Artesans of Albia: 02 - King's Champion (15 page)

They circled westwards in their journey, and as any serious fighting was likely to be concentrated in the forests to the east, she felt they were safe from Rykan’s forces. Even so, she pushed on hard, rarely stopping for longer than to breathe the horses. She was desperate to reach the Caer and deliver her information before the two sides fully engaged, and with every passing day she could feel the poison of Rykan’s seed creeping closer to her heart.

In the evenings, when they sat to eat their rations before a small, screened fire, she often caught Robin gazing at her as she sat brooding over her fellan. Did he know she was thinking of Bull in those dark and lonely moments? Maybe, for he sat as close as he could to her, sometimes with an arm across her shoulders. Although she never let herself melt against him, she was glad of his uncomplicated support.

The weather worsened as winter drew on. Finally, they crested a small knoll within a circling wood of bare trees. Looking away to the north, three miles or so across frozen, snow-softened plains, they saw a tall hill.

The hazy sky and diffused, watery sunlight made the details unclear, but still the fortress rearing from the top of the hill was impressive. It commanded views of the plains all around. Dark, encircling walls, buttressed and crenellated, surrounded the lower town. From the top of those walls came occasional flashes of sun glancing off weapons as swordsmen patrolled the walkways. Huge wooden gates in the south wall were shut fast, but there was movement by their feet. Doubtless a detachment of guardsmen patrolled there.

The massive, grey towers of the Citadel’s palace stretched smoothly upward among the buildings of the upper town, standing like vast fangs against the steely sky. Pennons flew from their tips, gaudy patches of purple slashed with gold. The colors of the Hierarch, Sullyan thought, the House of Pharikian. In peacetime, the gates to the Citadel would stand open, and even in winter a steady stream of petitioners, craftsmen, peddlers, and market men would pass between them. Now, all they could see were companies of soldiers drilling among a huddle of tents, the daytime enclave of the craftsmen who supported and equipped the Hierarch’s fighting forces.

Sullyan leaned on Drum’s ebony neck and regarded the Citadel. Her eyes ranged further east toward the forests where she thought skirmishes against outriders from Rykan’s army must surely have already taken place. Yet no columns of smoke stained the horizon, no circling carrion birds indicating major confrontations. She was surprised but relieved, guessing that the loss of Rykan’s trump card—her powers—had caused the Duke to rethink his strategy. Smiling grimly—the first expression she had ventured since leaving Marik’s lands—she turned to the two men beside her.

“Gentlemen, behold Caer Vellet, Citadel and stronghold of Timar Pharikian, Hierarch of Andaryon. Let us pay him a visit.”

She touched her heels to Drum’s sides and sent him plunging down the knoll, through the barren wood, and toward the plains. Marik’s horse came after her, followed by Robin, guarding their backs.

* * * * *

O
n that particular frosty afternoon, Taran and Cal returned to their quarters to find Rienne sitting alone and miserable by the fire. Taran glanced worriedly at his Apprentice. The healer hadn’t heard them come in over her uncontrollable sobs.

“Oh, Rienne.” Cal went over to her and folded her tightly in his arms. She turned her face to his chest, sobbing as if her heart would break. She was obviously beyond words, and neither man wasted breath asking what was wrong. Even though the intensity of Rienne’s emotion was unusual, they both knew its cause. It troubled their hearts too. Cal merely sat and held her while the shuddering eased, and Taran silently fetched glasses, pouring each of them a shot of firewater. Ruefully, he reflected that they were becoming a little too addicted to Bull’s favorite drink.

He passed a glass to Cal, who offered it to Rienne. Trying desperately to calm herself, Rienne accepted it, drinking it straight off in one swallow. She coughed as it burned her throat, and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. Cal handed her a cloth with which she did a thorough job. Then she noisily blew her nose.

Cal’s dark eyes scanned her face. “Better, love?”

Rienne drew a shaky breath, looking from Cal to Taran, profound unhappiness clear in her soft, grey eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t stand this, it’s not right. How can we walk away from here and pretend everything’s normal? Our lives are never going to be the same again. I can’t just forget all this ever happened. How can I go back to my patients with their ordinary problems knowing I might have helped her, might have saved her?” Her voice broke. “Why did we leave her like that?”

Her intensity alarmed Taran. Rienne was usually more levelheaded. Cal gathered her close, tried to soothe her. A questioning look passed between him and Taran. When they hadn’t been practicing their skills over the last few days, they had asked themselves the same thing.

“I think Bull feels the same way you do, love,” said Cal. “In fact, we’re a bit surprised he hasn’t gone back to be with them. He’s been very unhappy since returning with the General.”

Hope immediately bloomed in Rienne’s tear-filled eyes. “Is he considering going back, then? If he is, I want to know. We can’t let him go without us.”

Cal frowned. “I know how you feel, love, but just think about what’s happening there. Do we really want to walk straight into a war? Because that’s what we’re talking about. Full-scale civil war. It would be very dangerous, and they wouldn’t want us interfering or getting in the way.”

Unimpressed, Rienne sniffed. “But we wouldn’t be in the way. We’d keep to the sidelines and just be there if she needs us.” Seeing Cal’s expression she said, “At least go talk to Bull and see what he thinks. If he’s dead against it, we won’t go, but I for one need to know what’s happening. I can’t sit around here day after day waiting for bad news. It’s driving me mad.”

When Taran asked Bull into the apartment a little later to broach the subject, he had the distinct impression that the big man had been thinking along very similar lines. He was unwilling to commit himself, though. “I don’t know, Taran. I’m in two minds. I’m not at all sure we’d be welcome.”

“What do you mean?” said Rienne. “Why on earth wouldn’t we be welcome?”

Bull sighed. “For a start, she as good as ordered me not to follow her. And she’s already made her farewells. Knowing her as I do, I don’t think she’d want to go through all that again. She’s a very private person, sometimes. I don’t think she’d appreciate us coming to watch her die.”

Rienne sounded strained. “That’s not why we want to go! We want to help.”

“I know, dear heart, I know. Let me think about it a little longer. I’ve not heard from Robin yet, although I can feel he’s alright. Let’s wait and see what the situation is before we go rushing into anything. It’ll be a tricky time for them, entering the Citadel. They don’t know what the Hierarch’s reaction will be, whether he’ll even see her. We have to wait for them to contact us, and then perhaps we can make a decision.”

Rienne saw the sense of Bull’s words, even though they didn’t pacify her. Taran understood how she felt. It was hard not knowing what was happening.

* * * * *

S
ullyan cantered Drum across the plains for the first mile or so, weaving through the trees, Robin and Marik at her back. Then she slowed the stallion to a brisk walk, allowing the other two to catch up. She made for the high road leading directly to the fortress gates, seeing with satisfaction that they were the only people on the road. Warning Marik and Robin to keep their hands well away from their sword hilts, she rode confidently forward, eyes narrowed against the snow glare.

The Count nudged his horse up on her left side, a gloomy expression on his face. “I expect the sentries and outriders will see us soon.”

She gave a snort. “My dear Count, there have been loaded crossbows aimed at our hearts for the past half hour.”

Marik started and looked wildly about, but there was no one in sight.

Sullyan continued in silence, highly visible on the coal-black Drum. Her borrowed longsword reared in its harness over her shoulder.

They were about a mile and a half from the gates when the sentries rode out of cover and confronted them. Sullyan immediately halted in the middle of the road, waiting for the twenty-strong patrol to approach. Marik and Robin flanked her. She studied the Hierarch’s men with professional interest. The purple and gold of his livery was evident on their combat leathers, and their leader bore a Lieutenant’s rank insignia, the equivalent of an Albian Captain. A medium height man in his middle thirties, he halted his men a few paces from Sullyan and rode forward alone. He sat his dark bay stallion easily and his hand never left the hilt of his sword, despite the ready crossbows behind him.

He ignored Robin, swept Marik a contemptuous glance, and then turned his attention to Sullyan. He regarded her for a few moments, his pale brown eyes taking in her gold insignia, her battle honors, and King’s Envoy shooting star. When he addressed her, his tone was barely respectful, the attitude of a confident man unused to dealing with armed women.

“Major.” He gave her a slight nod, the only sign of respect she would get.

“Lieutenant.” She accorded him the same bare courtesy, giving her voice an identical inflexion.

His eyes narrowed as he reassessed her, taking in her relaxed but alert attitude and the casual way she sat the huge black stallion with its light saddle and bitless bridle. His own mount bore the usual heavy cavalry saddle that could keep a dying man upright, and foam was dripping from the iron bit in its mouth.

He motioned for his men to put up their weapons. They obeyed instantly, a fact not lost on Sullyan. She approved of discipline, and this smooth obedience spoke of an able officer and good leadership. She didn’t take her eyes from the Lieutenant while she assessed his men, and she could see he didn’t like her forthright gaze. It made him nervous, and she guessed he was unused to being made nervous, especially by an armed woman.

There was tension in his voice when he addressed her again. “What is your business here?”

“My name is Major Sullyan, and I am an Ambassador of Elias Rovannon, High King of Albia. I am here to request an audience with the Hierarch at his earliest convenience.”

The Lieutenant gave a bark of laughter. “Have you not heard we’re on the brink of war, Major? His Majesty will see no one at this time, and certainly not a human Ambassador. What on earth makes you think he would grant you an audience?” He shot a glare at Marik, who flinched. “Especially when you come in the company of traitors.”

She stood her ground. “My business is with his Majesty, Lieutenant, although it is precisely because you find yourselves at war that I have come. As for Count Marik, he is under my protection and is no traitor to the Hierarch’s rule. I think you will find that the Hierarch
will
see me, if you will be good enough to escort us.”

She urged Drum forward, pushing past the Lieutenant’s horse. Robin and Marik hastened to follow, the Captain keeping a nervous eye on the men of the patrol. In the absence of orders from their officer, though, they allowed the three strangers to ride through. Robin might have laughed at their confusion had he not been so wary.

The Lieutenant recovered quickly and barked orders at his men. As they closed smoothly around the three, he pushed his mount close beside Drum. The big black laid back his ears at the unfamiliar stallion and sidestepped menacingly. Sullyan calmed him with a word and rode serenely on, ignoring the seething officer.

As they neared the gates of the fortress, the Lieutenant once more nudged his horse across Drum’s path. Sullyan halted. The patrol ranged around her, whether protectively or defensively wasn’t clear. The sentries on the walls all had crossbows aimed at the party, and the guards stationed at the foot of the gates were likewise alert. With a hard stare of unmistakable meaning, the Lieutenant turned his back on Sullyan, rode forward, and called out to someone behind the gates. A small postern opened and he conferred with whoever was behind it. Sullyan heard her name mentioned and guessed he was sending for someone of higher rank to deal with the unwelcome visitors.

All around the battlemented walls were the signs of preparations for war. Sentries patrolled every section and guard tower, and the crust of frozen snow on the ground outside was churned with the hoof marks and boot prints of many troop movements. Cart ruts also ran through the gates, and Sullyan guessed they were laying up provisions in the event of a siege. It made her heart clench. She stared impatiently at the Lieutenant, who was fretting before the gates.

At length, the postern reopened and a single man emerged. He was tall, strongly built, and had pale grey eyes. His hair was black, lightly peppered with grey, and over his uniform he wore a heavy purple cloak edged with gold. A longsword rode at his left hip, and he walked with the confident air of command. On seeing him, the leader of the patrol immediately relaxed.

As the newcomer approached Sullyan, she swung elegantly down from Drum, her heavy riding cloak swirling around her. She gestured for Robin and Marik to do likewise. The tall Andaryan halted before her and she accorded him a formal salute, giving him the level of courtesy she would have shown Mathias Blaine.

“General.”

He returned the homage while appraising her, although his salute wasn’t as respectful as hers. When he spoke, his tone conveyed wary interest.

“Major Sullyan. I have heard of you.”

She inclined her head, hearing Robin’s surprised intake of breath before the tall Andaryan went on.

“I am General Ephan, overall commander of the Velletian Guard and responsible for the Hierarch’s security. We are currently under threat of war, as I’m sure you’re aware. The Citadel is closed to outsiders. However, in deference to King Elias of Albia, I will permit you and your Captain to enter and seek an audience with the Hierarch. But I warn you, he is a busy man and these are troubled times. He may not be inclined to see you.”