There’s trouble coming,” said Diego, as he ran past the stables and looked in briefly on the open stall. A soft rain was falling.
“What is it?” his mother asked, glancing quickly over her shoulder. She stood up.
“Don’t know. A lot of men.”
“Where’s Fernan?”
“Gone to meet it, with some of the others. I told him already.” Diego, having said what seemed necessary, turned to go.
“Wait!” his mother called. “Where’s your father?”
Diego’s expression was withering. “How would I know? Heading for Esteren, I guess, if he isn’t there already. They must have got the parias, by now.”
His mother, feeling foolish, and irritated because of that, said, “Don’t use that tone with me. You sometimes do know, Diego.”
“And when I do, I tell you,” he said. “Got to run, Mother. Fernan will need me. He said to lock the gates and get everyone up on the walls.”
With the swift, lethal grin that left her almost helpless—his father’s smile—Diego was gone.
I am being ordered about by my sons now, thought Miranda Belmonte d’Alveda. Another adjustment in life, another measure of time passing. It was odd; she didn’t feel old enough for this to be happening. She looked over at the frightened groom who was helping her with the mare.
“I’ll finish here. You heard what he said. Tell Dario to get everyone up on the wall-walk. Including the women. Bring whatever weapons you can find. Build up the kitchen fires, we’ll want boiling water if this is an attack.” The old groom nodded anxiously and went off, moving as quickly as he could on a bad leg.
Miranda ran the back of a muddy hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of grime. She turned again, already murmuring to the laboring mare in the stall. The birth of a colt on a Valledan ranch was not a matter that could be superseded. It was the cornerstone of their fortune and their lives, of their whole society, really. The Horsemen of Jad, they were called, and with reason. A moment later the woman said to be the most beautiful in Valledo was on her knees again in the straw, her hands on the mare’s belly, helping to bring another stallion of Belmonte’s breed into the world.
She was distracted and worried, however. Not surprisingly. Diego was seldom wrong in his warnings, and almost never so when the vision had to do with trouble close to home. They had learned that, over the years.
When he’d been younger, still a child, and these foreknowings had begun it had been hard, even for him, to tell them apart from nightmares or childhood fears.
Once, memorably, he had awakened screaming in the middle of the night, crying that his father was in terrible danger, threatened by ambush. Rodrigo had been campaigning in Ruenda that year, during the bitter War of the Brothers, and everyone in the ranch house had sat awake the rest of a long night watching a shivering, blank-eyed boy, waiting to see if any further visions were vouchsafed him. Just before dawn, Diego’s features had relaxed. “I was wrong,” he’d said, gazing at his mother. “They aren’t fighting yet. He’s all right. I guess it was a dream. Sorry.” He’d fallen fast asleep with the last apologetic word.
That sort of incident didn’t happen any more. When Diego said he’d seen something, they tended to treat it as absolute truth. Years of living with a boy touched by the god would quell the skeptic in anyone. They had no idea how his visions came and they never spoke of them outside the family or the ranch. Neither his parents nor his brother had anything resembling this . . . this what? Gift or burden? Miranda had not, to this day, been able to decide.
There were tales of such people. Ibero, the family cleric, who presided over services in the new chapel Rodrigo had put up even before he’d rebuilt and expanded the ranch house, had heard of them. Timewalkers, he called those with such a vision. He named Diego blessed of Jad, but the boy’s parents both knew that at different times and in different places, those visionaries had been burned, or nailed alive to wooden beams as sorcerers.
Miranda tried to concentrate on the mare, but her calming words, for the next little while, consisted of repeated, eloquent curses directed at her absent husband. She had no idea what he’d done this time to bring danger to the ranch while his company was quartered at Esteren and the best of the band were south in Al-Rassan.
The boys can deal with trouble, his last letter had said breezily, after reporting a grim parting exchange with Count Gonzalez de Rada. Nothing about sending some of the soldiers to her for reinforcement. Of course not. Miranda, taught by Ibero in the first years of her marriage, prided herself on being able to read without assistance. She could also swear like a soldier. She had done so, reading that letter—to the messenger’s discomfiture. She was doing so now, more carefully, not to disturb the mare.
Her boys were still boys, and their blithe, careless father and his men were far away.
By Jad’s grace the foal was born healthy not long after that. Miranda waited to see if the mare accepted him, then she left the stall, grabbed an old spear propped in a corner of the stable, and hurried out into the rain to join the women and their half a dozen ranch hands on the wall-walk behind the wooden barricade.
As it turned out, it was just the women, Ibero the cleric and lame old Rebeño the groom that she joined. Fernan had already taken the ranch hands with him outside the walls. For an ambush, one of the house women said, hesitantly. Miranda, with no precious horses nearby, permitted herself a stream of entirely unmitigated profanity. Then she swiped at her brow again and climbed the wet steps to the high walk along the western side of the wall, to watch and wait. Someone offered her a hat to keep the rain from her eyes.
After a while she decided the spear was a waste of time, and exchanged it for a bow and a quiver full of arrows, taken from one of the six small guard shelters along the wall. There were no guards in the shelters. All the soldiers were in Esteren, or with Rodrigo.
The boys can handle trouble, he had written. Blithely.
She imagined seeing her husband riding home just then, emerging from the trees into the wide, grassy space before their walls. She imagined shooting him as he rode up.
The land around the Belmonte ranch was level and open in all directions, save to the west and southwest where Rodrigo’s father and his grandfather before him had left a stand of oak and cedar undisturbed. Rodrigo hadn’t touched the trees, either, though for a different reason.
There were holy associations with that wood, and with the pool in the midst of it, but young Fernan Belmonte had been taught by his father years ago, when he could first ride a proper horse, that the forest was deceptively useful for defense, as well.
“Think about it,” he could remember his father saying. “If you wanted to attack this place unseen, which way would you approach?”
Fernan had looked around at the exposed grassland stretching in all directions. “Have to come through the trees to get close,” he’d said. It was an easy answer.
“So we can be almost certain any attack will come that way, because otherwise, if our outriders aren’t asleep, we’ll be able to observe anyone’s approach, won’t we?”
“Or if Diego sees something,” Fernan had added, “even if they come through the woods.”
“That’s true,” his father had agreed briefly, though not happily.
In those early days his father and mother were still struggling to come to terms with what Diego could see and do. Fernan didn’t have any such problems, but he knew Diego best of all, of course.
Years later, on a morning of soft, unseasonable summer rain he was with two of their friends and the six ranch hands in the twin gullies on either side of the natural exit from the woods. The gullies weren’t natural, of course. Rodrigo’s soldiers had hollowed them out in the grassy plain to make a place where they could lie unseen and watch anyone coming out of the trees.
Fernan had four other boys with bows posted halfway between the ranch buildings and the southern pastures where the mares and foals were that morning. There were two messengers with
these four, to bring word if anyone appeared from the south. A last horseman was alone east of the ranch, just in case.
Diego, riding up breathlessly a few moments before, reported that he’d relayed instructions to their mother, who would be up on the wall, then, with the other women. She knew what to do. They were as ready as they could be. Fernan turned up his collar against the rain and sat in the gully under the wide brim of his hat, waiting.
There were two possibilities. If someone was approaching Rancho Belmonte with ill intent, they might be coming for the ranch compound and the people inside the walls or, more likely, they were here for the horses. Or both, Fernan corrected himself. But that would mean quite a lot of men, and in that case they might actually be in trouble. He didn’t think that was the case. He wasn’t much worried, in fact. He was thirteen years old.
“I have them,” he heard his brother say softly. “They just entered the trees. I know who this is,” Diego said.
“De Rada?” Fernan asked calmly. “The younger one?”
Diego nodded. They had both read their father’s last letter.
Fernan swore. “That means we can’t kill him.”
“Don’t see why not,” said Diego matter-of-factly.
“Bloodthirsty child.” Fernan grinned.
An identical grin on an identical face showed through the softly falling rain. Fernan was fifteen minutes older. He liked reminding Diego of that. Diego was hard to tease, however. Very little seemed to bother him.
“About twenty men,” he said. “They’re on the path in the woods now.”
“Of course they are,” said Fernan. “That’s why the path is there.”
He had lost his hat at some point, and during the period of walking north one of Garcia de Rada’s boots had split at the heel. He was, accordingly, wet at crown and sole, riding through the copse of trees west of the Belmonte ranch compound. There seemed to be a rough trail leading through the wood; the horses were able to manage.
Despite his discomfort, he was fiercely happy, with a red, penetrating joy that made the long journey here seem as nothing now. His late, unlamented cousin Parazor had been a pig and a buffoon, and far too quick to voice his own thoughts on various matters. Thoughts that seemed all too frequently to differ from Garcia’s own. Nonetheless, during the trek north from Al-Rassan, Garcia had been sustained in his spirit by a sense of gratitude to his slain cousin. Parazor’s death at the hands of a lice-ridden Asharite peasant boy in a hamlet by Fezana was the event that would deliver Miranda Belmonte d’Alveda into Garcia’s hands. And not only his hands.
Once Rodrigo Belmonte had recklessly ordered a de Rada of rank to be executed by a peasant child, against all codes of conduct among gentlemen in the three Jaddite kingdoms of Esperaña, he had exposed himself—and his family—to the response that blood demanded for such an insult.
The king could and would do nothing, Garcia was certain, if the de Rada took their just measure of revenge for what Rodrigo had done. The just measure was easy enough to calculate: horses for their own horses taken, and one woman taken in a rather different way for the execution of a de Rada cousin after he had sued for ransom. It was entirely fair. There were precedents in the history of Esperaña for a great deal more, in fact.
Garcia had resolved upon his course even while walking and stumbling north through darkness after the raid on Orvilla. Blood dripping from his torn cheek, he had kept himself going by visualizing the naked figure of Miranda Belmonte twisting beneath him, while her children were made to watch their mother’s defilement. Garcia was good at imagining such things.
Twenty-four of his men survived Orvilla, with a dozen knives and assorted other small weapons. They took six mules late the next day from another hamlet, and a broken-backed nag from a small-farmer in an imprudently isolated homestead. Garcia claimed the horse, miserable as it was. He left the Asharite farmer and his wife and daughter for his companions. His own thoughts were a long way north and east already, over the border in Valledo, in the lands between the River Duric’s source and the foothills of the Jaloña mountains.
There lay the wide rich grasslands where the horse herds of Esperaña had run wild for centuries until the first ranchers came and began to tame and breed and ride them. Among those ranchers the most famously arrogant, though far from the largest or wealthiest, were the Belmonte. Garcia knew exactly where he was going. And he also happened to know, from his brother, that the Captain’s troops were quartered at Esteren this summer, nowhere near the ranch.
There ought to have been little danger for Belmonte in leaving his home unguarded. The Asharites had launched no raids north for twenty-five years, since the last brief flourishing of the Khalifate. The army of King Bermudo of Jaloña had been beaten back across the mountains by the Valledans three years before and were still licking their wounds. And no outlaws, however rash or desperate, would dream of provoking the ire of the celebrated Captain of Valledo.
The ranch ought to have been perfectly safe behind its wooden stockade wall, even if guarded by boys with unbroken voices and a cluster of ranch hands deemed unworthy or too old for a place in the fighting company. On the other hand, Rodrigo Belmonte ought not to have ordered the death of a cousin of the de Rada. He ought not to have whipped the constable’s brother. Such actions changed things.
When Garcia and his men had finally stumbled into Lobar, the first of the forts in the tagra lands, he had demanded and received—though with insolent reluctance—mounts and swords for all of them. The sweating commander of the garrison had advanced some feeble excuse about being left without sufficient weapons or horses for their own duties or safety, but Garcia had brooked none of that. The constable of Valledo, he’d said airily, would send them swords and better horses than the swaybacked creatures they were being given. He was in no mood for debate with a borderland soldier.
“That might take a long time,” the commander had murmured obstinately. “All the way from Esteren.”
“Indeed it might,” Garcia had replied frigidly. “And if so?”
The man had bitten his lip and said nothing more. What could he have said? He was dealing with a de Rada, the brother of the constable of the realm.
The garrison’s doctor, an ugly, raspy-voiced lout with a disconcerting boil on his neck, had examined Garcia’s wound and whistled softly. “A whip?” he’d said. “You’re a lucky man, my lord, or else someone extremely skillful was trying only to mark you. It is a clean cut and nowhere near your eye. Who did this?” Garcia had only glared, saying nothing. It was pointless, speaking to certain people.
The man prescribed an evil-smelling salve that stung like hornets, but did cause the swelling on Garcia’s face to recede over the next few days. It was when he looked in a reflecting glass for the first time that Garcia decided that appropriate vengeance required the death of the Belmonte children, as well. After they had been forced to watch him with their mother.
It was the fierce anticipation of revenge that had driven him on from the tagra fort, with only a single day’s rest. He sent four men north to Esteren, to report to his brother and to lay formal complaint before the king. That was important. If what he purposed to do was to have legal sanction, such a complaint had to be lodged against Rod-rigo. Garcia was going to do this properly, and he was going to do it.
Two days after his main troop had parted from the four messengers he remembered that he’d forgotten to tell them to have weapons and horses sent back down for the garrison at Lobar. He briefly considered sending another pair of men north, but remembered the commander’s insolence and elected not to bother. There would be time enough to pass on that word when he arrived in Esteren himself. It would do the pampered soldiers good to be short of weapons and mounts for a time. Perhaps someone else’s boot might split at the heel.
Ten days later, in a wood on the land of Rancho Belmonte, rain was falling. Garcia’s stocking was sopping wet through his cracked boot, and so were his hair and scratchy new beard. He’d been growing
the beard since Orvilla. He would have to wear it for the rest of his life, he’d realized by now; that, or look like a branded thief. Belmonte had intended that, he was certain of it.
Miranda Belmonte, he remembered, was very beautiful; all the d’Alveda women were. Rodrigo, that common mercenary, had made a far better marriage than he deserved. He was about to have visited upon him exactly what he did deserve.
Anticipation made Garcia’s heart pound faster. Soon, now. Boys and stable grooms were the guardians of this ranch. Rodrigo Belmonte was no more than a jumped-up fighting man who had been put back into his proper place since the ascension of King Ramiro. He had lost his rank of constable in favor of Garcia’s brother. That had been only the beginning. He would learn now the cost of a feud with the de Rada. He would learn what happened when you marked Garcia de Rada as a common outlaw. Garcia touched his cheek. He was still using the salve, as instructed. The smell was ferociously unpleasant, but the swelling had subsided and the wound was clean.
The trees were very close together throughout the wood, but the curiously smooth path seemed to wind easily through them, wide enough in places for three men to ride abreast. They passed a pool of water on their right. In the grey afternoon the rain fell gently through the leaves, making droplets and ripples in the still surface of the water. It was said to be a holy place, for some reason. A few men made the god’s sign of the disk as they rode by.
When the first horse fell and lay screaming on the ground with a broken leg, it seemed a malign accident. After two more such accidents, one of which left a rider with a dislocated shoulder, such an interpretation became less certain.
The path curved north through the sodden, dripping trees, and then, a little further on, swung back to the east again. In the grey, pale distance Garcia thought he could see an end to the trees.
He felt himself falling, while still in the saddle.
He had time to throw a startled glance upwards and see the bellies of the two horses that had been pacing on either side of his a moment ago. Then his mount crashed into the bottom of the pit that had been concealed in the center of the path and Garcia de Rada found himself scrambling about trying to dodge the thrashing hooves of a crippled, terrified horse. One man, quicker than the others, dropped to the ground and leaned over the edge of the pit. He extended an arm, and Garcia grabbed it and hauled himself up and out.