Deborah Hale (20 page)

“Your pardon. It is a hard habit to break.” Delyon spoke in an absent tone, as if only a small part of his mind was on their conversation.

When Maura half opened one eye, she could see he was studying the scroll so closely that his nose was almost pressed against the parchment.

“Do try. The last thing I need is for someone who understands Umbrian to overhear you addressing me by that title.”
She rolled over so she was not facing the light. “Wake me when you want to sleep and I will sit guard.”

Delyon was too engrossed in his task to heed or reply. And Maura was too weary to bother repeating her instructions. The next thing she heard was the sound of a door closing softly. A surge of alarm brought her instantly awake, all her senses aquiver.

Curse Delyon! He should have warned her if he heard anyone coming.

As she fumbled in her sash for
genow
scales, Maura reached with her other hand to give Delyon a nudge. No doubt he had fallen asleep poring over that precious scroll of his.

“Oh, slag!” she muttered when her finger poked empty air. Where could Delyon have gone without telling her, and why?

She stifled a groan. Of course…he must have gone off looking for an engraver’s shop to see if he could find a copy of that sign. She should have known.

Scrambling to her feet, she cast the invisibility spell over herself. She would have to go after him. The Giver only knew what sort of trouble he might land himself in. Her stomach gave a loud rumble to remind her that she should look for something to eat while she searched for Delyon.

By the time she stole out into the dimly lit corridor, there was no sign of Delyon. Of course she wouldn’t be able to
see
him, Maura reminded herself. But she did not see any suspicious shadow flicker or hear the muted sound of invisible footsteps, either. She pictured him blundering through the palace and the city, perhaps frightening someone half to death by stopping them to ask directions.

Plundering her still-drowsy memory to recall the route they’d taken to get here, she set off after Delyon. With every step, she promised herself she would have his hide for this latest folly. Her anger intensified when she mounted a narrow stairway and emerged in broad daylight to find a palace full of people coming and going. Why could he not have waited for nightfall, at least?

When a pair of serving wenches passed her, talking rapidly together in Comtung, Maura pressed herself against the nearest wall, hardly daring to breathe. She brought her hand up and wiggled her fingers in front of her face, reassured when she could not see them.

All her senses alert, she stole through the palace, trying to remember the way to the courtyard that led out into the city. She must have taken a wrong turn, though. For she suddenly found herself wandering down a wide gallery that did not look the least bit familiar.

Do not panic,
Maura told herself.
Just turn around and go back the way you came until you find a spot you do recognize.

But as she turned to go back, she saw a large party of men striding toward her. Most were high-ranking Hanish soldiers in uniform. Several death-mages walked together in silence, including the one with the green wand Maura had almost run into the night before. He was not one whit less alarming by daylight.

The members of the party who most caught Maura’s eye were two men who appeared to be Umbrians. What were they doing here? They did not look frightened or particularly ill at ease. They must be
zikary,
Umbrians who curried favor with the Han. How she wished she dared stick out her foot and trip them!

Instead, she backed away, determined to stay ahead of them until they reached wherever they were going. She got several steps down the gallery when a Hanish soldier approached from the other direction with a black hound on a leash.

Maura froze. The hound would not need its eyes to find her.

For an instant she considered trying to thread her way through the party of men coming toward her, but they filled the width of the gallery, walking close together. Caught between the hearth and the griddle, she dived through the nearest open doorway and found herself in a large room. A long marble-topped table occupied most of the room, with a great many wrought-iron chairs huddled around it.

Maura had scarcely entered when the throng of soldiers and
Echtroi came in behind her and spread out to take their places around the table. The only way she could avoid the press of milling bodies was to dive under the table.

A sharp, raspy voice cut through the low rumble of conversation. It surprised Maura that she could understand the words. “We have a great deal to discuss, so let us not squander our time. Take your places, everyone, and we will begin.”

Begin what?

She did not want to find out, but it appeared she would have no choice as the men took their seats, blocking her escape.

No, wait! There
was
still one way out from under the table. At the very end, one seat remained empty.

Maura crept toward it as quickly as she dared. Luckily the racket of so many men taking their seats and pulling their chairs into the table drowned out the furtive sounds of her movement along the floor. She stifled a cry when the toe of a boot dealt her a glancing blow, but the owner of the boot only muttered something in Hanish. Probably an apology for kicking whoever was seated next to him.

She was just emerging from under the table, hoping the door had been left open to aid her quick escape, when one last man strode to take his seat. He wore a rich-looking robe of silver-gray and all the others jumped to their feet when he appeared. This must be the Hanish High Governor himself.

Maura crawled back a ways and resigned herself to being trapped beneath the table until this meeting finished. That was the
best
she could hope for. The worst did not bear thinking about.

The High Governor did not take his seat at once, but stood at the head of the table and addressed those gathered. He had the firm, decisive tone of a man accustomed to making plans and having them executed without question. It put Maura in mind of Lord Idrygon.

“All the northland is in chaos.” Maura startled to hear a
quiet murmur of Comtung echoing the High Governor’s Hanish speech. “Now a rebel horde overruns our mines.”

The words were coming from nearby. One of the
zikary
must be translating for the other. Maura edged closer to that voice, straining her ears to catch familiar words.

From what she could gather, the High Governor was informing everyone of recent events, the
rumors
they were trying so hard to discredit among the Umbrian people.

When he finished speaking, the High Governor took his seat and the man at the other end of the table rose. Maura knew he must be a death-mage. Even if she had not been able to see the lower part of his distinctive dark robes, she would have known by the hollow rasp of his voice.

“For some time the Echtroi have known rebellion was brewing,” murmured the translator. “Our warnings fell on deaf ears, so we took matters in hand ourselves and had some success crushing dangerous rebel agents.”

Dangerous rebel agents? Like Langbard and Exilda. Maura jammed her mouth shut to keep from screaming her outrage.

She almost screamed in fright when something heavy slammed down upon the tabletop. It must have been the High Governor’s hand, for he shouted in response to the death-mage’s words.

“How can
this
be called success?” The
zikary
translated his challenge. “You claimed to be searching for a young woman. How could we take such a threat seriously?”

The death-mage responded in a cold but dispassionate tone. “Sometimes the greatest threats take on the most harmless appearance, Excellency. It is all part of some ridiculous ancient prophesy. Often the more preposterous such rubbish, the more power it has to rouse the ignorant. I have brought someone who can tell us more about it, so we know what we are fighting.”

The
zikary
translator and the man sitting beside him rose. In bald, simple terms, they recounted the legend of Elzaban and
Abrielle, and how the Destined Queen would one day waken the Waiting King to rescue his kingdom in its darkest hour.

Several of the military officers interrupted with questions about the Waiting King and the nature of his powers. Most of which the Umbrian could only answer in the vaguest terms. Still, it was enough to send a ripple of apprehensive muttering up and down the table.

The High Governor rapped out a single word, which Maura could understand without translation.
Enough!
perhaps. Or
Silence!
A heavy hush fell over the room.

At just that instant, Maura felt an insistent tickle at the back of her nose. Oh, no! She couldn’t sneeze now! She pinched her nose and held her breath. Her eyes watered furiously as she nearly stifled herself in an effort to hold back the sneeze. But it would not be stifled. It came in a muffled rush that felt as though it would burst her head.

It might have betrayed her presence. But at that moment the two Umbrians took their seats again. Even with the cover of their noise, Maura was certain someone must have heard her. Her heart fluttering frantically, she tensed to flee for her life.

To her amazed relief, the High Governor began speaking again as if he had heard nothing.

Again the
zikary
translated for his comrade and, unwittingly, for Maura. “So the leader of these rebel invaders is this Waiting King?”

One of the officers answered, “It would seem so, Excellency, from our reports.”

The death-mage at the end of the table added, “There are rumors circulating among the Umbrians that this hero of old has returned to lead them. The countryside is crawling with men running off to join his rabble. We do not have enough troops to battle the rebels and still keep a tight hold on the lands under our control.”

“We must put a stop to this nonsense,” said the High Governor as if he had only to declare his wishes in forceful enough
terms and they would be successfully discharged at once. “Before this whole stinking country rises up against us. We should never have let the rebels get into the mountains and attack the mines.”

“On the contrary, Excellency,” said the death-mage. “As long as we continue to protect the mines, keep them operating, and send a steady supply of ore back to Dun Derhan, the Imperium will see no need to give us the kind of aid we need to put down the uprising.”

“How can you be so certain what the Imperium will or will not do, Nefarion?” The
zikary
translated it in more respectful language. But hearing the High Governor’s tone, Maura guessed that was closer to his true meaning. “Have you spoken with any officials in Dun Derhan lately?”

“I have been in contact with imperial officials. Last week and again last night.”

Though the tone of the death-mage’s remark sounded perfectly casual, as if referring to something he did often as a matter of course, it had a potent effect on the gathering. The buzz around the table put Maura in mind of the Council of Sages on Margyle, when Idrygon had introduced her and Rath. Perhaps Han and Umbrians were not as different as they liked to believe.

One voice rose above the others, instantly translated by the
zikary.
“How is that possible?”

“I have mastered the spell of farspeech,” replied the death-mage, setting off an even louder buzz. “And a good thing, too. Did you know the summer Ore Fleet never reached Dun Derhan? All but a handful of escort vessels were wrecked off the Vestan Islands.”

At that point Maura could have shouted at the top of her lungs without being heard above the clamor. She wished they would all quiet down! Voices rose above the uproar, but any translation was drowned out.

At last the High Governor called for silence again and
Maura could hear the
zikary
translating for the death-mage. “The Imperium approves our caution in withdrawing all Echtroi from the mountains,” he announced with obvious satisfaction. “They were appalled to hear of the number we have lost already.”

“And what business had you telling them that?” demanded the High Governor.

“Are you saying I should have given a false report to my superiors?”

The High Governor replied with a snarl that could not readily be translated. Nor did it need to be.

“What are our orders from the Imperium, then? Withdraw and let some
star tale
king and his lowling rabble take back the land our fathers fought and bled to conquer?”

If only it could be that easy! Maura thought.

“We are instructed to bide our time and not risk worse losses,” said the death-mage. “Keep a strong hold on the territory we still control. We are to lure the rebels into the eastlands.”

It would not take much luring. The back of Maura’s neck prickled. Rath and Idrygon had already planned to move east.

“What happens then?” asked the High Governor.

“Once the rebels take our bait,” said the death-mage, “we are instructed to raise as large a force as we can spare and march over the mountains. The Imperium has already dispatched a fleet of fresh troops to put down this uprising. They will land on the east coast within the next fortnight. We will be the hammer, and the new troops will be the anvil upon which we crush this Waiting King.”

Maura clamped her hand over her mouth to muffle a gasp. In all his plans, Idrygon had never considered the possibility of the empire sending troops until it was too late. If only she could learn the farspeech spell of which the death-mage had boasted, she would warn Rath and Idrygon that they were walking into a trap.

Since that was not possible, she and Delyon must waste no
time finding the Staff of Velorken and carrying it to Rath along with an urgent warning.

Before the earth of the eastlands was soaked in Umbrian blood!

I
mages of a horrific lost battle for Umbria haunted Maura as she cowered beneath the meeting table. How she wished the men would all stop talking and go away!

Hunger gnawed at her stomach with sharp teeth and her nerves were stretched tight by the peril of her position. What if the invisibility spell wore off before the meeting ended? Did she dare use more of their precious supply of
genow
scales? She had dipped into hers three times already, though she had not yet begun to search the palace.

When chair legs finally scraped against the floor and the men rose to leave, Maura could scarcely contain a sob of relief. Once most of the men had moved toward the door, she checked herself over, heartened to discover she was still invisible.

All the same she emerged from under the table like a meadow-hare poking its nose out of its safe burrow, sniffing the wind for the warning scent of predators. If she could have smelled it, no doubt the air in the meeting room would have been pungent with the heavy musk of aggression.

Clustered in small groups, the men drifted out of the room
until only two remained. Peeping out from her shelter beneath the table, Maura recognized the High Governor by his rich robes. On his head he wore a helm like the ones she had seen all her life on Hanish soldiers. Only his was crafted of silver burnished to a high sheen and studded with gems. The luxurious plume of flaxen hair that flowed from the top was so pale it looked almost white.

The other man was the death-mage Maura had almost run into the night before. In his austere black robe and cowl, he could not have cut a sharper contrast to the High Governor. Yet for all that they looked so different, the two men possessed a similar air of tense, coiled power.

Now they faced each other, trading sharply honed words like blade blows. Neither man appeared ready to retreat from their verbal duel anytime soon, and they were so intent upon one another, Maura risked stealing around them to head for the door.

She had almost reached it, when the High Governor suddenly wheeled away from the death-mage and strode toward her. Maura leaped out of his path just in time, but lost her balance. Though she clamped her lips tight to stifle a cry as she hit the floor, the soft thud of her fall must have betrayed her presence.

The death-mage had been staring after the High Governor, his gaunt features twisted in an expression of icy triumph. Now he strode toward Maura, who froze, certain he must hear the thunderous beat of her heart and the deafening hiss of her breath.

His grim, menacing stare paralysed her. But as she stared into the dark depths of his eyes, unable to look away, Maura glimpsed something she had never expected to find and could not be certain she believed. A shadow of doubt…perhaps even fear.

Then a voice rang out from the door, and the death-mage looked away. The harsh Hanish tongue sounded positively sweet in Maura’s ears as she stumbled to her feet and retreated to a corner of the room. After a brief exchange with the mili
tary officer who had called to him from the door, the death-mage swept the room with a furtive glance then strode away.

Maura sank back to the floor, trembling so hard she did not trust herself to walk. But this was too dangerously public a place to remain for long. After a few moments, she rallied her shattered nerves and made her way back to the cellar. She needed a little quiet and solitude to compose herself before venturing into the city to look for Delyon.

As she crept through the corridors, trying to remember her way back to their hiding place, the scent of roasting meat and baking bread made her stomach give a pained rumble. Might as well make use of her invisible state, she decided, following the savory aromas to their source in the palace kitchens.

There she had to move with care to keep from bumping into servants bustling to and fro. All the same, she managed to slip a few items under her cloak. Hardly able to think of anything but the food, she wandered down to the cellar and soon located the distant storeroom that she and Delyon had made their hideaway.

Relief and vexation warred in her when she pushed the door open and caught a brief flash of greenfire before it flickered out.

“Delyon?” Maura pulled the door shut behind her and released her first easy breath in hours. “Thank the Giver you’re safe! What possessed you to go off like that without telling me? I was beside myself with worry!”

“I’m a grown man,” he snapped, “not a child! I can take care of myself.”

He was still alive and he had found his way back here. Perhaps Delyon had a point.

“Your pardon.” She shuffled toward the sound of his voice. “I did not mean to belittle you. But in such a dangerous situation we must work together. The Giver knows, we have no other allies we can count on.”

He made a vague sound of agreement. “I fretted when I returned and found you gone. I did not mean to alarm you with my going, I swear. I thought I would be back before you woke.”

After an instant’s hesitation, he added, “And I was afraid you would forbid me going if I asked you.”

“So I might.” Maura sank to the floor beside him. “Can we make a bargain? From now on, we will work as a team and stay together as much as possible?”

“A bargain,” Delyon agreed. “By the way, you were right about the engravers—they had stacks of those signs. I could have poked about the place all day if they hadn’t been so busy.”

“I hope you found something useful.” Maura took out the food she’d pilfered and shared it with him.

“Several things.” Delyon spoke in an eager tone between bites of food. “I can hardly wait until the kingdom is free again and I am able to go back to my studies. I believe an understanding of Hanish may be the key to deciphering even more ancient texts. Who knows what lost wisdom I may rediscover there?”

His words nudged Maura’s memory. “What I meant was, I hope you found something to help you read this scroll. It is more vital than ever that we find the Staff of Velorken and get it to Rath.”

She told Delyon of the Hanish plans she’d overheard.

“I had better get back to work then.” He chanted the greenfire spell and a flush of pale light began to radiate from the twig in his hand.

Her hunger appeased, Maura curled up behind a musty pile of rolled tapestries and slept for a while. That night she and Delyon searched the palace without success, and again the next night. As each hour passed, her frustration and desperation grew. If her ancestress Abrielle had bequeathed her this memory, it was deeply buried indeed, for she did not feel the slightest flicker of recognition.

Blood pulsed hard and fast through Rath’s veins as his army marched along the mountain trail toward the last of the Blood Moon mines. All the misgivings that had plagued him of late fell away when he remembered the men they had delivered
from those pits of death. Just one more and they could turn their backs on these stark, treacherous mountains to free the eastlands that were the most familiar and dear to him of all parts of the kingdom.

Suddenly he heard the soft, lethal hiss of arrows.

One slammed against his breastplate, bouncing off the magically hardened leather. The sharp pain of its impact made him cry out, even as he heard someone cry, “Ambush!”

Rath pulled hard on the reins of his horse and bent low over its neck, preparing to dismount. In an ambush, his oversize frame made a tempting and easy target for archers.

Before he could scramble down from his saddle, the horse let out a shrill whinny of pain and reared, its great hooves plowing the air. Rath barely managed to keep his seat. He struggled to curb the powerful beast beneath him. If it continued to rear out of control or if it bolted on this narrow mountain track, he could end up plunging over a cliff.

“Take cover!” he bellowed to his troops, for once glad of his enchanted voice. “Return fire!”

As soon as he could safely dismount, he would send a party higher up the mountain to sweep around and outflank their attackers. But would he get the chance? More arrows glanced off his armor, and he could see a number bristling from his mount. The poor beast continued to rear and plunge.

Hearing the ominous sound of rocks tumbling down the sheer cliff, he resisted the urge to glance back and see how close they had strayed to the edge.

A man ran toward him, carrying a cloak or blanket. Idrygon?

“Stay back!” cried Rath.

One strike from the horse’s enormous hooves and the rebel forces could lose the man whose vision and daring had carried them further than Rath had ever believed possible.

Idrygon did not heed the order. Dodging one flailing hoof, he threw the cloak out like a fisherman casting a net. As it set
tled over the horse’s head, Rath fumbled his reins to grab one end and hold it in place.

All the furious power of the great beast seemed to subside at once, and it collapsed beneath him. Rath jumped clear and rolled, cursing as another Hanish arrow glanced off his helm. He managed to find shelter behind a bit of rock. An instant later, Idrygon joined him.

“How did you bring my horse down?” Rath gasped for breath. “You could have been killed.”

Idrygon leaned back against the rock, his chest heaving. “Better me than you. I was afraid the horse would bolt off the cliff with you. So I sprinkled my cloak with dreamweed. The beast should sleep for hours. If the Han think it’s dead, they may stop firing at it.”

“My thanks.” Rath repented every ill opinion he’d ever had of Idrygon.

He peered around the outcropping, at the nasty sheltered ledge from which the Han were raking the road with arrows. “I must lead a party around behind them, or find a higher spot where our archers can fire down upon
them.
”

Idrygon shook his head. “They would see what you were up to in no time. Let me take the flanking party. It is clear you are their target. Stay here and give them a mark to draw their eyes away from us while we get into position.”

Though it went against Rath’s nature, he knew the plan made sense. He was about to give in, when he noticed a tear in the sleeve of Idrygon’s armor. Blood was leaking from it.

“You’re hurt!”

“So I am.” Idrygon glanced down at his arm. “Not badly, though. Get some linen from my sash and bind it for me.”

As Hanish arrows whizzed over their heads, Rath stuffed a small wad of linen through the breach in Idrygon’s armor, then bound a long strip tightly over it. “We’ll make a better job of it later. For now, you rest here. I will go find one of your captains to lead the flanking party.”

“No.” Idrygon pulled a leaf from his sash and stuffed it in his mouth. “I may be no good with a bow or sword, but my wits are sound enough. Besides, I’ll be safer going behind the enemy’s back than down here under their fire.”

“Go then. But be careful. We cannot afford to lose you.”

“Do not fret.” Idrygon crawled past him, chewing on the leaf. He made a wry face to cover a wince as he put some weight on his wounded arm. “A good challenging battle may be just the thing to loosen my tight bowels.”

The insolent words he’d flung at Idrygon that night on the deck of the
Phantom
came back to shame Rath.

“Make some kind of diversion, will you?” Idrygon bid him. “So I can get out of here without being stuck with a hundred arrows?”

“Very well.” Rath pried off his helm. Sticking it on the point of his sword, he raised it over the rock. “May the Giver go with you.”

While a barrage of arrows rained down, Idrygon raised himself to a crouch and sprinted away. Once he had gotten well clear, Rath lowered his helm and began to pry out a few arrows that had managed to stick. Not long afterward, he heard sounds of combat coming from up the mountain.

Unable to stand another moment of being a sitting target, he shoved his helm back on and drew his sword.

“Charge, Umbrians!” He vaulted out from behind the rocks and scrambled up the mountain to engage the enemy.

A brief but intense fight followed as Idrygon, Rath and some of their men routed the Hanish ambush party.

After pausing to reform and treat the wounded, including Rath’s horse, they continued their journey. Wary of another ambush, they sent greater numbers of scouts ahead.

But no second ambush came.

“I don’t like this,” Rath muttered to Idrygon as they marched within sight of the mine.

The place looked deserted. The only sound besides the foot
fall of his men was the cool, eerie whisper of the wind. The only movement came from a Hanish flag that flew from a pole outside the guards’ barracks and a door of the barracks that the wind blew open and shut.

Idrygon looked around then shrugged. “Perhaps that ambush was meant to cover their retreat.”

“When have you ever known the Han to retreat?” Rath raised his hand to bring his troops to a halt. “They live for battle and conquest.”

Idrygon considered for a moment. “When they are certain of victory perhaps. It has been a long while since they tasted defeat at Umbrian hands. Who knows what they might do.”

Rath could not dispute that. “If the Han have gone, then some of the prisoners should have come up—the newest ones at least, who are not yet too fuddled from slag.”

“Perhaps the Han have taken refuge below,” suggested Idrygon, “and plan another ambush for us when we try to free the miners.”

That sounded like something Rath would expect from their enemies.

“Curse this growth potion!” he growled. “I couldn’t begin to squeeze down there. But I have an idea how we might repay the Han their nasty surprise with one of our own.”

In very short order he had put it into effect.

One party of his warriors crowded around the top shaft, making noises as if they were about to descend. Meanwhile, a second small group, armed with weapons for close fighting and with a supply of dreamweed, was lowered in the huge scuttle used to hoist freshly dug ore up from the depths of the mountains.

Rath waited with those clustered around the mine entrance, listening for sounds of a struggle from below.

At last a voice called up in Umbrian, “Drop the ladder. There are no Han down here.”