in the scullery. Then the significance of his words jarred her. “But you cannot
mean to mix madfern with summerslip and dreamweed. That was one of the first lessons in vitcraft Langbard taught me. Such a brew might put me to sleep, but I would never wake up again!”

“Are you certain?” asked Delyon. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Are you daft? Why would I try anything so dangerous?”

Delyon shrugged. “If you have never seen with your own eyes, how can you be sure it is true?”

“Because Langbard told me. As would any life-mage of skill and wit.”

“And how did
they
know?” Delyon did not appear swayed by her protests. “Because a teacher they trusted told them, no doubt. How better to guard a spell of such power than to declare it a danger?”

Could it have happened like that? Maura had to admit she’d never seen such a spell used on anyone. And yet…

“Am I to believe you and that scroll over the man who raised and trained me? What if you erred in your translation? What if it calls for laceweed instead of dreamweed? You are asking me to put my life at risk, Delyon.”

Her words took him aback, but only for a moment. “Your life has been at risk from the moment we sailed for the mainland. And even before that, when you went looking for the Waiting King. To find the Staff of Velorken will insure us victory. If I could take your place, I would, gladly.”

The greenfire twig he clutched in his fingers had grown dimmer and dimmer while they talked. Now it flickered out as Maura could picture her life doing. True, she had ventured into danger before, risking her life for the liberty of her people. If she could be certain this spell would yield the prize they sought, she would risk it again.

“What if you are mistaken, Delyon? What if my mind holds no buried memory passed down from my ancestress? What if the Staff of Velorken
is
only a legend?”

Delyon’s voice drifted out of the darkness. “A legend like the
Waiting King? You must have had your doubts about him, yet you went ahead. And the legend proved true.”

In its way. Rath had not turned out to be the powerful, mystical warrior she’d sought and expected. Perhaps the Staff of Velorken would not live up to the myth that had grown around it, either. Which might be for the best, if only they did not need it so desperately.

“That was different. I had no choice.”

Delyon’s reply might not have swayed her, except that it echoed the one from her own heart. “What choice have you now?”

N
ight held the foothills of the Blood Moon Mountains in its black fist. But its grip was beginning to ease. In another hour or so, a faint blush would creep into the distant eastern horizon and a bright new day would dawn.

Until then, it was safe for Rath and Idrygon to stand on the crest of a humpbacked hill and stare down at a small cluster of lights that was the town of Prum.

“They should be back by now,” muttered Rath.

Shortly after sunset he had sent a handful of men familiar with the place down to find out if the Han still held it. It did not take an expert tracker to tell that the guards from the last mine had marched this way after they fled their posts.

Idrygon stamped his feet and chafed his arms. Autumn would soon come to the Southmark steppes and the nights were getting colder, especially to a man brought up in the mild climate of the Vestan Islands. “I still say it was a waste of time sending those men down last night. Attack before dawn—that strategy served us well in Duskport and all those little villages in the Hitherland.”

“Prum is a good deal bigger than those villages.” Rath cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a moist breath to warm them. “And it has a large garrison, perhaps bolstered by those guards from the mine. I do not want us blundering in there blind, or a lot of innocent townsfolk might be killed in the battle.”

“Perhaps so.” Idrygon did not sound as if the worry would keep him awake nights.

From a little way off came the sound of a scuffle. A number of darker shadows loomed out of the night. “We think this is the man you sent us after, Highness. We had a bit of trouble tracking him down.”

“Boyd Tanner?” asked Rath.

“Might be,” came the sullen answer in a voice he recognized. “What is all this hauling a law-abiding man out of his bed in the middle of the night?”

“Were you not told who summoned you and why?”

“Claimed they were taking me to see the Waiting King. Is that you, then?”

“It is.” Rath tried to sound certain. “We need you to tell us how things stand with the Han in Prum.”

“Are they still in control of the town?” asked Idrygon. “How many are there? Any death-mages? What are their defenses like? Can we count on any help from the townsfolk? Well? Give us some answers, man!”

“How do I know you are who you claim to be?” demanded the tanner. “What if you are Echtroi trying to test my loyalty?”

“You do not need to tell me where your loyalty lies, Master Tanner.” Rath reached into the darkness and brought his hand to rest on the man’s shoulder. “And if we were the Echtroi, do you reckon we would waste our time with tricks when we could wave a wand and make you beg to tell us everything you know?”

“Never know what they might do,” muttered the tanner. “I fancy I’ve heard your voice before, but I cannot place where from.”

“We do not have time for games,” snapped Idrygon. “If this
fellow will not tell us what he knows, forget him. We must make ready.”

Rath ignored Idrygon. “You would recollect if you had met me before, good man.” He lifted his hand from the tanner’s shoulder. “You did give aid to friends of mine some months ago.”

“Eh?”

“The night they rescued Gristle Maldwin from the death-mage. Tell me, is she as ill-tempered an old shrew as ever?”

Boyd Tanner chuckled. “Oh, she has her days, but she’s not…”

The significance of Rath’s question must have struck him, for he gasped. “Highness! Are you truly King Elzaban, at last?”

When Rath hesitated to answer to that name, Idrygon spared him the need. “Of course it is King Elzaban! Have you paid no heed to anything we’ve said?”

“There was rumors, o’course.” The man’s voice had a hollow, dazed sound. “But I’ve heard enough of those in my life not to heed every one that gets whispered about.”

“These ones are true,” said Rath. “Now will you tell us what we need to know? It is urgent. Do the Han still hold Prum?

What are their numbers?”

“They hold the town tighter than ever since that new lot marched in. Some folks said they were mine guards chased down from the mountains by the Waiting King. But I reckoned the garrison commander must have sent for them to help keep order during the cattle fair. After the commotion at last year’s.”

“The cattle fair?” cried Rath. Of course. It was that time of year.

“Aye,” said the tanner. “There’s herds coming from all over the steppes, and more buyers arriving every day from the Long Vale.”

Pitch a battle in among all that, thought Rath, and you had a recipe for slaughter.

Were the Han counting on that? Did they mean to hold an entire town hostage?

“What are your orders, Highness?” asked Idrygon. “Shall we make the attack as planned?”

The upland breeze whispered in Rath’s ear. He fancied it car
ried Maura’s distant voice.
Your wits are sharper than your blade,
aira.
Use them!

Could there be a way to turn this situation against the Han?

“Well, sire?” Idrygon prompted him when he did not reply right away.

“Let us delay our attack a while.” Rath stroked his stubbled chin as he stared down toward the sleeping town. “I reckon there may be an easier way to take Prum.”

“Sire?”

More like an outlaw than a king, Rath rubbed his hands together and chuckled to himself. “Good pickings at cattle fairs.”

“There.” Delyon held out the mug to Maura. Tiny wisps of steam rose from the water she’d smuggled down from the palace kitchens. “I have put in the right quantities of herbs. Once you drink it, we must chant the spell together.”

“If I can stay awake long enough.” Maura cast a wary glance at the mug as she forced her hands to close around it. “I hope it will not taint the potion to be compounded in a cup made of metal.”

“Does the substance truly matter, do you suppose?” Delyon looked thoughtful. “Or is the use we make of that substance? A blade of iron or an arrow of tempered wood will do just as much harm. A goblet of ivory or one of metal are equally useful. Many herbs can heal, but some can poison.”

That last word made Maura’s throat tighten. What if this potion did as Langbard had warned her and she slipped into a sleep from which she would never waken?

“Promise me, if this goes wrong you will do the ritual of passing, then make haste to warn Rath and your brother.”

“Nothing will go wrong!”
Delyon flashed an indignant glare in her direction, though she was still invisible. “Show a little confidence in me for once, if you please. I may not be the leader my brother is, but I am a skilled scholar. Now drink the potion before it goes cold!”

Winging a silent plea for the Giver to preserve her, Maura raised the cup to her lips and drained it. If she sipped slowly, sleep would surely overcome her before she had time to chant the spell.

“There.” She set down the cup. “Now, quickly, tell me the words.”

His handsome countenance alight with satisfaction, Delyon lifted the scroll in one hand and the glowing greenfire twig in the other. Then he spoke a word or two in a language that sounded both foreign and vaguely familiar.

“Repeat after me,” he prompted Maura.

She chanted the strange words after him. Already the storeroom and Delyon looked farther away than they had an instant ago, as if she were retreating from them.

Time seemed to slow and thicken around her, like sap over a moonmoth that lingered too long on the trunk of a hillpine. While she still had control of her voice, she fixed her dwindling concentration on the vital task of echoing Delyon’s words.

“Well done!” he cried after what seemed like hours of the most difficult mental effort Maura had ever undertaken. His voice sounded distant, muffled and very slow. “I pray you will find what you seek within yourself.”

Was she still sitting up? Maura wondered. Or had she crumpled to the floor? She could not feel her body, at least not in the way she was accustomed to. It was as if the spell had loosened the connection between her spirit and her physical form. Now her body seemed like a large empty shell over which she had no control. Was it taking in air? Was her heart beating?

At least her ears still worked, after a fashion.

Delyon’s voice reached her, echoing down a long tunnel that seemed to be growing longer and narrower with every word. “I hope you can hear me, Maura. I am holding you, but your body seems frozen.”

The faint quaver of doubt in his voice chilled her.

“Sink down into the depths of your memories,” Delyon’s distant voice urged her. “See what you can find there.”

Poised between battling the potent forces that gripped her or surrendering to them, Maura sensed she must free herself from the reassuring ties of consciousness if she ever hoped to find the answers she sought. Releasing her fierce hold on her last link with the outer world, she plunged into a swirling, rushing darkness that shimmered around her.

Color engulfed her in a thousand hues, each luminous strand flickering to the strange music of a thousand melodies that wove themselves into a soft, warm blanket of fragrant, delicious harmony. For a time, Maura forgot her mission, and almost everything else, as she reveled in this sweet, fluid mingling of pure sensation.

Then she found herself thinking how perfect this endless moment would be if only Rath were here to share it with her. The only other time she had experienced anything remotely like this had been at the pinnacle of their lovemaking.

All at once, she could picture Rath with an aching clarity far sharper than memory. His warm, wry chuckle caressed her as his whisker-stubbled cheek rasped against her face, redolent with the familiar scent of smoke and leather. When he turned his dark gaze upon her, it glowed with long-denied love and hard-won trust. Maura subsided into the haven of his embrace with a mute sigh of bliss.

“Remember what you came here to do,” he whispered. “What only you
can
do.”

This was not the real Rath, Maura reminded herself, pleasant as it would be to tarry here and pretend it was. Reluctantly she let go of him and slipped deeper into…wherever she was.

Sorsha appeared—merry-eyed and bursting with innocent gossip from the village. Then Langbard strode out of their cottage, his blue robe swirling about his feet as the distant aroma of herbs wafted from the preparing room.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Sorsha. “Think what an adventure this will be! I wish I could come with you.”

Maura wished so, too. No feat would be quite as daunting if she had Sorsha’s courage and good sense to rely upon.

Langbard cupped her cheek with a worn, loving hand. “Keep searching, but be careful.”

Battling the urge to cling to him, Maura wandered on until she found herself in the bedchamber that had once belonged to her. Her mother gazed up at her from the bed, an exquisite face ravaged by illness, exhaustion and heartbreak.

“What a fine young woman you have grown to be,” she whispered. “I knew Langbard would not let me down.”

Maura longed to stay and ply her mother with all the questions she had hoarded in her heart since childhood. But Dareth Woodbury waved her on. “Another time, my sweet. Now you have work to do. Go with my blessing. But go quickly and do not dally where you have no business.”

Before she could ask what that meant, Maura found herself enveloped in a swirl of snow. Just then a slender figure lurched toward her from out of the shadows. The hood fell back to reveal her mother’s red-brown hair and haunted gaze. This time she did not seem to recognize Maura.

“Help me, please,” she gasped. “I do not deserve to live…but take pity on my child.”

With those words she swooned into Maura’s arms.

“Langbard!” Maura heard herself call. “Help! Please!”

She kept calling until Langbard appeared, bearing a lantern and looking younger than he had only a moment ago.

“I will see to her.” He set down his lantern on top of a shorn tree trunk and hefted Maura’s mother into his arms. “Keep going. You have far to travel and not much time.”

She watched him leave, wanting to follow, but two long strides carried him out of her view and she found herself peering into a dimly lit cavern. Against the flickering glow of a small fire, a man and woman clung together in an embrace Maura recognized as hungry passion. The sight of it made her long for Rath with fresh urgency.

She tried to draw back, embarrassed to spy upon them in such an intimate moment. The man had his back to her, his head covered by a hood, so she could tell nothing about him except his towering height. But the rich red-brown cascade of the woman’s hair drew Maura’s gaze even as she tried to look away. The woman seemed to sense her presence, for she stirred from her lover’s embrace and cast a furtive glance toward the mouth of the cavern. Her eyes widened and her features contorted in a look of alarm.

Mother?
No question it was her. Which must mean the man with his back to Maura…

Before she could move to get a better view of Vaylen, her mother broke from their embrace and dashed toward Maura. “Go! This is not what you are looking for!”

True, it was not what she’d been sent to discover, but it was something she’d been desperately curious about her whole life. Maura tried to peek past her mother for a glimpse of the man as he turned toward her.

“No!” Her mother pushed her backward, sending her tumbling deeper into the well of her memories.

More and more swiftly the scenes shifted as she visited events in the lives of her foremothers. It felt like what she had experienced during the ritual of passing with Langbard, only faster and more intense.

Knowledge that had slumbered unsuspected within her suddenly woke to life. Maura struggled to make a place for it all. Bits of spells and lore Langbard had never taught her now became hers to call upon.

She would like to have taken the time to absorb it more slowly, but some powerful force beyond her control drew her deeper.

“So, one has come at last.” With those muffled, echoing words, a richly robed woman held her hand out to Maura.

She wore the carved ivory circlet Maura recalled from her crowning ceremony over a tumble of thick dark curls. “Abrielle?”