The keep of fire, p.19
The Keep of Fire, page 19
By the time Grace finally finished her good-bye, both of them were weeping, although this time the tears were the normal byproduct of good, plain sorrow. Then Grace returned to her own room, lay in her bed for a few dim hours, and rose long before the sun to ready herself for the journey.
30.
They set out at dawn the next day.
Grace let Durge help her onto Shandis’s back. The palfrey pranced in a circle, eager to be gone. It seemed she knew this was more than just a morning jaunt into the countryside, but once more Grace was giving an animal too much credit.
Then again, for all you know, she can calculate pi to twenty decimal places.
Grace decided to stop worrying about personifying.
Durge swung himself up into Blackalock’s saddle, his shirt of chain mail jingling. “Have you made all your preparations?” the Embarran asked the other two knights who, like him, sat astride tall warhorses.
“I believe I’m ready,” Sir Meridar said, making a last check of the leather bags tied to his saddle.
Grace remembered Meridar. He was the knight who had come upon them in the valley after the attack by the bear. His eyes were kind in his pockmarked face.
The remaining knight, Sir Kalleth, gave a curt nod. “We should already have left by now. The day wastes.”
Grace’s frown was a mirror of Durge’s. There was something about Kalleth she didn’t like, although it was hard to pin down exactly what it was. He was a plain man, if powerfully built, with salt-and-pepper hair and unremarkable features, save for a broken and badly reset nose. Maybe it was the flatness of his eyes. Regardless, Grace wished Boreas had not ordered Kalleth to accompany her.
Both Meridar and Kalleth had pledged their swords to the new Order of Malachor. Accompanying Grace was to be their last duty for King Boreas before he released them from service. On their return from Perridon, the two knights planned to journey to the order’s new fortress in Galt. Grace would have to remember to tell Meridar to say hello to Beltan for her. She missed the big blond knight, and she hoped he was doing well.
“The king has granted us his leave,” Durge said. “There is nothing holding us.”
Grace glanced around the bailey, but there was no sign of either Aryn or Lirith. But why should they have come? Grace had spoken with Aryn at length yesterday, and she had already bid Lirith farewell over breakfast that morning.
It’s better not to draw out good-byes. You know that well enough, Grace.
Yet it was hard not to feel a pang of disappointment.
Durge looked at her. “Are you ready, my lady?”
Grace hesitated. There was one more she had wanted to say farewell to. However, yesterday, when she had ventured into the garden with the gold light of afternoon, she had found no sign of Naida. The little grotto where the Herb Mother usually worked was silent. As she turned to leave, Grace had seen that the tree in the corner had finally died. Its brown branches hung down, as if to touch the other plants in a final embrace. Grace had lifted a hand to her chest, then had turned and left the garden.
Now she glanced up at the flawless summer sky. It promised to be a hot day. She searched the blue dome, and although she could not see it, she knew it was there, sinking even then toward the horizon. The new moon.
She lowered her head and met Durge’s gaze. “Let’s go.”
They rode through an archway into the lower bailey. Grace gazed at the stone walls within which she had lived most of the last eight months of her life. When would she set foot in this place again? Then they passed through the castle gate and into the world beyond.
Once they reached the foot of the hill they broke into a brisk but far from rapid trot. Grace forced herself not to order the knights to ride faster. It was still two weeks until the full moon; they had more than enough time for the journey. Yet it was hard not to feel that what she had seen in the vision had already happened, that no matter how hard they rode they would be too late. She concentrated on riding, and by the time she remembered to look back Calavere was already lost to sight behind her.
They rode north from the castle to the old Tarrasian bridge over the Dimduorn, then before crossing turned east, ascending the grassy ridge that paralleled the south bank of the river.
“Why don’t we just cross the Dimduorn here in Calavan?” Grace had asked Durge yesterday after studying a map of the Dominions with him. “It looks like we’ll have to go five extra leagues to the south to cross the bridge on the border of Toloria.”
“No, my lady,” Durge had said. “We must keep to the south side of the Darkwine. There are too many tributaries to cross if we were to ride on the north bank, and all of them will be swollen with snowmelt this time of year.”
Grace had nodded. But even five leagues seemed too great a sacrifice to speed.
They had ridden an hour in silence when Durge dropped back and brought Blackalock alongside Shandis. “We have not discussed Ar-tolor, my lady. Will we be begging the hospitality of the queen for a time?”
Grace opened her mouth to answer, but harsh words beat her.
“We ride straight to Perridon.”
Grace jumped in her saddle. Kalleth’s horse was just a half length behind her own. She hadn’t realized he had been following her so closely.
Durge’s mustaches twitched. “Lady Grace is a close companion of the queen. What if Queen Ivalaine were to extend an invitation to stay?”
“Then Lady Grace will politely decline,” Kalleth said, baring yellowed teeth in what was not a smile. “We will stop at Ar-tolor to beg permission of the queen before riding through her Dominion, as protocol demands. But then we will be on our way. We have our orders from King Boreas, and a holiday in Ar-tolor is not mentioned in them.”
Kalleth jerked the reins of his charger—so hard the beast snorted and rolled its eyes—and the horse veered to the side and dropped back.
Grace glanced at Durge. The knight gave a somber nod but said nothing. It might prove difficult to convince the other two knights to go out of their way to the Gray Tower. Grace suspected that Meridar could be persuaded with effort. But Kalleth seemed about as malleable as a block of granite. All the same, that was exactly what Grace had to do.
And what will you do when you get to the Gray Tower, Grace? Just how do you intend to help Travis?
But she had over fifty leagues in which to figure that one out. She hunkered down in the saddle and kept her eyes on the horizon.
Grace had gone for a number of rides in the last months, and her equestrian skills had improved, but she had never ridden hard for an entire day, and by the time the sun threw their shadows out before them her whole body hurt. Just when she was fearing they would never stop, she saw the thin trails of smoke rising into the sky not far ahead.
“The village of Foxfair lies just beyond that rise,” Durge said. “We will beg the hospitality of Gaddimer, the local lord, for the night.”
Grace nodded, grateful they were close to the village and to rest. Although she wasn’t certain that, when they did stop, she would actually be able to pry her fingers from the reins.
As they reached the base of the knoll that separated them from the village, the trail passed into a stand of trees. They were nearly through the stand to the other side when Kalleth hissed behind them.
“We are being followed.”
Durge came to an immediate halt. He cocked his head, listening, then looked up and made two sharp motions with his hand. Meridar and Kalleth wheeled their horses around and plunged into the thicket to one side of the road.
“This way, my lady,” Durge whispered.
He guided Blackalock into the undergrowth opposite of where the other knights had vanished. Grace and Shandis followed. She waited, watching the road through a screen of leaves. Then she caught the sound of hooves, and she held her breath.
The riders came into view. There were two of them. Both wore dark capes, the hoods pulled up to conceal their faces despite the warmth of the late-summer afternoon. A blade of fear stabbed at Grace. Raven cultists? No, the followers of the Raven had always worn robes, not capes. Highwaymen, then. Not so terrifying, but still dangerous.
The riders brought their horses to a halt. Their hooded heads turned from side to side, as if searching. Panic slithered up Grace’s throat. Did the brigands know their prey was hidden among the trees? The two bowed their heads together. One seemed to speak something, and the other nodded. Then they nudged their horses, and Grace breathed a sigh of relief as the two cloaked riders started onward again.
Her sigh became a gasp as, with a crashing noise, a horse burst out of the undergrowth in an explosion of leaves. The two cloaked riders jerked their heads up, then fought to keep their own startled horses under control. Grinning, a naked sword in his hand, Kalleth thundered toward them aback his charger. The riders fumbled with their cloaks, as if trying to grab weapons concealed beneath, but they did not have time.
“Hold, Kalleth!” a voice roared beside Grace.
Blackalock surged forward, a dark blur, out of the trees and onto the path.
“I said hold!”
Durge’s face was a deeply etched mask of fury. At the last moment Kalleth changed the direction of his blow, and the sword passed its mark, missing one of the riders by a scant inch.
The knight cast a venomous look at Durge. “What is the reason for this?”
Durge did not answer. Instead he rode forward, grabbed the hood of the nearest rider, and jerked it back.
Grace sucked in a sharp breath. Of course. You should have recognized the horses. She nudged Shandis forward, reaching the path at the same time as Meridar.
All looked at Aryn as she blinked wide blue eyes against the light of the westering sun. Her face was pale, and she lifted her left hand to the throat that nearly had been sliced through by Kalleth’s blade. The other rider reached up dark, slender hands and pushed back the concealing hood. Grace was shocked again. It was Lirith. What were the two doing here?
Kalleth shoved his sword into its scabbard. “This is a foolish game you’ve played, my ladies. And it might well have cost you your lives.”
“Thanks to your swiftness, Sir Kalleth,” Durge said in a hard voice.
Kalleth frowned at him, but the Embarran did not look in the knight’s direction.
Grace shook her head, struggling for words. “Aryn, Lirith—what are you doing here?”
Aryn’s fear vanished, replaced by a brilliant smile. “We were following you, Grace. We’re coming with you.”
Grace was stunned anew. Yesterday Aryn had been weeping and distraught over what she had done on Midwinter’s Eve. Now she was more cheerful than Grace had seen her in months. Lirith’s gaze fell on Grace, and Grace stared back. That Aryn had done this was almost comprehensible given her age, but that Lirith had agreed was impossible to believe.
“Forgive us,” the dark-eyed woman said. “But we did not want you to go without sisterly companionship to … your destination.”
Meridar glanced at Durge, his eyes filled with mirth rather than anger. “And what are we to do with these bandits?”
“It is too late to do anything tonight,” Durge said. “We will ride to Foxfair and hope Lord Gaddimer has room enough to keep us all. No doubt King Boreas sent another of his knights after Lady Aryn and Lady Lirith when he discovered their absence. They can wait for him at Gaddimer’s manor until he arrives.”
“But he won’t arrive,” Aryn said. Her eyes shone. “By the time Boreas finds out we’re gone, we’ll be days ahead, and not even the king’s fastest chargers will be able to catch us.”
The knights stared at Aryn, and she smiled. The expression was slightly smug. Lirith cast a shocked look at the baroness, and dread pooled in Grace’s stomach. Now she understood. Lirith had ridden with Aryn only to keep watch over her, believing Boreas’s men would come upon them before they got too far from the castle. But Aryn had done something—some spell—to conceal their absence. Only what? From the look on Lirith’s face, even she did not know.
Durge shifted in his saddle. “If Boreas has not sent a man, then one of us will have to return to Calavere tomorrow with the ladies.”
Kalleth spat on the ground. “And which of us will that be, Sir Durge?”
The Embarran grumbled under his mustaches. Grace didn’t need to hear his words to understand. His plan wasn’t going to work. The knights all had their orders to ride to Perridon. None would be willing to go back.
It was Meridar who offered the solution. “Let the ladies ride with us, then. It is hardly dangerous while we are here within the king’s borders. And let us not leave them to stay at some crude village, but rather take them to Ar-tolor, where they can stay with Lirith’s queen until such time Boreas sees fit to send for them.”
It was a good plan. Grace knew Durge had to agree, then was surprised to find him looking to her. Of course. It wasn’t the knight’s decision. You’re the duchess, Grace.
She swallowed the mad laughter that bubbled up in her throat. “We’ll do as Sir Meridar says.”
Durge nodded. Meridar appeared relieved, and while Kalleth did not look altogether pleased, he did not disagree. Aryn laughed, and Grace turned to meet Lirith’s dark eyes. The witch nodded. They would speak about the baroness later.
“Night comes,” Durge said. “We had best hurry on to Foxfair.”
The Embarran led the way, and the ladies came behind, followed by Meridar and Kalleth. Grace glanced at Aryn and Lirith as they rode. Despite the rashness of what they had done, she was glad for their company. Durge was a stout and true companion, but he was a man. It would be good to have other women along on the journey. Other witches.
But just how had Aryn arranged their unseen escape?
Grace nudged Shandis alongside the baroness’s palfrey. “What did you do, Aryn?” she whispered.
The young woman shrugged. “I only did what you said, Grace.”
“What do you mean, what I said?”
“If you have power, use it.”
Before Grace could say anything more, Aryn smiled and nudged her horse into a trot.
31.
The traveling party rode east through the Dominion of Calavan, never straying more than a half league from the southern bank of the Dimduorn as they went.
Grace could not help marveling as they cantered across the gently undulating landscape. In the time she had lived on this world, she had hardly ventured outside the castle walls, and then only for short jaunts into the well-tilled countryside a few furlongs from Calavere. There, nearly always surrounded by crowds of dirty, foul-smelling people, she had been able to believe that Falengarth was a populous land, filled with similar keeps and towns. She was wrong. As far as Grace could tell from her vantage atop Shandis’s back, this world was just about empty.
It was not so noticeable in the beginning. On that first day out they came upon villages with predictable regularity—one every two miles. Foxfair, where they stayed that first night, was typical of the others: a stone manor house about as big as the average subdivision tract home on Earth—although built to stand for centuries rather than decades—with a stable, a common green supporting a few sorry-looking cows, a well, a shrine to the lord’s favored mystery cult, and about two dozen hovels of thatch, wood, mud, and stone scattered among rock-walled fields that were each about a quarter acre in size, and a third of which were lying fallow.
It was hard to believe this was the basis for the economic system that supported the entire Dominion. Then, as they rode on, Grace realized there wasn’t that much Dominion to support.
They set out from Foxfair at dawn after saying farewell to Lord Gaddimer and his wife—a kindly and diminutive couple who possessed deeply lined, good-natured faces as well as a trio of large, handsome sons. The oldest of the sons, all of nineteen, was helping his father run the manor, while the others, once they were a year or two older, would head for Calavere or the castle of one of Boreas’s barons to become squires and, hopefully in time, knights.
As they rode that second day, the size and frequency of villages decreased rapidly. It was only that evening, when they stopped at the first village they had seen in hours, that Grace understood the reason. Once again they begged the hospitality of the local lord: a younger, unmarried man named Unreth who was more reserved than Gaddimer but no less welcoming. When Unreth’s ancient housemaid brought an extra blanket to the damp bedchamber Grace and the other women were to share, the maid begged for news of Calavere.
“Do you know Elthrinde of Orsel?” the old woman asked Grace in a wavering voice. “She is my cousin, you see. She went to Calavere to work in the king’s kitchen.”
Aryn and Lirith shook their heads. Grace thought, then realized she did in fact know the name. She sighed and laid her hand over the old woman’s. Why was it so much easier when she had grim news?
“I did know Elthrinde,” she said. “Although not well, I’m afraid. A few months ago her granddaughter asked me to see to her. I’m a … I’m a healer. I did everything I could. But I’m afraid Elthrinde was worn-out, and she died.”
The old woman considered Grace’s words, then nodded. “Was she still beautiful? Elthrinde was so beautiful when she left for the king’s castle.”
Grace pictured the crone—toothless, arthritic, scarred by scrofula—who had struggled for breath on the flea-infested bed in the town beneath Calavere. “Yes, she was still beautiful. When did you see her last?”
The maid blinked in watery surprise. “Why, when she left Orsel, of course. I remember it clearly. It was the year we both reached our sixteenth winter.”
After the old woman left, Grace stared at the folded wool blanket. From further discussion she had learned that the maid had never journeyed to Calavere to see her cousin, even though it was a ride of only two days, and a walk of perhaps four. But then, shouldn’t she have known this would be the case?
