Authors: Darlene Bolesny
“No!” Coryden yelled.
Richard moved fast and shoved the watchmen aside. He blocked the crossbow upward as the bolt left the stock. The bolt flew wild and embedded itself in a nearby wall. Coryden couldn’t help but wince as Richard followed with a full strength punch to the middle of the watchman’s stomach. The watchman went to his knees, groaning.
Swords were drawn and the street echoed with the sound of steel on scabbards as both groups did so simultaneously. Coryden quickly sized up the situation—there were about twenty watchmen to Coryden’s patrol of twelve. The Northmarchers had more combat experience, and they could take them—but it would be messy.
Coryden turned to the Watch commander. “Do you really want to do this, Trahern?” he said softly.
Trahern glared at him without answering, but both sides held off as they waited for their commanders to sort it out. Coryden counted the seconds. The longer Trahern hesitated, the better the chance that blood would not be shed.
Trahern and Coryden locked stares. The Watch commander blinked first. “Resheathe your blades,” he ordered.
“Do it,” Coryden said. Slowly, both sides backed away from each other, the watchmen resheathing their weapons, the Northmarchers lowering theirs.
* * *
It was several hours later before Coryden and his men straggled into the Dapple Stallion. The proprietor was expecting them and quickly ushered them into a back room. Morticai sat with his chair tilted back, his feet on the table, and a tankard in his hand. He sported a dark bruise on his left cheekbone.
“Hi!” he greeted them cheerfully. “What took you so long? You guys didn’t fight back there, did you?”
Coryden glared at him. “No, we didn’t fight! But we might well have. Morticai, he really did have orders from the palace to pick you up. What’s going on?”
Morticai sat up and lowered his feet to the floor. A serving girl came in with a large tray full of tankards. Everyone settled in around the table.
“You’re serious?” Morticai asked. “He really did have a warrant?”
“Yes! Now, what the Levani is going on?” Coryden demanded again.
“Hmm … I don’t know, Coryden. I haven’t had time to cause any trouble—
honest
. I just got out of the Sanctorium this morning.”
Berret remarked, “Well, you certainly got your diversion, all right. You must have done something to cause this.”
Morticai shook his head emphatically. “No. It might have something to do with what Rylan has been telling me, but I didn’t expect something like this from the palace.”
“Morticai,” Coryden said, “you’re not making sense. What in the Benek’s name are you talking about?”
Morticai sighed. “Well … it’s a long story.”
It was late that night, and well past their four-hour time limit, when Coryden and his men left for Northgate. Coryden had sent messages to the gate guard, explaining that his patrol had been detained by the Inquisition.
It wasn’t actually a lie. After all, Morticai
was
working for the Inquisition now.
* * *
The elaborately decorated coach pulled slowly to a halt. It was still very close to Watchaven, just north of the city on a narrow wagon path that led to Dunder, a tiny village that lay ten miles north of the huge city. To the east lay a magnificent view of the ocean. The cliffs here were high, which caused the roar and crash of the waves to sound hollow as they echoed up the jagged rocks. The coachman hopped down and opened the door of the coach with a well-practiced flourish.
He held out his hand. The white-gloved hand that accepted his help was slender, elegant, and feminine. The lady landed lightly, her ornate gown rustling softly. She was corryn, but petite for her race, with pure silver hair and deep green eyes. Her hair wound elaborately around her head, ending in cascading curls.
“Thank you, Nevin,” the lady said graciously.
“M’lady,” the coachman said, “we are miles from any civilized place. Will you not allow me to accompany you?”
“Thank you, Nevin, but absolutely not,” the lady replied firmly. “Please, I will be quite safe. All I need for you to do is wait here—and be patient! I might be gone for some time. In fact, I expect I shall be, but you must not worry.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Nevin replied resignedly.
The lady then lifted her skirt an inch off the sand and carefully made her way down the trail that led to the small stretch of beach, far below.
She stopped as she reached the base of the cliff, where the trail ended in a small circle of up-thrust rocks. The rocks were carved with ancient, intricate designs. In the center of the protected spot stood a large stone basin that had been sculpted from a single boulder. It too, bore elaborate carvings. It was a solemn place, where the weight of the ages could not be ignored.
The lady stopped before the basin and removed her gloves. She offered up her prayer as she dipped her hands into the water and withdrew them cupped full of the hallowed liquid. As the ancients had done, she took a sip, and then scattered the remaining water in a circle about herself. The ceremony performed, she continued on.
At the level of the ocean itself, the sounds of the waves were either tremendous or muted, depending on where one stood. The rocks caused odd echoes, and small caverns abounded. She walked on slowly, expectantly, and as she came onto the beach, she saw before her, a few yards away, a lone figure. Not wanting to intrude too quickly, she approached cautiously.
She spoke his name softly. “Dyluth?”
Morticai turned. His lopsided smile came slowly, ruefully.
She moved closer and knelt beside him on the sand, abandoning her concern for the dress she had so carefully tended on the trail. She touched his face lightly, turning it, and frowned as she inspected the bruise on his left cheekbone.
“I’m glad you were able to come, Heather,” Morticai said. “I wasn’t certain you would be able to get away.”
She released his face and gave his hair a single, soft stroke, letting her hand linger at the back of his head. “I would have come under any circumstances. It has been a long time since we have met here. What troubles you, Dyluth?”
Morticai sighed, and then an ironic smirk crept onto his face. “Heather, you’re going to tell me that you have warned me of this for years.” The smirk faded. “Just don’t tell me that I deserve it. Please?”
He looked away and gathered his thoughts. She remained silent, her face filling with concern.
“I have come upon a Droken plot. What would you think if I told you that it is the Droken who have driven Watchaven and Dynolva so close to war, and that the Droken doing it are Watchaven nobles?”
“Were it anyone else,” she answered, “I would laugh. But you, my love, would not lie about such a thing. Do I know them?”
Morticai shrugged. “I suppose so. Lord Aldwin, Lord Valdir, Sir Ellenwood?”
Heather nodded solemnly. “I could see such a thing from Aldwin, but Valdir? How odd. I do not know the other. But wasn’t it the Dynolvans who assassinated Aldwin?”
“I don’t know how that happened,” Morticai admitted. “I do know for a fact he was Droken. Maybe their plans to stir up the Dynolvans worked too well. I don’t know. I was kind of tethered down at the time.”
“Tethered down, as in … ?” Heather asked.
Morticai sighed. “Well, it’s part of why I asked you to meet me here. Do you remember Burnaby Manor?”
She smiled seductively. “How could I not?”
“Yeah,” Morticai said. He returned the smile. Becoming serious again, he continued. “Well, I was wounded in the alley outside the tunnel by a corryn knight of some kind—at the time, that was what I thought he must have been. Well, I’ve been told that the ‘knight’ was Prince Luthekar. Ever hear of him?”
“No,” Heather answered slowly. “It is familiar somehow, but I don’t know why. Where is he prince?”
“I don’t know if there is a ‘where,’ but he’s a prince of the Droken.”
Heather stared at him a long while, horror slowly filling her eyes. “Now, I remember where I’ve heard the name. I’ve heard the court bards tell stories about him. Oh, Dyluth! He is a foul, wicked creature! And you fought him?”
“Yeah. Almost died, too.”
“But Dyluth, the stories say that no one can survive against him!”
“Well, the Inquisitor tells it a little diff—”
“The Inquisitor!”
“Uh, well, yeah … Heather, let me get through one thing at a time. Please?”
“Very well, Dyluth.” She shuddered involuntarily and shifted her weight to sit beside him.
Morticai continued. “Anyway, this Inquisitor told me that it’s Luthekar’s sword that no one is supposed to be able to survive. Y’see, Heather, my problem isn’t the Inquisition. They came to investigate and are generally on my side of things. In fact, I’m kinda’ working for them now. My problem is the Droken.”
“
You
are working for the Inquisition?”
“It was either that or move to a monastery somewhere. See, the Droken are after me because I survived that damned sword. A Northmarcher tried to kill me, for Glawres’ sake! Of course, he turned out to be Droken. But I can’t go back to Northgate—at least, not until this is over. I wanted to talk with you because someone at the palace has put out an order to have me picked up, and I want you to find out who ordered it.”
Heather cradled her face in her hands and shook her head. “Oh, Dyluth!” she said disgustedly.
He looked away. “I thought that would be your reaction,” he said glumly.
Heather moved to kneel in front of him. She took his hands in hers, bringing them together before her. She waited until Morticai looked back at her before speaking. “Dyluth, what are you going to do? If the Droken have truly singled you out for death, what can you do?”
“Gee, nice of you to put it so clearly,” Morticai replied cynically.
“Dyluth, listen to me! Don’t you understand? I know what it is like to be hunted! You should remember, too—you helped me hide. You should run from here—far,
far
away.”
“I am hiding, Heather! That’s why I didn’t meet you in town.”
“What of the Arluthians? Have you heard from Nelerek?”
“Yes, I have heard from Nelerek.”
“And?”
Morticai sighed. “He thinks I should leave town.”
“See? Even Nelerek agrees.”
Morticai looked away. When he turned to her again, unshed tears brimmed up in his dark blue eyes. “Do you know what you’re asking? I … I don’t want to leave Watchaven.” He blinked the tears back. “I don’t want to run again! I’m old enough now to do something I couldn’t when they killed my parents, Heather. Now I can fight back!”
It was Heather’s turn to look away. The certainty had left her voice when she spoke again.
“Dyluth …
Morticai
,” she began and then stopped. She turned back, catching his eyes easily with hers. “Moranekor,” she said softly, using his birth name, “I know that we have had many differences. But there is much between us that cannot be denied, either. I would not have you fall to the Droken!”
He stared at her a moment before he pulled her into his arms. She cried softly as he rocked her back and forth.
“Heather.”
“Please, we can leave here, Dyluth,” she said. “We should have done it long ago. I will go with you. We can begin a new life. I am ready to find out the truth about my heritage. We could go to Tradelenor while I learn about things in Lorredre. If I could clear my family’s name, I would have all the money necessary to protect you. We could even be matched. Let us be gone from this human place where corryn are not welcome.”
Morticai held her away from him before replying. “Heather, are you crazy? ‘Be gone from this human place’? And go to Tradelenor? You can’t get any more human than Tradelenor!”
“Then, we’ll go to Cuthedre! Anywhere but here, Dyluth! As long as we go together.”
Morticai shook his head. “No!” He let her go, and she continued to sob, softly. “Heather, really now,” he chided her, “think about it. Think about us. You know it wouldn’t work. The first time I got into a fight, you’d be gone. And if that didn’t do it, you’d leave when your fine clothes wore out and I couldn’t replace them for you.”
She stopped sobbing and looked at him, hurt. “Is that all you think I care about?”
He sighed. “No. But I won’t have you match with a dead man, either.”
She fumbled for the slit in her outer skirt. Finally locating it, she retrieved a lace-edged kerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. Afterwards, she laid her hand along Morticai’s face.
This time, it was his eyes that filled with hurt.
“So now I know what it takes for you to agree to matching,” he said. “Finally, I know.”
“That’s unfair,” she said, dropping her hand away from his face.
“Probably. I’m sorry.” He picked up a pebble and threw it toward the water. Frowning, he continued. “Besides Heather, there’s more to it, I think.”
She looked confused. “More to what?”
“More to what’s going on. I’ve felt odd about this. Ever since it started. It’s like, it’s like it’s something I’ve
got
to do.” He paused awkwardly. “Y’know, the Inquisitor said that it was a miracle that I lived. He said that it was only by Glawres intervening that I could have survived. I still don’t know what to think about that.”
Heather looked at him, her tears dried now. “This Inquisitor really said that?”
A smirk came over Morticai’s face. “Yeah, he couldn’t figure it out either.” He laughed openly, throwing his head back. “Miracle performed on Watchaven street urchin—maybe it does sound like Glawres. Aluntas knows, the patron of the sea has never been predictable.”
“You underrate yourself, Dyluth,” Heather replied. “You always have. Glawres should be proud of you. After all, you have never been predictable, either.”
Morticai smiled weakly. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I didn’t want to meet with you to argue.” He looked down.
She lifted his chin. “I am sorry, too. I’ll get your information—and fret myself sick worrying about you, I am certain.”
“Y’know,” he said slowly, “I still love you.”
She smiled. “And I, you.”
They embraced again, and this time allowed the embrace to turn into long, remembering kisses.