Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (9 page)

On the other hand, if Varic didn’t show, Trevin had half a mind to climb through the jackal’s window, wake him with a dagger, and scare the scorn out of him—just so he would know the new comain hadn’t turned coward and run.

As Trevin secured his sword within easy reach, he sensed an approaching presence, silver as moonlight. He smiled. She didn’t have to come.

A cloaked figure holding a lantern ducked into the stables.

“Where are your bodyguards?” asked Trevin.

“Sometimes I slip away.” Melaia hung the lantern on a peg. “But you were right. They’ll find me.” From her waist sash she drew a looped black cord. A tiny harp of red-brown wood dangled from it. She slipped it over Trevin’s head. “A parting gift.” She pulled out a matching pendant and hung it around her neck.

“Are these kyparis wood?” asked Trevin.

“Zilwood, a near match. They’re to remind us of what brought us together.”

“And now pulls us apart.”

“Like it or not, you and I are bound together in the search for the harps.”

“I think I like it.” Trevin lifted her pendant and held it next to his, forming a heart. He eyed her. Was she blushing?

Melaia smiled and slipped her pendant from his hand. “Here comes Jarrod.”

“I’ve something for your journey,” said Jarrod as he entered the stable. Serai stepped out of the shadows to join him as he held out a staff. “I found this at the temple. It once belonged to another traveler.”

Trevin felt his face redden. “This was your father’s. It should be yours, Jarrod.”

Jarrod shrugged. “If you find Benasin, return it to him with my regards.”

“All’s ready for the journey,” Pym called from the stable gate.

Trevin motioned Jarrod close as he checked Almaron’s cinches. “Dwin told you about Hesel?”

“He did.”

“Melaia knows too. She plans to alert King Laetham this morning.”

Jarrod nodded. “I’ll support Dwin.”

“Watch him, will you? Try to keep him sober and out of trouble.”

“I’ll keep him busy,” Jarrod said with a sly smile. “He’ll have to stay sober for the task I have in mind.”

Trevin grinned. Did Jarrod think he could make a priest out of Dwin?

A muffled cry came from Serai. She pointed to a shadowed haystack by the side wall, where a foot protruded, half-exposed.

Trevin sprinted to the stack. With Jarrod and Pym he pitched aside clumps of hay. Legs came free. Hand. Arm. Torso. Head.

Trevin jerked back. Nash’s eyes stared upward, and his mouth gaped, stuffed full of thick dun mud. Gash.

Melaia covered her mouth with her hands.

“Varic did this.” Trevin rubbed his arms, chilled at the notion that Dwin might get involved.

Almaron whickered. Footsteps sounded in the courtyard.

“My guards.” Melaia pushed Trevin toward the outer gate. “This place will soon be swarming. Be gone, or you’ll not have the chance.”

“I can’t leave now,” said Trevin. “This is our opportunity to prove that Varic’s a villain.”

“Can you prove Varic did this?” asked Jarrod.

Trevin rubbed his right hand. He couldn’t yet, but he might find proof.

Melaia stood tall and looked every bit the princess. “Main Trevin, I want those harps found. Now.”

Trevin stiffened and bowed. “As you wish.”

When he rose, he saw tears in her fierce eyes. But she was right. If he stayed now, he might never leave. He took Almaron’s reins and followed Pym out of the stables into the break of day.

A small, lone drak rode the first breeze of dawn as the new comain and his armsman mounted. They skirted the east wall of the city, then galloped west toward the Durenwoods, where early morning sunlight edged the treetops. Once they reached the woods, they turned north and rode toward Aubendahl. The drak followed them partway, then circled around and headed back toward Redcliff.

Two days of riding took Trevin and Pym to Dahl in the foothills of the Aubendahl range. On the third day, they rode west around the hills, and by noon on the fourth day, they stood gazing across a grassy plain at mountains that spanned the northern horizon.

“Which gap is Windsweep?” asked Trevin.

“I’d say we won’t know until we get closer.” Pym shaded his eyes. “I’d aim for the middle of the range.” He shot a challenging glance at Trevin and nudged his roan into a gallop. “Beat you to the other side,” he called.

Trevin whooped and loosened his reins. Almaron fairly flew, swiftly gaining on Pym. Trevin crowed as they took the lead.

Halfway across the plain, Almaron tried to turn east. “Straight on!” urged Trevin. “Straight on!”

Almaron slowed, headed north, then swerved west. It took all of Trevin’s coaxing to get him back on course.

Pym caught up. “Twists and turns! Make up your mind. East, west, or north?”

“I’m trying to go north,” said Trevin. “This is Almaron’s doing.”

“I should have made you take the gelding,” growled Pym, but he was struggling to control his skittish roan too.

Almaron balked. His ears twitched; his nostrils flared. A few yards ahead, Pym’s roan came to a halt as well.

A low rumble swelled in the east, and a dust cloud boiled on the horizon. Trevin squinted. Ahead of the dust surged a wave of galloping horses.

“They’re running wild!” cried Pym.

“Hie!” Trevin shouted, pressing his heel into Almaron’s flank.

The stallion shot north, quickly outdistancing the roan. Then he veered east and raced toward the oncoming wave.

The din of Trevin’s heartbeat in his ears rivaled the rumbling hoofs. There were at least fifty horses in his estimation, a wild-eyed torrent. He shouted at Almaron and tried to rein him aside, but the stallion surged ahead.

Moments before they reached the thundering herd, Almaron turned. The mad gallop engulfed them. Blinding, choking dust made it impossible to see Pym, and the deafening thud of hoofs drowned Trevin’s calls. He had no choice but to lean into the sting of Almaron’s whipping mane and cling for his life.

The wild throng flooded into a narrowing valley that funneled the horses into a corridor between cliffs. Two abreast, the horses surged into a box canyon the size of the great hall at Redcliff. The herd circled the enclosure and slowed to an agitated walk.

Trevin eased to a sitting position, panting. The horses snorted and milled uneasily, steaming a strong odor of sweat. Pym and his roan were not among them. Trevin wondered if they had made it across the plain or had turned back or … He wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead.

Flexing his right hand, then his left, Trevin looked for a way out of the canyon. A spiked fence had been placed across the entrance, and at least a dozen men swarmed the stone corridor beyond. Trevin nudged Almaron toward the fence, but the stallion held his ground, his head high, his ears alert.

A sharp whinny bounced off the stone walls. Almaron answered with a neigh, then pushed through the churn of the herd toward a horse with a golden coat and white mane that stood by the far wall. As they drew nearer, Trevin gasped. Pure white wings lay folded against the horse’s sides.

The winged horse dipped her head as Almaron sidled up and nudged her. She nuzzled him back.

Trevin patted Almaron’s sweaty neck. “Did she choose you, or did you
choose her?” he asked. “A marvelous choice in either case, but now is not the time to make attachments. We have to find Pym.” He looked toward the fence again.

Two men with closely cropped hair stood talking at the gate. Both wore wine-colored tunics and dark brown leggings. One was tall and lanky with a neatly trimmed beard, and the other was shorter and clean shaven. Each carried a bow and quiver of arrows slung across his back.

Trevin waved. “Friends!” he shouted, fully aware that they might be far from friendly.

“Ho!” called the bearded man. “How did you get trapped in the canyon?”

“I was crossing the plain when I got caught in this herd.”

The clean-shaven man unchained the gate. “You’re lucky to be in one piece,” he called. “Where do you come from?”

“Camrithia. I’m Main Trevin. I serve King Laetham.”

“We’re the horsemen of King Kedemeth of Eldarra,” shouted the bearded man. “I’m Haden, and this is Brink.” He pointed to the man removing the chain. “We travel with Prince Resarian.”

Brink pulled off the chain but didn’t open the gate. “I can’t raise the fence without risking the release of the herd, so you’ll have to come out by this gate. It’s not large enough for your horse.”

“You’re welcome to camp with us,” called Haden. “As we cull the horses in the coming days, we’ll bring your horse to you.”

Trevin’s heart sank. How could he know whether or not these men would be true to their word? Besides, he needed Almaron to search for Pym.

“Great barn owls!” Haden stared past Trevin and climbed the fence. “It’s the Golden! She’s let herself be penned.”

Other horsemen came running, shouting, “The Golden! The Golden!”

“The winged one?” asked Trevin.

“Aye, the winged one,” said Haden. “Each year she brings in the others, but she always flies before entering the corridor to the canyon. I’ll be ’swoggled if she hasn’t let herself be caught this time!”

“Can’t she fly out if she wants?” asked Trevin.

“Crowded as it is and with those high cliffs? She’d have a hard time getting out. Besides, she looks content with your horse beside her.”

“So it seems.” Trevin tried again to nudge Almaron toward the gate but to no avail. Instead, Almaron and the Golden edged apart just far enough for him to dismount without being crushed.

Trevin sighed and dismounted, then freed Almaron from the weight of the packs, staff, and saddle. He slipped his sword and scabbard onto his belt, but his shield was lost.

As he removed Almaron’s blanket, he eyed the slashes that crossed the stallion’s shoulders. He ran his hand over the scars, then studied the Golden, glancing back and forth between the two horses.

His whole body went cold. Almaron once had wings.

“You need help?” called Haden.

Trevin shook his head, swallowing against a choking sensation. Had these men taken Almaron’s wings? Did they plan the same for the Golden?

Trevin stroked Almaron with new respect, then shouldered the packs and the saddle. “I’ll be back,” he said, “and I’ll not let them harm your friend.”

The calm presence of the Golden and Almaron seemed to gentle the other horses, and Trevin walked slowly so as not to disturb the peace. The herd pressed toward the walls as he crossed the canyon.

As Brink chained the gate behind him, Trevin turned for another look at Almaron. The stallion would not be lonely. Trevin wished he could say the same for himself.

Haden reached for one of Trevin’s packs.

“I’ll carry it.” Trevin clenched his teeth and headed down the walled path.

“Please yourself.” Haden tromped behind him. “But if you want help, I’ve a strong back.”

Trevin plodded ahead, his awkward load weighing heavily on him, but if this horseman’s hands had taken the wings of horses like Almaron, those hands would not touch his belongings.

Other horsemen joined them as they left the enclosure, and they all trekked the corridor to the plain. At the mouth of the inlet, Trevin had to set down his baggage and rest. The other men strode toward a grove of trees, where their horses stood tethered.

Only Haden stayed. “The prince will be glad to have new company and fresh stories,” he said.

Trevin kept his eyes on the plain. “Thanks for your offer of camp, but I need to find my friend. The herd separated us.”

“You plan to travel the plain on foot to find him? Carrying your staff, two packs, and a saddle? Unless you have a magic I don’t, your friend will be found faster on horseback. I can offer you a mount and men to help in the search.”

Trevin faced him. “What are your plans for the winged horse?”

Haden’s thick eyebrows arched. “The Golden? We’ve no plans for her. We didn’t expect to corral her in the first place.” He narrowed his eyes. “If
you’re
thinking of taking her, you’ll have to deal with me first.”

“You’ll not take her wings?”

“Take her wings? You think we’re Dregmoorians? That’s the last thing we’d do. The Golden’s a free creature, and I aim to see she stays that way.”

Trevin took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I misjudged you. My horse bears scars where he should have wings.”

Haden frowned. “You know who maimed him?”

Trevin shook his head. “He was found wounded and half-starved, wandering near the Dregmoors. No one thought he would live, and with his scars he wasn’t considered a worthy mount.”

Haden chuckled. “Worthy, eh? I’d say worthy and then some.” He pointed to Trevin’s packs. “May I?”

“I’d be grateful.” Trevin gathered his staff and saddle as Haden hefted his two packs. Together they strode to the grove. “Tell me about the Golden.”

“She’s queen of the Windwings,” said Haden. “They’re perhaps the wisest of the animals. Some say they’re gifted to see into the spirit realm and were once able to cross into Avellan and back.”

“Avellan?”

“A border city of heaven.”

“You mean they reached heaven without the stairway?”