Category: warrior

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19-Scouting

Hearing it said aloud left everything in me brittle and heavy. I was sure that all of my blood drained from my head and into my feet. I scolded myself: It was not as if the confirmation was a surprise. My family would very likely be taken to Hirhel within days. How long would it be before they were executed? Days? Months? Perhaps years, I supposed, depending on the Nether Queen’s mood. Jemin set his hand on my leg and squeezed while he asked another question of our knowledgeable tradesmen. I tried to listen: I focused intently on each word, but when they stopped speaking I had no idea what had been said.

Suddenly Jemin was standing up, “Thank you, sir. We’re a mighty bit tired, is there a room we could let to stay the night?”

I slipped off my stool, paying attention now.

The tavern keeper eyed us—probably thinking about the pathetic coins we’d laid out for our lunch—and then nodded. He gestured for us to follow him and then led the way down a long hallway.  All the way at the end of the hall he stopped and opened a door to a room so small that the thin mattress took up most of the floor. There was a solitary oil lamp hanging on the wall, and a narrow window at the back of the room. Jemin thanked the tavern keeper and I think they exchanged words about the price but I was too busy scanning the room for rats to know for sure.

The tavern keeper left us and Jemin shooed me into the room and closed the door. I watched as he gave the room a quick once over—checking the walls for peep holes and the like. Strange homesickness welled inside: Exile made even intrigue a reminder of home. I grimaced.

“Are you alright?” Jemin asked once he finished checking the room.

I nodded, “Hearing about their capture as a juicy morsel of interesting gossip just caught me by surprise.” The bitter edge in my voice startled me.

He looked at me closely.

Changing the topic, I dipped my chin toward the walls, “Can you even put your arms out?”

Jemin smirked and spread his arms—sure enough, he could touch both sides of the room. “Being poor and simple makes us appear powerless–nonthreatening. Besides,” he added with a shrug, “it’s not as if we travel with the wealth of Dalyn in our pocket.”

“Is there yet wealth in Dalyn?” I asked, surprised.

“Not especially, no.”

I gestured to the bed. “We’re staying the night?”

“Yes,” replied Jemin. “But probably not here. The cobbler says they are closing the gates at night now, and I want to get a look at the garrison to see what I can learn about it”

“We can’t do that in daylight?”

“We can, and we will. But if I want a closer look I need darkness. I doubt we will spend much time in this room, my lady. And if we do, the bed, such as it is, is yours.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted the bed—uncertain as I was about its prior tenants—but I appreciated Jemin’s deference.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

I nodded, and wasn’t really surprised when he opened the window. He slipped his hulking frame through the narrow window with care and precision. I climbed out after him lightly. He closed the window most of the way behind us and then we set out. Gillenwater was not a small city, and our tavern was located just west of the center.

We wound our way northwards and uphill through the city until we reached the castle and its garrison at the highest and furthest point. A ten foot wall wrapped around both, ending at the northernmost city walls. The houses in that part of the city were bigger, and most had walled gardens. There were not many people about, and I felt conspicuous as we casually worked our way around the wall using side streets and alleys for cover. The wall was built from smooth cut stone—probably from quarries of a vassal in the Magron Mountains. There wasn’t much in the way of hand holds, but it was short enough to boost someone over if we needed to.

We stopped when we reached the Tryber. The river flowed right next to the garrison, and while Jemin gazed at the wall, I crouched on the steep stone banks and reached for the water. My fingers just brushed the river, but it was enough to exchanged pleasantries. It remembered me. Lazy and tinged with filth, the Tryber was still the life of the city. It passed under the city walls at the northwest and the southeast, and waterways had been cut in a few places to bring water to other parts of the city. Including the castle.

“What are you doing?” Jemin’s voice made me jump and yank back my hand.

I stood up and wiped my hand on my tunic. “Checking the river,” I said slowly. “There is a water way that leads into the garrison and castle grounds.”

Jemin gave me a curious look, then stepped to the edge and looked out at the wall, “I don’t see any sign of this water way.”

“It must be under the surface,” I replied, leaning out to look for myself. “The Tryber said it was there.”

Jemin looked at me sharply. “The Tryber tol…” he paused, “You’re a nymph!”

“Half,” I corrected. “It isn’t common knowledge, either.”

Jemin shook his head, “Well, that changes the game a bit. I’ve never met a half-nymph before, though I did see the ambassador from Daiesen once—from a distance. Is it true that you can hold your breath for an entire day? Or does that not come with half-blood?”

I grimaced, “It’s not exactly true. And anyway, I should think this tunnel is barred—we barred ours. Nymphs aren’t exactly rare in these parts.”

Jemin clearly wanted to ask more questions, but had better sense than to do so here in the street. “We shall have to come back tonight to investigate,” he concluded. Having done all we could in daylight, he led the long walk back to the tavern. We climbed back through the window into our closet of a room. He took a seat on the floor by the door, blocking the entrance. His legs didn’t have space to stretch out all the way. “We should get some sleep,” he said. “Eloi knows we won’t get much tonight.”

I settled gingerly on the mattress. When nothing scuttled away my misgivings were outweighed by weariness. In the dulled light of our closet, I was asleep within minutes.

The room was completely dark when I woke up. The sun had set, and no one had lit the lamp. I heard movement by the window and saw Jemin’s silhouette “Lady Zare?”  he whispered.

“I’m up,” I croaked, pushing myself to my feet and trying to shake the thick sleep from my head.

“I’m sorry to wake you, my lady,” Jemin offered me some way-bread, “But I didn’t think you would like to be left behind.”

I accepted the food gratefully. “You’re right, and thank you.”

“It is past curfew now—and nearing midnight,” Jemin explained while we ate, “we must be extremely careful crossing the city. Stick to shadows, avoid patrols. If we are seen, our best hope is to play drunken fools—if that fails we pray we win the fight quickly and can flee.”

I smirked, wondering how often the drunken stumble had been used by these soldier spies.

“Can you fight, my lady?” asked Jemin. The faint light from the window glinted off the hilt of the small knife he was offering to me.

“I can,” I replied, accepting the knife and trying to find a place to hide it on my person. My shoes weren’t tall enough, so I ended up tying it to the belt for Shiharr and Azzad, but in front, and tucked inside my trousers.

We finished our food quickly and left the tavern. The hike to the castle felt even longer than it had earlier as we darted from shadow to shadow listening for patrols. We heard no fewer than five as we crossed the city. We were always able to get down an alley and behind cover before they passed. At last we reached the place the garrison wall met the Tryber.

I slipped out of my vest and handed it to Jemin. “I’ll go.”

“Just see if the tunnel is barred, and how big it is,” said Jemin.

I nodded and sat on the stone bank to slip myself into the cold water. I drew a deep breath, let the murky water close over my head and started to swim upriver along the wall. I was cautious. Waters and nymphs were friends by default, but waters also sometimes had opinions about the lands and peoples that surrounded them. It wouldn’t do for me to offend the Tryber with my intentions. Yet the river seemed untroubled by me and led me quickly to the big grate which marked the large waterway into the garrison. It was roughly centered from the edge of the garrison wall to the edge of the city. I hooked my fingers through the grate. The bars weren’t thick, but the grate was relatively fine—designed to keep out fish and junk, in addition to ambitious nymphs. It was a long water way—I suspected it went all the way to the castle. Stretching out my fingers I felt the currents and asked the Tryber to tell me more. There was a cistern in the heart of the garrison, and another in the castle. The Tryber didn’t mention air in the tunnels, but there was a good chance I would be able to get in this way, even if Jemin couldn’t. I shook the grate and it wiggled. I wondered if Jemin would be strong enough to tear it off.

Turning, I swam back to Jemin. He was crouched in the shadows, waiting anxiously. I puffed out the stale air in my lungs and drew a deep breath of the fresh night.

“What did you find?” asked Jemin.

“It’s a long tunnel, goes to a cistern in the heart of the garrison—and another in the castle. I think it is five feet across, give or take. There is a grate across the opening, but if you can get it off—or mostly off—I think I could get into the garrison.”

Jemin considered this a moment, and then swung his legs over the bank. “Let’s find out.”

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18-Gillenwater

*

Jemin used our long walk to smear dirt on my face, muss my hair, and teach me to droop my shoulders and shuffle my feet. “Today you are not a princess, and you are not a performer. You are poor, hungry, and have never been important or the center of attention, ever. You probably spend your days bent over mending or maybe cooking,” Jemin continued seriously, “The only thing notable about you is that you’re traveling—and the only one who finds that notable is you.”

I didn’t think I stood out that badly, but I listened and emulated the walk he taught me. I hunched and thrust my neck forward and tried to imagine that I was heavy laden, beaten, and starved.

“We should let people assume that we are married,” instructed Jemin, as if discussing proper saddling. “It may offer you some protection, and is the shortest explanation for why we are traveling together.”

“Very well,” I replied, willing down a blush. This was spy work, and I was not a little girl. I couldn’t afford to be.

The people we met on the road closer in to the city didn’t even look at us, almost as if we were dirt or weeds. Or worse, starving dogs that might beg if they caught our eyes. Even at the city gates, with soldiers scrutinizing all who came and went, we were barely seen. I had thought our pilgrim gaggle was inconspicuous, but I had not known what inconspicuous was.

I tried to take in the city with an expression of shy wonder pasted on my face—as I imagined a country girl might—even though Gillenwater was not a happy sight. The harvest festival was completely ended and the carnival mood had been stripped from the city. The sun shone, but it felt terribly gray and cold inside the city walls. We crossed the little bridge over the Tryber and paused to watch workmen pick through the smoldering remains of the Queen’s forges.

“That should slow her down a touch,” muttered Jemin, before turning away. He guided us toward the market square, where we found the public well and drew water for Line and for ourselves. The glass tree was gone, though the lonely sheaves of wheat still stood here and there around the square. They looked dirty and wilted in the daylight, and without smiling people or music to make them bright.

People went about their business quickly and with their heads down. Even the normal city sounds were muted and strained.

Jemin asked someone where he could find a tavern, and we were directed a block away to a building with a covered porch and long shed row stable down the side. There were a handful of horses tethered to the hitching post out front, and Jemin added Line to the number.

I scratched the donkey behind the ears and whispered, “We can’t attract attention, Line, please be good.” He flicked his ears amiably and I followed Jemin into the dim light of the tavern.

It was midday, and the tavern had a respectable—if small—crowd of people huddled in clusters over bowls of what smelled like lamb stew. There was muted conversation all around the room, and no one really cared when we entered. I found this remarkable as I followed Jemin to the counter and tried to remember if I had ever walked into a tavern without being noticed before. Not that I’d been in a terrific number of taverns—just since the circus, really, and usually with a boisterous group of acrobats.

The middle aged man behind the counter greeted Jemin. “What can I do for you?”

“Some supper, please,” said Jemin, so meekly that I nearly didn’t recognize him. He laid a few coins on the countertop.

The tavern keeper looked at the meager coins then scooped them into his hand. “We can do with that,” he turned and scurried off through a doorway behind the counter.

While we waited, we both looked around. The few people sitting at the counter took mild notice of us. They looked like tradesmen and shopkeepers. A cobbler, I thought, and the one next to him made something out of wood—there was a fine layer of sawdust in his hair and his hands were strong and calloused. Further down, I guessed a blacksmith and probably a couple men and a woman who mostly sold things rather than made them. Our soup arrived in half-full bowls. It was not going to be a generous meal, but it was a change from the meager way fare I’d been eating.

As we ate, Jemin turned to the cobbler. “Excuse me, we’re travelers,” he said, stating the obvious, “And we saw a burned out building as we entered the city, what happened?”

The cobbler swallowed slowly and glanced at the corner before answering. We followed his look to the corner and saw a small table of soldiers, clearly off duty and immersed in their food. “That was the Queen’s forges, someone attacked it day before last.”

Jemin made a shocked face at the explanation, reminding me to look equally stunned. “Who?” asked Jemin, his voice low but carrying a touch of excitement.

The cobbler shrugged. “No one knows. You picked a bad time to be traveling through Gillenwater, I’m afraid. They are searching everywhere to find out who would dare such a thing.”

“It’s caused a powerful lot of trouble here,” put in the wood carver darkly, “We have a curfew now. And any man who is young and fit walks the streets at his own risk.”

Jemin started to act a touch nervous, “What happens to them?”

“Stopped, questioned, sometimes arrested and beaten,” replied the wood carver.

“They have no idea who they are looking for,” added the cobbler, scorn creeping into his voice, “That much is certain.” He looked for a moment as if he were going to say something else but the wood carver jabbed him with his elbow and he held his peace.

“We saw a column of cavalry on the road the other morning, was that because of this?” asked Jemin. He played innocent quite well, I thought.

The tradesmen nodded, and the cobbler replied, “They came back in a rush and bother with prisoners yesterday, so we thought they’d found the fire makers.”

“But the hunt continues,” said the wood carver.

“How odd!” Jemin exclaimed. “Who do you suppose they caught that they’d come back if it wasn’t who they were looking for?”

“Women,” the wood carver grunted in disgust and my stomach turned over.

Jemin glanced at me, “They carry off women?”

The cobbler leaned in, enjoying his possession of insight. “Women, yes. Occasionally. But rumor has it,” he cast a careful eye at the soldiers in the corner, “That they found someone really important—someone of royal blood from one of the other conquered cities—from Galhara.”

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17-The Other Side of the Matter

*

In spite of the burning energy that coursed through me at the prospect of our spy mission, I was asleep as soon as I laid my head down. The turmoil and sleeplessness of the past few days left me senseless until the gray of dawn filled the glen. In the morning, the numbers in the glen were much reduced, and I learned over breakfast that Quill had sent most of the party out to scout the land and keep watch.

My breakfast was also filled with Namal’s litany of reminders about blending in and not taking chances. He seemed to forget that Nadine and I both had fought by his side when the siege of Galhara had become dire. Besides that, I’d been a fugitive exactly as long as he had. I was hardly a naïve child any longer. However, I was glad he had agreed to let me go, so I let him talk.

Once I was done eating I went to the stream to freshen up. The morning sun made the water look like spun gold. The stream lazed through a wide pool over yellow sandstone pebbles, giggling softly to itself at its morning finery. It reminded me of the gold inlays of my father’s throne room walls—before they melted off in the inferno. I shed my shoes and rolled up my homespun trousers before wading into the cold of the stream. Its source was definitely high in the Magron Mountains, and it welcomed me gladly. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed living water. Weariness fled the touch of the icy water as I splashed it on my face and arms, trying to get a little clean without soaking my clothes. Not that pilgrims tended to be very clean. I stopped splashing and lingered ruefully in the running water.

“Zare…”

I turned and saw Balleck standing awkwardly a few feet away. The generous sun piled gold on his head, too, tinged with red. I stepped out of the stream, shaking water off and inwardly mourning that I had to leave its friendly touch. “Yes?”

“The donkey is loaded up, and they are waiting for you,” he said, shifting.

I stared at him, not sure why he looked like a child caught with sweetbread. It wasn’t as if wading in a stream was a scandalous thing to find a girl doing. “Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to call you.” Balleck bowed slightly at the waist, looking very uncomfortable and silly.

“Oh—Lady Zare, perhaps,” I offered. It seemed too presumptive to reclaim “Princess”—as if we’d already won our little rebellion. “Though, obviously not if we’re in disguise somewhere.” I sat down to put on my shoes. “Why are you so nervous?”

Balleck hesitated, then crouched next to me as I rolled down my trousers. “I don’t know…one minute you’re a stunt rider, the next you’re a princess, and twenty fighting men are deferring to you and jumping to their feet when you move.” He smiled, “I’m a circus rat. Born to it. If Lord So-and-so’s son, who’s made it into an important branch of the army stands and bows when you enter, shouldn’t I?”

I rolled my lips together. In a less complicated world, the answer would be yes. But I wanted to say no. So I avoided the question. Until now I hadn’t really thought about the other part of regaining our royal life—the part that meant losing this one. “I was never just a stunt rider—I thought it was obvious we were refugees of some title.”

“Sure,” replied Balleck, “But refugees of some title is not the same as the exiled royal family of Galhara. Rumor said the royal castle burned with supernatural fire taking the royal family with it.”

A joyless smile twisted my lips. “Well, that rumor is mostly true. And serves us well enough.” I had finished with my shoes, but didn’t get up.

“They say,” continued Balleck, “that the Nether Queen herself rode out to Galhara when she decided the siege was taking too long. They say that she lifted her hands and called fire from heaven and it fell upon the castle. That the fire burned for days and was high and hot—as if the entire castle were in the same fire that consumes the Fallen in hell.”

I looked at my shoes. “We saw her standard.”

Fire had rained from above—flaming wreckage from catapults—and it had burned for days. The catapults hit a storehouse that contained a gift from the nymphs of Daiesen; the secret to fire that burns on water was set aflame. An unlucky shot. The barrage of fire from the catapults continued until the burning could not be stopped. We could not breathe, we could not fight.

Some of our people were able to flee down the cliffs. We, and those closest to us, were too deep inside the castle to escape by going out. We had to go deeper into the heart of the citadel to the little underground river that fed our fortress, and burst in a waterfall from the cliffs to the bay below. Those of us who could hold our breath like the dolphins of Daisen helped those who could not. Five people to save fifty. It was a wonder any of us survived. We had huddled at the foot of the cliffs, expecting at any moment to die in a hail of arrows, but none came. The plume of smoke from Galhara blackened the sky and covered our flight—we concluded that they did not know about our river, or about our half-blood. Once word reached the nymphs they came and spirited us away to the bottom of Daisen Bay and the halls of my grandfather.

To Balleck all I said was, “There were siege engines, nothing more.” After a pause I added, “I will teach you courtly manners if you teach me more fire spinning.”

Balleck smirked. “Maybe I’ll just teach you fire spinning and leave the spoons and forks where they may.”  He stood up and offered me his hand.

I accepted Balleck’s hand up and we walked to where the others were waiting with Jemin and Line, the donkey. Jemin was dressed differently than he had been yesterday. Today he was in un-dyed homespun and a worn out leather jerkin that barely fit over his burly frame. His belt was tattered and his shoes flapped a bit at the soles. Even the military bearing was gone. If I hadn’t seen him yesterday I would’ve guessed he was a blacksmith, out of work, like as not. Line was loaded with a modest bag or two—presumably food and clothes for the look of the thing.

Namal gave me a quick embrace, “Please be careful, Zare.”

“I’m always careful,” I replied, and gave Ayglos a kiss on the cheek before moving to Jemin’s side.

“I will take care of her, your highnesses,” Jemin bowed.

We moved off, our walking pace draining any drama or excitement from the moment. Down the gulley, through the woods, back to the road, back to Gillenwater.

**

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16-A Plan

*

“I am very sorry for the loss of your city,” said Quill through gritted teeth, bringing me back to the present as I peeled the last layer bandage away from his leg. The wound was still an angry red hole, but I thought it looked a bit better. The riding had been significantly kinder to it than the walking.

Vaudrin returned with a waxed canvas bucket filled with water and I set to gently washing the calf.

“Do you need anything else, milady?” Vaudrin asked.

“No, thank you, you may sit.”

Vaudrin hesitated, then sank to his bedroll next to Quill’s.

“If I may ask, Quill, how old are you?” I dabbed the ragged flesh carefully.

“Torturer,” hissed Quill. “Probe my wounds and ask questions, but I will not relent.”

I wrinkled my nose, unsure of the laugh that was trying to strangle out. “You had better relent, else I’ll rinse your wounds with vinegar.”

Quill wriggled uncomfortably but said nothing.

I moved on to smearing salve and changed tactic, “How did someone as young as you become captain?”

“The royal guard was gutted the day Dalyn fell. There were fewer ranks to climb.”

Vaudrin cut in, “He is being modest, your highness.” I glanced at the blond man, who continued, “We all joined the guard well before any boy should be allowed—but the captain has always excelled, they delayed his promotion until he was at least knocking on twenty’s door.”

I finished re-bandaging his leg and moved up to his shoulder.

Quill gave me a pained look when I started plucking the bandage back. I rolled my eyes at him. “And you’re the one who needs rescuing on your first big mission?” I asked as I finished peeling off the bandages and began inspecting the slash. This one was well on its way to healing.

“It’s hardly our first big mission,” replied Quill.

“Where do you think he excelled, your highness?” Vaudrin smiled.

Pursing my lips, I focused on cleaning the sword wound. “You can’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old when Dalyn fell!”

“I was fourteen.”

I paused, my fingers poised at his shoulder. Younger than even I was when Galhara fell. Suddenly his story became vivid—like adding salt to stew. I had been sixteen—but born with my rank and taught to fight as a matter of royal schooling. Royal schooling that became entirely practical far before expected or complete. Quill had been even younger when he was pushed into war, and I wondered if he had possessed any of my advantages. I stared at him, “Did you…join right away?” I was afraid to ask the real question: Did his family die, too?

He was looking at the ground, “I did.”

“I’m sorry,” I managed.

Quill met my eyes for a raw moment—and then inclined his head. “What’s lost is lost.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a shattering crack that brought the entire glen to its feet. There was a moment’s confusion as hastily armed men scattered like chaff to cover the area. I started to get up but Quill laid a firm hand on my arm. “Stay, your highness.”

For a split second I was surprised, then I remembered. My brothers were likewise guarded by members of the unit who stood over them like she-bears over cubs. An entire company of Remkos.

A moment later the soldiers returned. Vaudrin came to report, he paused between Quill and Namal uncertainly, then directed his findings at both of them, “We are safe. The draft horse broke the tree branch to which he was tethered. Ripped it right off the tree.”

I shifted as I felt my brothers’ eyes resting on me. Apparently Sinker’s flaw was tying. “Not to worry,” I assured the company quickly—though Quill’s men didn’t know I was responsible for the dysfunctional horses, “he won’t leave—his mind cannot cope with being tied.”

I caught Ayglos hiding a smirk behind his hand.

The soldiers returned to their beds like a flock of sparrows descending on a tree for the night. I turned my attention back to smearing salve on Quill’s shoulder.

Shortly, Ayglos and Namal came to join us; Vaudrin stood and offered them his bedroll to sit on. Once they were settled, Namal said, “Captain, we need to move quickly. I propose that we send some of the men back to Gillenwater to find out what was done with the circus women and our family. If they have sent a raven to Hirhel we have three days, perhaps less, to rescue our people.”

“Agreed, your highness,” said Quill. “Our orders were to return to Dalyn once we accomplished our mission. We will tarry here to aid you, and then will make with all speed back to Dalyn. I hope that you will still make that journey with us.

“I would send Jemin, and with your leave, your sister in disguise. A man and a woman together would be less suspicious. They can take the donkey and behave as travelers.”

Namal considered this. I could see that neither of my brothers were pleased with the idea, but there were clear advantages. With Narya’s men hunting for the rebel soldiers who burned the forges, my chiseled swimmer brothers would surely draw unwelcome attention. Jemin, who had greeted us first when we arrived, was a strapping, bearded man, who could easily be taken for a laborer—a mason or blacksmith perhaps. Add to this that no one brings a woman on a raiding party…

“Zare?” Namal turned to me. “Would you be up for the task?”

“Of course,” I didn’t hesitate.

Namal nodded and bowed his head for a moment. He looked at Ayglos, and then agreed at last. “Very well, Jemin and Zare will go into Gillenwater in the morning.”

*

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13-Hook, Line, and Sinker

Galhara was a coastal city that had never been known for its horses—but I had. From childhood I spent as much time with them as I could, and had been known to do really stupid things like wander off and climb on any horse I met in the field. I did not differentiate between trained or untrained. If I wanted to ride a horse I convinced it to let me—usually with nothing more than a rope and patience. Some horses were easier than others, but they all obliged eventually. I, of course, had no idea this wasn’t normal until I was older and people started petitioning the king to let me to help them with their difficult animals.

The Head Groom’s monster was a spectacle in motion with a glossy black coat and a smart eye. He blustered along, tossing his head and threatening to rear every couple steps, barely restrained by the young groom trying to lead him into the corral. He was a fairly young horse—probably five or six years of age—with a well-shaped, muscular body and natural pride in each floating step. And you got an eyeful, too, because once the groom got him into the corral he pulled free and bolted. The other grooms rushed to close the gate—and the hapless handler climbed over it. Leaving me in the corral with a horse who obviously didn’t want to be around people.

“He was shipped here with a couple other horses because the marquis was looking to add some black to his stock,” explained the Head Groom. “None of the lot came with manners at all. We’ve not saddle broken a single one, on account of their wildness, and he’s the worst of them. He’s snapped quite a number of ropes around here—and nearly some hands, too.”

I nodded, keeping my eyes on the horse. Easy enough to believe. Especially two feet of broken lead rope hanging off the horse’s halter. He tore around the circular paddock with his head up, blowing hard at the people on the fence line. He was trying to ignore me, but kept flicking a curious ear in my direction almost in spite of himself. When the black broke stride I’d flap my arms and he’d pick up pace again. We might spend our hour doing this alone, I thought ruefully. I willed myself to forget about time and focus on the colt. Occasionally I’d dart ahead him to make him change his direction—which he didn’t totally appreciate—but mostly I waited. The black was stubborn and brave—they would be good qualities eventually, but for now they kept him running at a steady pace around and around the pen. I hoped he wouldn’t decide to make a day of it. I would feel the miles before he would, and I was already tired. I thoroughly lost track of time—it was just me and the circling black horse—forever in a contest of authority.

Before I expected it, he dropped his head. His jaw relaxed and his flicking ear settled on me attentively.

“That’s it, I’m not going to hurt you,” abruptly I turned away from him, and waited some more. He stopped running the moment I turned away and I listened to him come up behind me at a cautious walk. After a moment’s consideration, he came close and puffed out a breath by my ear. I swiveled and reached a hand to rub his face. He shuddered, but stayed put.

I took a step away from him and he followed. Hooked. I smiled and took a few more steps. He kept following. I stopped and rubbed his forehead again. He sighed heavily, as if the weight of a thousand fat men was slipping off him. “I’ll call you Hook,” I told him.

He didn’t object.

He didn’t object to the saddle and bridle either, nor the rider—though he gave me some extremely skeptical looks. When I slid off his back, Ayglos and the Head Groom entered the round pen.

The Head Groom looked stunned. “If I didn’t know the horse, and didn’t watch you the whole time, I wouldn’t have believed it.”

I patted Hook. “How long did that take?” I asked, pretty sure it was two or three hours of work—at least—could have been all day for all I knew.

“An hour exactly,” replied Ayglos with a lopsided grin.

“Really?”

The Head Groom wiped his forehead. “Really…” He looked the horse up and down. “I guess he’s yours.”

If we didn’t need a horse so badly, the mourning in the groom’s voice would have persuaded me to give my prize back. But Hook was mine, now. The Groom would have to deal with the wrath of the marquis himself if there was wrath to be had.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Have anyone else I can take off your hands?”

By the time Ayglos and I were headed back up the road I’d claimed two more of the useless money eaters from the farm; an impish donkey I’d dubbed Line, for the dorsal stripe and the cross bar on his back, and an aging draft who at this point simply needed to be named Sinker. I wasn’t sure why the Groom was parting with the draft, but it was easy enough to imagine why he would let go the devilish donkey—I overheard something about unlocking all doors and gates.

I rode Hook, Ayglos rode Sinker, and Line trotted along behind us, gamely keeping up with the larger horses. It was late morning, by now, but hopefully our success would convince the others to forgive us the delay. Particularly Namal.

*

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Armed

zareback

This sketch is from earlier this year, one of the first on my tablet that was any good. Still have a lot to learn about that tool–but I’m really enjoying it. The Sketchbook app by Autodesk is pretty nice. I’ve been using the free version, and flirting with the subscription. I think, though, that first I need to master the features of the free version before I can justify adding features by paying for it.

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7-Name Game

Once I made it back to the family tent I of course had to tell everyone exactly what happened after Ayglos and I were separated. I made Ayglos tell his considerably less exciting story, too. I wanted to ask my father his opinion on finding one of Dalyn’s soldiers so far from home, but I didn’t get the chance. When it was all said and done, I got less than four hours of sleep. It hadn’t seemed too bad at the time, but now, with the caravan inching along the road and the rush of packing over, I started to feel like death.

Dalyn was first among the Bay Cities—it controlled the Bandui River, a much bigger and deeper river than the Tryber, which was the primary trade route connecting the mountain cities to Daiesen Bay. Dalyn had been conquered five years ago. It was Narya Magnific’s most important conquest; after the mysterious destruction of Shyr Valla that started this whole Nether Queen thing. I had been eleven when Dalyn fell. The whole Bay had quailed when their champion city buckled under the weight of the Nether Queen’s army. With Dalyn’s conquest, all felt it was only a matter of time before the other cities fell to her also. So far, she had taken six of eight.

Gillenwater and its red fence were a few hours behind us, at a wagon’s pace. The road to Magadar skirted through the wooded foothills of the Magron Mountains, cutting north around the range rather than straight west through it. It was longer as the hawk flies, but easier going for a caravan. It was pretty, too, the road was practically lined with vineyards and horse farms. I started looking for a spot to ride on a wagon. When we were on the move, the circus folk sometimes walked, sometimes rode. Now seemed like a very good time to ride and maybe sleep for a day. I found myself looking for Boitumelo’s wagon.

I spied the red canopy of Boitumelo’s wagon the same moment that Ayglos jumped out of it. He saw me immediately and beckoned. I picked up my pace, my sleep deprived fog clearing a bit. What was Ayglos doing there? I caught up with the moving wagon, “Is something going on?”

“Your soldier is awake, keep him put till I can bring father and Remko,” Ayglos explained, boosting me up into the cart. He jogged off the moment I was secure. I pushed back the flap and entered the covered wagon.

My archer was very awake and arguing with Boitumelo. The lanky brown doctor looked fully prepared to tackle the archer if the man dared rise from his cot, and the archer looked like he was fully prepared to take that risk.

I let the red canopy close behind me and demanded, “What is going on here?”

Their words died and they looked at me. The archer’s face softened slightly when he saw me. “You pulled me out of the river, right?”

I nodded, “I did.”

“I am very grateful. But I must go back to my unit.”

“You are in no condition to go slinking around the countryside on your own,” I retorted.

Boitumelo pointed at me, “Maybe you will listen to Mbali!” he snapped in frustration. The doctor’s eyes were wide and his veins stood out in his neck. The archer had sure offended the physician’s professional sensibilities.

“I have to go back to my unit,” repeated the archer, more slowly, as if I might understand better if he enunciated.

“How do you expect to get back to your unit?”

“I would ask to borrow ragged clothes, put my armor in a pack, and travel on foot as a beggar or a pilgrim,” replied the archer. Evidently he had thought this through.

A pilgrim…pilgrims still went to the Cathedral in Dalyn, even though it was under Narya’s stiff rule. I walked across the swaying wagon and crouched by the archer’s cot. He watched me expectantly. Boitumelo watchfully took a seat a couple feet away. “You are going to Dalyn?” I asked.

A guarded look settled in place of the expectant one.

“I have seen their insignia on your armor,” I added, “You are either a thief or one of Dalyn’s soldiers. Judging from the skirmish on the bridge over the Tryber, I doubt very much that you are a thief.”

He grimaced. “You would be better to forget that insignia for now, and forget where I am going.”

Royal ire rose unbidden, but the next heartbeat replaced it with amusement. He had no idea who I was. My face twisted as I fought a smirk and tried to determine what I should tell him and how.

“I will decide what’s better for me, thank you,” I replied, finally regaining myself. “What is your name?”

The archer studied me. He was curious now, in spite of his reserve. “Call me Quill.”

“Is that your name?”

“It’s what I’m called.”

I wrinkled my nose. “How very elucidating.”

“Indeed,” a smile teased the corners of Quill’s mouth. “What’s your name?”

My mouth opened to reply and then I balked. Our eyes met and his sparked with a victorious knowing look. My education betrayed me. I was not a common circus girl who took pity on a wounded soldier. And, realistically, how many noblewomen knew how to swim? If he had been around the palace in Dalyn for any length of time he would know the most likely place to find noble swimmers were the cities on the shoreline. And a noblewoman swimmer hiding in a circus that choked when asked her name? The silence was getting painful as I opened and closed my mouth like a beached fish. “The doctor calls me Mbali,” I managed at last, red faced. I wished I could take the seconds back and know ahead of time how I wanted to answer his question.

“I noticed,” he dipped his chin. “The one who left right before you came in—a relation?”

Better prepared this time, I replied, “Is there a resemblance?”

“Chin, nose,” he replied.

“How fascinating.”

“His name is Ayglos,” continued Quill, watching me closely, mouth still tipped in a smirk.

“What a nice, strong name.”

Before the game could continue, the wagon swayed with the weight of someone jumping on the back. The flap opened and Ayglos climbed in, followed by my father and my oldest brother, Namal. Quill straightened on the cot immediately. “Your majesty.” His eyes were on my father.

Game over, I guess.

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6-The Hospital Tent

The royal physician for the Galhirim was tall, thin, dark skinned and unbelievably intelligent. He’d come from Magadar originally, and studied medicine in several different countries before settling at our royal court and becoming like family. Such ill luck it turned out to be.

I walked into the doctor’s tent; “Boitumelo!” The lamp was lit, so he couldn’t be far. “Boitumelo! We have need of you!”

The three men ducked inside behind me and made for the cot Boitumelo kept in the corner. It hadn’t taken long for Boitumelo to prove his worth to the Circus Master—he’d quickly been given a larger tent which divided into two rooms. One room was outfitted as Boitumelo’s hospital, the other his quarters. I went to the cabinet where Boitumelo stored his medicines and started rummaging loudly. “Boitumelo! What do I give to numb pain? Was it the hornwort extract or the chocolate? And what do you use to sew limbs back on?”

Shuffling and then a thump sounded on the other side of the wall. A moment later Boitumelo burst into the hospital side of the tent, breathless and with his clothes askew. “Don’t you rummage, Mbali!” he gasped.

I smirked and straightened. “I brought you a patient.”

Boitumelo’s eyes grew wide, “Is that blood? Are you alright?” He came forward, straightening his shirt.

“I’m fine, but he’s not,” I pointed to the cot where Balleck and Remko had set the archer.

The archer was sitting with his head down, shot leg straight in front of him, wounded arm dangling. My cloak was twisted haphazardly and the bow lay at his feet. He looked like a much loved ragdoll set on a shelf. A very muscular ragdoll in dark leather armor with light mail peeking out around his throat.

“Oh dear,” Boitumelo hurried to the archer’s side. “Remko, help me get him on the table.”

The archer, who seemed to be losing strength quickly now that we’d arrived, looked closely at the doctor and then allowed the men to help him onto the table.

“Lay back now,” said Boitumelo kindly. “We’ll get this all sorted.”

“I’d be grateful,” grimaced the archer, sinking to his back.

Boitumelo set to work immediately, and since I was standing there he set me to work, too. Balleck didn’t leave either so Boitumelo sent him to boil water. We stripped the archer’s armor and what remained of his shirt. I pointed out the dart in his calf and Boitumelo fussed over removing the archer’s boot safely. Balleck returned with water and Boitumelo’s little hospital swung into full motion.

Remko and Balleck were tasked with keeping the archer still while Boitumelo removed the dart and cleaned the wound. I busied myself mixing salve on the other side of the room for that part. It had been a long time since we’d had to do something like this, but I hadn’t forgotten my way around Boitumelo’s hospital nor the sickening gore of removing weapons from the body. The archer took it well—Boitumelo had some medicine and a towel for him, but I was still impressed with his silence. When it was over, I helped Boitumelo clean and dress the rest of the archer’s wounds while the men kept us supplied with clean water and salve. None of us could have left if we wanted to—Boitumelo was like a sea captain in wartime and we didn’t dare but help.

By the time the king stepped into the tent the archer was clean, stitched, bandaged, and sleeping from the medicine Boitumelo gave him. I ran to my father and was swept into the arms of Zam Caspian the Great, rightful King of Galhara.

“Zare! Where have you been?”

“Here, mostly—at least once I got back. Before that I was getting back.” I stepped back and started to roll my sleeves down. I tipped my chin toward the table, “He needed help.”

Boitumelo was standing over the sleeping archer and inspecting the dart he’d removed from the archer’s leg.

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this?”

I followed him to the table and explained, “There was an attack on Narya’s soldiers in Gillenwater tonight. This is one of the men who attacked. I pulled him out of the river.”

My father inspected the archer. We’d rolled him onto his stomach because of his leg wound and his otherwise handsome face was squashed awkwardly into the table. He had brown hair, I noticed, now that I wasn’t up to my elbows in his blood. He couldn’t be more than a year or two older than me.

“You could have been captured.” It sounded like an obligatory reminder rather than actual worry.

“Balleck wouldn’t let that happen,” I replied, then added, “And I was careful…and he was careful,” I gestured to the archer. “He’s very clever for someone with an arrow in his leg who blocked a sword with his arm.”

The king grunted.

“Zam,” Remko cut in awkwardly—he was still unused to calling the king by his first name, “Look at his armor.”

My father turned to the small pile of dark leather armor in the chair. Remko handed him the chest piece and he studied the inside thoughtfully. He pursed his lips. “It is well that the circus is leaving this place.” He turned to me, “We leave at first light. Zare, don’t be long.” Then he strode out of the tent.

“I will get you clean clothes, wait here,” said Remko, setting down the armor and following my father out.

I looked at my bloody sleeves. The blood was mostly dry now, thinned in places from where I’d splashed water while helping Boitumelo. Getting the blood out would be a beast. Maybe it would be easier to dye the shirt.

Balleck set down the tools he’d been drying and came over to me. “Zare? Are you alright?” He touched my arm.

“Yes,” I nodded, extremely aware of his fingers, and of all the things I wasn’t supposed to tell him. Then memories of the square and my panic rushed in and I stammered. “I stained my tunic.”

He smiled. I blushed.

“I can’t really go around explaining what happened tonight to everyone who thinks I’ve been stabbed,” I laughed.

Balleck nodded. “True enough…I should get back to my tent. It’s going to be a short night.” He turned to go.

“Balleck,” I caught his hand, “Thank you. For the square…”

He squeezed my hand, smiled broadly, and left.

I wrapped my arms around myself and stared at the tent flap until Boitumelo cleared his throat. “Here and I thought you wanted him to leave so you could look at the armor,” teased the doctor.

Even if my cheeks weren’t scarlet, my smile would have betrayed me. I wished that Balleck could have stayed, that’d I’d invited him to wait with me, and that he could actually be told the whole truth about the Galhara family—more than the obvious refugee part. Someday. I spun around, hurried to the chair and picked up the chest piece.

Embossed on the left side, over the heart, was a golden river encircling a gemstone. It was the royal insignia of Dalyn.

zaredalyn

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