The Golden Queen (3 page)

“Is that a promise you’re making me,” Maggie asked, her shoulder muscles going stiff in his arms, “or are you just trying to brush me off like a gentleman?”

Gallen looked into her dark eyes, eyes such a deep brown that they were almost black. She smelled of good honest sweat and lilac perfume. Outside, a fierce gust of wind howled and sleety rain spattered against the windows with such startling ferocity that Gallen and Maggie turned to glance at it. The window rattled so loud, Gallen had been sure that someone had pushed against it. He turned back to Maggie. “You’re a sweet girl, Maggie Flynn. I beg you, be patient with me.”

Maggie pulled away, disappointed, perhaps hurt. He still hadn’t promised himself to her, and she wanted a commitment, even if it was informal.

The inn door swung open, and a sheet of rain whipped into the room. At first Gallen thought the wind had finally succeeded in blowing the door open, but after a moment, in walked a stranger in traveling clothes—a tall fellow in riding boots and a brown wool greatcloak with a hood. He wore two swords strapped over his cloak—one oddly straight saber with a strange finger guard on its hilt, and another equally long curved blade. By wearing the swords over the cloak in such a downpour, the stranger risked that his blades would rust but kept his swords handy.

Only a man who made a living with his weapons ever wore them so.

Everyone in the alehouse stopped to stare: the stranger must have been riding in the dark for at least five hours, a sign that he had urgent business. Furthermore, he stood at the door without removing his hood, then silently inspected each person in the room. Gallen wondered if he might be an outlaw. He didn’t seem to want his face to be seen in town, yet his roving eyes appraised each person in the room as if he were a hunter, rather than hunted.

At last, he stepped aside from the door so that a slender waif of a woman could enter the room. She stood in the doorway for a moment, erect, head held high with her hood still covering her face. Gallen saw by his tense posture that the man was her servant, her guard. She wore a bright blue traveling robe trimmed with golden rabbits and foxes. Under her arm she carried a small harp case made of rosewood. She hesitated for a moment, then started forward and her hood fell back.

She was the most beautiful woman Gallen had ever seen. Not the most voluptuous or seductive—just the most perfect. She held herself with a regal air and looked to be about twenty. Her hair was as dark as a starless night. The line of her jaw was strong and firm. Her skin was creamy in complexion and her face looked worn, tired, but her dark blue eyes were alive and brilliant. Gallen recalled the words to an old song: “Her eyes kindle a fire for a lonely man to warm himself by.”

Maggie boxed Gallen’s jaw playfully and said, “Gallen O’Day, if your tongue hangs out any farther, all you will have to do is wag it to clean the mud off your boots.”

Maggie got up and greeted the strangers. “Come in and get out of the weather, sit by the fire and dry those soggy cloaks. Would you poor folks like some dinner, a room?”

The tall man spoke with an odd speech impediment, loud enough so that the entire room could hear, “It is said that there is a place near here, art ancient arch with strange symbols carved on it—Geata na Chruinne. Do you know of it?”

Until that moment, everyone in the room had been listening but pretending not to. Now, they cocked their ears and became conspicuous about it.

Gallen wondered if these strangers might not be adventurers, out to see the sights of the world. Geata na Chruinne sometimes attracted such people.

“I know of the place,” Maggie said suspiciously, studying the stranger’s face, “as does everyone around here.”

“Is it easy to reach?” the stranger asked in a thick voice. “Could we make it tonight, after a brief rest and dinner?”

“No one goes to the arch after dark,” Maggie said uneasily. “People say it’s haunted. You can stand beneath it on a hot day and feel cold air blowing off it like a sheet of ice. Besides, it’s deep in the forest, in Coille Sidhe. You can’t go there in the night.”

“I could pay for a guide,” the stranger offered.

“Well,” Maggie said, “there are a couple boys in town who know the way, if you’re willing to wait till morning.”

“No—they can’t be boys,” the stranger said, standing over Maggie. “I want a man, a seasoned soldier. Someone who can defend himself.”

Maggie glanced toward Gallen, lines of worry in her face. Few people in town had actually been to the ancient ruins called Geata na Chruinne, “Gate of the World.” And only one had any kind of fighting skills.

Gallen wasn’t sure that he trusted these well-armed, secretive people. But he didn’t want to miss the chance to make some money. He nodded.

“Gallen O’Day could take you there in the morning,” Maggie told them as she jerked her chin toward Gallen.

The hooded stranger glanced at Gallen, said, “Are you a soldier?”

He advanced on Gallen, the hood shielding his face. “He’s an armed escort,” Maggie boasted, “and he’s killed over twenty robbers. He’s the best there’s ever been.”

As the stranger got close, Gallen could see that the tall man had vivid blue eyes, tawny hair going silver. He regarded Gallen with a distant expression.

Without flinching an eye, the stranger drew his sword and swung at Gallen’s head. Gallen leapt from his chair and grabbed the stranger’s wrist, pinching the nerves between the radius and the ulna, then twisting. It was a painful grip, Gallen knew, and made the victim’s fingers spasm open. The stranger’s sword stroke went wide, then the sword itself clattered to the table. Gallen twisted the man’s wrist painfully in a come-along so that the stranger soon found himself at arm’s length, standing on his tiptoes.

The stranger nodded, and said, “Well done. You’ve the reflexes of a cat, and you must have studied a bit of anatomy to have figured out that trick.”

Gallen let the man go, surprised that the fellow had wanted to test him. Gallen’s reputation had grown so wide that few employers ever bothered to test his skills anymore.

The young woman in blue looked Gallen over, shook her head. “Not him, he’s too small.”

“Size is an illusion,” Gallen said, catching her eyes. “A man is what he thinks.”

“And
I
think that if a foe who outweighed you by a hundred pounds swung a sword at you, you would never be able to parry his blows.”

Gallen listened to her words with difficulty, realized that like the man, she too spoke oddly, as if she had a mouthful of syrup. Yet her accent wasn’t as thick. He said, “I’ve been strengthening my wrists since I was six years old, knowing that I’d have to parry blows from bigger men. I believe a man can become anything he puts his mind to. And I assert that by thought, I have made myself bigger than I seem.”

“He’ll do,” the guard said, picking up his sword and shaking the pain from his hand. “He’s got a hell of a grip—better than mine.”

The woman in blue opened her mouth in mild surprise, then smiled.

“I’ve already contracted a job for tonight,” Gallen said. “But I can pick you up at dawn. The hike to the gate makes for a short trip, only five miles.”

The stranger spoke to Maggie briefly. Once he’d purchased rooms for the night and ordered dinner inside, the two began walking up the staircase, and then stopped. The old man said, “We just came from the south, from Baille Sean. There’s a large bridge over the river there. Lightning struck it just after we crossed. I suppose you’ll want to inform the town.” Several people cried out in dismay. By law, the two towns would have to come together and repair the bridge, an onerous task.

Gallen knew that he could not let the young woman, his new employer, go without introducing himself.

He stood and said in a loud voice, “My lady?” The two stopped in their tracks, and the woman glanced over her shoulder at him. Gallen continued, “When you walked in the room just now, and your hood fell back to expose your face, it was as if the morning sun had just climbed over the mountains after a dreary night of rain. We’re curious folks hereabout, and I think I speak for many when I ask: may I beg to know your name?” The little speech came out sounding so sweet that Gallen could almost taste the honey dripping from his tongue, and he stood with his heart pounding, waiting for the woman’s reply.

She smiled down at him and seemed to think for a moment. Her guard waited cautiously just above her on the stairs, but he did not look back. After a few seconds she said, “No.”

They continued upstairs, turned the corner of the hall, and were gone. Gallen O’Day sat down in his chair, staring after them, feeling as if his heart had just turned sideways or he’d died a small death. The last few patrons in the inn looked at Gallen and chuckled. Gallen’s face was hot with embarrassment.

Maggie quickly made up two plates and readied them to take upstairs, then came back to Gallen and set the plates on his table a moment and said, “Oh, you poor abused child! To think that she’d mistreat you so.” She leaned over and kissed him heavily on the mouth.

Gallen suspected that she was both hurt and angry. He also reminded himself that, wisely, he’d made her no promises. He held her gently as she kissed him, then she slapped his face, grabbed her trays, and danced off, smiling at him over her back.

Gallen put his chin on his knuckles and sat alone, feeling stupid until Seamus O’Connor began to sing and the rain outside quit splattering the windows, then Gallen knew it was time to be off. He helped Seamus to his feet, Seamus snagged the whiskey bottle with his left hand, and they headed out the door.

Amazingly, the storm clouds were scudding by fast instead of lingering like they usually did. Gallen could see pretty well by the slivered moons that shone down like twin sets of eyes, gazing from heaven. Seamus’s old mare was across the street, tied in the livery stable with plenty of sweet grass piled before it. Gallen saddled the horse and helped Seamus climb atop, then led the horse out of the stables north toward An Cochan. The mare’s hooves clattered over the paving stones. At the back of the inn, in the dim starlight Gallen saw two bears feeding in the rubbish bin and stopped the horse, asking, “Orick, is that you?”

One of the bears grunted in a deep voice, “Hello, Gallen.”

“What are you mucking in the slop for?” Gallen asked, surprised that he hadn’t seen Orick leave through the back door of the common room. “I’ve plenty of money. I can have Maggie fix you up a platter.” Gallen felt nervous to make the offer. Bears eat so much that they’re notorious for always being broke.

“Don’t bother,” Orick said. “Maggie saved a nice plate of leftovers for me. When I finish here, I’m going up the hill to hunt for a few slugs. It will be a grand feast, I assure you.”

“Well, to each his own,” Gallen said, appalled as ever at his friend’s eating habits. “I’ll be back at dawn.”

“Do you want me to come along?” Orick asked.

“No, go get some dinner in you.”

“God be with you then, for I shall not,” the bear said. Seamus hunched over in his saddle and began singing. Gallen shivered at the sound of Orick’s cryptic farewell, but pulled the mare’s reins, urging her forward.

That night in Mahoney’s Inn, the Lady Everynne paced at the foot of her rough bed. The smell of its thick down tick and the soft texture of its heavy red quilts called to her, but even though she was weary, she could not rest. A single dim candle lit the room. She had taken two rooms for appearance’s sake. Her guardian, Veriasse, sat at the foot of the bed, head bent in a forlorn attitude.

“Get some sleep, my daughter,” Veriasse said. He had slept little in two days, yet she knew he would stay awake at the foot of her bed and keep wide-eyed until they reached safety. His brown hood was pulled back, revealing his weathered face.

“I can’t, Father,” she said honestly. “Who could sleep? Can you still taste their scent?”

The aging man stood up, shook his head so that his long silver-gold hair spilled down over his shoulders, and went to a basin in the corner of the room. There he poured a pitcher of cool drinking water over his wrists and hands, then toweled them dry. He opened a small window, raised his hands and held them out, long thin fingers curled like claws, and stood for a time with his piercing blue eyes closed as if in meditation. Though the old man could catch a scent with his hands, Everynne could see no sign that he was testing the air.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I can still taste the scent of a vanquisher. He is distant, perhaps no closer than twenty kilometers away, but I am sure he’s here. We can only hope that when we destroyed the bridge, the vanquisher got trapped on the other side.”

“Perhaps vanquishers have another reason for coming to this world?” Everynne asked in a tone that was part argument, part plea. “Just because you taste the scent of a vanquisher, it does not mean he has come for us.”

“Don’t fool yourself,” Veriasse said at last. “Tlitkani has sent her warriors to kill us. With only one gate to watch, this world is the perfect spot for an ambush.” He said it as one who knows. Tlitkani had enslaved Veriasse for four years, had forced him to become her advisor. Veriasse was gifted at reading personalities, at studying motives and moods. He could anticipate an adversary’s actions so well that many thought him a psychic. No one understood Tlitkani better than Veriasse did.

“The young man downstairs said that the gate is only five miles distant. Could the vanquishers have already found it?”

“It’s hard to say-” Veriasse answered. “I feel certain that vanquishers are following, but they could be ahead of us, too. On such a windy night, I cannot even be sure that the vanquisher I smell is twenty kilometers off. It might be ten, or only two.”

“Perhaps the vanquishers are searching for the gate, even as we are,” Everynne offered.

“Or perhaps Tlitkani wants us to believe that her servants are only searching for the gate—hoping that we will foolishly rush into another trap. I think it best to wait here for the night.” Veriasse yawned and rolled his shoulders to keep the muscles loose, clearly uncomfortable. “We should proceed to the gate cautiously. We may have to fight our way through.”