A blast of wintry air swirled around him; Llauron drew the cowl of his gray robe closer around his neck and stepped out onto the aviary floor, which was covered with a thin, frosty carpet of ice crystals.
The cages encircled the center of the room, with the rookery forming a ring behind them. At his arrival a few of the birds began to twitter and trill; they were not accustomed to his presence at night.
Llauron brushed the snow from his shoulders and began to coo a response. At the sound of his voice the birds settled down again. He walked past the open cages, each a marvel of wooden artistry built to resemble one of the great pieces of Cymrian architecture, to the sheltered area where his desk and inkwell sat.
He sat down in the wooden chair and opened the lowest drawer, withdrawing some tiny oilskin sheets, then felt around inside for his tinderbox.
A warm glow appeared as he struck the flint and lighted the oilpot below the frozen inkwell. His quill was gone, probably a casualty of the wind that blasted down through the open eaves. Llauron rose testily and went to the rookery, searching for a replacement.
“By your leave, madam,” he said to the nesting raven who was eyeing him suspiciously. He withdrew the loose feather from the nest quickly to avoid disturbing her and returned to the desk, where he took out his quill knife. After a few whittled cuts the quill was ready; he dipped the end in the thawing ink, shook loose the icy overage, and began to write in a tiny script.
King Achmed of Ylorc
Your Majesty:
In great sorrow I have heard R’s tale of the terrible illness that has befallen your people and the tragic loss of your army. I extend my condolences and offer whatever assistance you may need in medicines or burial herbs.
Llauron, Invoker—Gwynwood
Satisfied, he copied the message seven times over, then blotted the oilskins dry.
When the ink had set he extinguished the oilpot and rolled the messages into tiny scrolls, transferring them to his pocket. He returned to the circle of cages and stood for a moment, considering.
Each cage held both nesters and messenger birds, trained to fly to the building or structure that their cage had been designed to represent. The messengers homed to specific perches where they were fed and rested and ofttimes refitted with a return message, while the nesters only sought to roost within the eaves of the buildings.
The use of nesters had an ignominious history. Anwyn had employed them to great effect in the war against Gwylliam to carry disease or vials of poison, and in one hideous battle, burning embers that had engulfed the thatched roofs of the outer villages of Bethe Corbair, burning it to the ground. The weapon was doubly effective because Gwylliam had loved the birds, and knew that she was employing them to destroy his holdings. It was a shameful episode in a shameful era, and Llauron was well glad to be rid of that use, though what he contemplated now had some of its hallmarks.
The avian system worked well to carry messages of importance to other heads of state or religious leaders, though in winter it was less reliable than in the warmer seasons. With the advent of the guarded mail caravan that Achmed had instituted some time back, the avian messenger system had fallen into disuse, if not obsolescence.
Llauron peered thoughtfully into the cages that meticulously resembled each of the duchy palaces of the provincial states—the Great Hall of Avonderre; Haguefort, Lord Stephen’s keep, in Navarne; High Tower, where Cedric Canderre held court, in the province that bore his name; the Judiciary of Yarim, home of Ihrman Karsric, its duke; Greenhall, the provincial seat of Bethe Corbair; and the Regent’s Palace of Bethany, where Tristan Steward lived. One cage was also a representative model of Sorbold’s Jierna Tal, the Place of Weight, where the great scales of justice stood and the crotchety Dowager Empress lived with her pantywaist son, the Crown Prince.
He had long suspected that the F’dor’s host was one of these men, or someone high up in their ranks, though after all his years of searching he had not been able to discern which one. The writer’s cramp he had just earned would be worth the pain and effort if the false message found its target, though these first seven birds were not the crucial ones. Llauron grasped a handful of leg containers from the shelf below the cages.
Quietly he reached into each house, selecting roosting nesters, who squawked and chirruped in protest at the disturbance of their slumber. Llauron gently billed their necks with his finger, clucking softly to settle them down.
“I do most sincerely apologize, dear lady, for disturbing your sleep and warmth,” he said to the first, a snow dove, as he affixed the leg container. “’Tis unavoidable, I fear.”
He carried her carefully to the window that faced the Great White Tree and stood for a moment, watching the snowflakes writhe on the dark wind. Then he opened the window, bracing himself against the cold blast, and tossed her out into the night, closing the window quickly behind her.
He repeated the process until each of the buildings of state had a roosting bird winging its way toward it. Then he went to the vast cage that had been rendered to look like the mountainous realm of Canrif.
The messengers in this cage were black martins, tough little winterbirds with a remarkable range, plain of plumage and unremarkable to the eye. They were tried and reliable, having been used frequently for correspondence with Rhapsody while she was still in Ylorc.
Llauron choose Oberlan, a cock, his favorite of this nest, and took him to the window. He looked the bird squarely in the eye.
“You alone must find your way without fail, old boy. Can I rely on you?”
The bird’s eyes glittered in the dark. Llauron smiled.
“I thought so. Now, go to Rhapsody’s aviary—I doubt whoever receives you will spoil you as she did, but you will be welcomed; I have no doubt about that. Firbolg hospitality! Oh, my. Aren’t you the lucky bird.” He released the messenger and watched it catch a warm updraft, then bank east into the night, where it disappeared from sight. He waited, nonetheless, until he could no longer feel the bird within his lands, then went back to the wooden chair, where he sat down brokenly.
The Invoker reached into the folds of his robe, and slowly pulled forth the key ring on which hung Crynella’s candle. The tiny globe of melded fire and water gleamed gently in the snowy darkness.
“I am so sorry, Rhapsody,” he whispered.
Sorbold
It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to find clothing to dress the gladiator in; there didn’t seem to be much in the room besides a silky shirt and a few long muslin scarves Rhapsody ultimately realized were to be tied into loincloths.
Finally under the bed she discovered some discarded trousers and a heavy wool shirt, as well as a carefully folded handkerchief tucked beneath the edge of a braided rag rug. She was terrified he would come around while she was prone on the floor, looking under the bed, and she kept darting furtive glances up at the silent figure in the crumpled sheets. Despite her worry he remained unconscious, even as she dressed him, bound his hands and feet, and wrapped him in the heaviest of the blankets from the bed.
Rhapsody pulled his silk shirt on herself and finally worked up the courage to look into his face, hoping she had not injured him with the pillow. A small trail of saliva had escaped his mouth, and in his stupor he seemed much less frightening than he had been moments before. Her stomach was still heaving, and she took shallow breaths to try and maintain her calm. Now was not the time to lose control.
Despite everything that had happened, she felt pity for him. None of the people she had seen in this place, with the possible exception of Treilus, were here of their own volition, and knowing where he had come from made her wish his circumstances were different. Still, she had no doubt that if she didn’t get him out of here, and into the care of her reinforcements waiting just beyond the borderlands, he would be willing to show her none of the mercy she extended to him.
She dabbed the saliva off his face with the handkerchief she had found under the bed and rose to go. As she did a s
ilvery flash fell from the folded linen, and she stooped to retrieve it. It was a woman’s necklace, crudely wrought of silver, without a charm. A love token, perhaps, from a slave girl? Rhapsody remembered the way the women had become silent when Treilus had called his name, and decided her thought was unlikely. Whatever it was, it would have to wait. She slipped the necklace into her bag, along with the remains of the liquid, and crept to the door again.
The hallway of the gladiators’ quarters was empty and silent except for the muffled cries that issued forth sporadically from behind the heavy doors. The occupants that lived on the hallway were clearly otherwise engaged, unlikely to see her leave. Their trysting partners for the evening were earning their keep, filling the night air with occasional exaggerated sounds of ecstasy, undoubtedly hoping to avoid being considered uncooperative.
Rhapsody shuddered. She hurried down to the windowed doors on the courtyard where Khaddyr and his soldiers would be waiting.
When she reached the courtyard she peered out into the snowy night.
No one was there.
The window opening spanned the wall from floor to ceiling and looked out into the empty courtyard, obviously reserved for the fighters as an exercise yard. Snow was falling lightly as she opened the window and stepped out onto the icy ground. The cobblestones stung her bare feet and she cringed, thinking of the long walk to her meeting point if her reinforcements did not come soon.
After a few minutes her feet began to feel numb. Rhapsody climbed back in the window, shutting it carefully, and hastened back to the gladiators’ quarters.
She checked Constantin’s breathing again; he was still unconscious but alive. With one more careful look around the hallway she took hold of the blanket and dragged it out the door of the room.
When she finally made it to the courtyard again, there was still no sign of Khaddyr. A deep groan escaped the blanket, but the gladiator did not move. Rhapsody opened the door. Snow swept over her almost naked body, making her shiver with cold as she had earlier from fear.
“Oh, be quiet,” she muttered. “At least you’re dressed and have a blanket. I could have put you in a loincloth, and then you’d know how I feel.”
Only the wind howling in the night answered her.
By the time Rhapsody reached the rendezvous point, her feet were stinging and striped with blood. She cursed her lack of footwear, wishing she had been able to stow her shoes in a place they could have been retrieved, but her exit from the complex was at least a half-league from the arena; there was no way she could have gone back for them.
Khaddyr and the reinforcements had not yet arrived when she got there, but her mare was still where Rhapsody had left her, hidden in the same thicket that she had been tethered in. No sign of footprints disturbed the covering of snow that had fallen while she was away save for the horse’s own hoof marks. The animal seemed glad to see her, and Rhapsody rifled through her saddlebag, bringing forth a ration of oats to appease her for her long wait. Then she took out the few clothes she had brought with her—a pair of leggings and gloves, which she donned hastily.
The snow had begun to fall heavily now. Rhapsody shielded her eyes and looked up at the darkening sky. A storm was coming, and in the distance from where she had been she could see the wind picking up, laying the fields between Sorbold and the forest low as it streaked through. The lights of the city-state of Jakar twinkled at the far edge of her vision, slowly disappearing as the snow came down harder.
Rhapsody rubbed her hands up and down her arms, trying to stay warm. The silk shirt she had taken from Constantin’s chambers did little to keep out the wind, let alone the cold. Khaddyr and the reinforcements certainly should be here by now, she thought ruefully as the gladiator groaned under the blanket. He needed to be off the ground or he would freeze, she realized.
She found a strong tree in the thicket and secured her horse to it, using her rope in a pulley system wrapped around herself and the animal to hoist Constantin’s inert form onto the mare’s back. The gladiator outweighed her easily by three times. She narrowly avoided disaster when the rope slipped from her numb hands. The heavy body might have injured the horse if she hadn’t grabbed it in time, resulting in being dragged on her stomach through the snow a short distance.
Finally she secured him, wrapping him in the blanket and the last remaining rags she had with her. She fed him some of the contents of her wineskin and her day rations when he regained a little consciousness, returning him to his stupor with the remnants in the bottle of sleeping tonic afterward.
Daylight had come, and the snow was beginning to mix with rain and freeze, burning the naked areas of Rhapsody’s body as it fell. She scanned the horizon but could see nothing coming for as far as her vision reached. The awful thought she had been beating back all night was beginning to take new ground in her heart. Maybe Khaddyr wasn’t coming.
There wasn’t much she could do but wait. She had no food or water to speak of, and neither of them would survive the cold exposed as they were to the elements. Rhapsody used her fire lore to warm herself and her captive, but after the sun began to set, the freezing wind started to take its toll, and her ability began to ebb. Finally, when an entire day had passed, she decided that she was alone and would remain that way. She had no idea if her reinforcements had been waylaid, or had gotten lost, or even had been killed, but she couldn’t wait anymore regardless. She knew Llauron would have been careful to see that they arrived on time, and so they were probably in no position to help her anyway.
Rhapsody took stock of her minimal supplies, checked her remaining gear, and adjusted the bindings that held the gladiator to the horse. She thought about how her mother had always been insistent that she bring an extra shawl wherever she went; it was another piece of advice that was proving true too late. This forest was unknown to her; she had expected to rely on Llauron’s men to guide her through and back to Tyrian. She thought perhaps she and Ashe might have traveled through here long ago on their way to Tyrian; if so, maybe she would get her bearings somewhere along the way. In any case, she could stay here no longer.
She clicked to the mare, and set out into the wind and the thickening snow, her feet growing numb, her heart focusing on Oelendra’s roaring hearth and the warmth she knew she would find there.
30
Haguefort, Province of Navarne
It had been a long, difficult day. A bitter wind had blasted around and through Haguefort’s rosy brown stone walls and windows for the better part of the week, trapping Lord Stephen’s children within the keep and requiring the heavy winter fires to be fed constantly. The air in the castle hung heavy with smoke, making it difficult to breathe.
That by coincidence it was also the birthday of Gwydion of Manosse, dead twenty years now, did little to make breathing easier. Sorrow at the memory of finding his childhood friend so long ago, broken and bloody on the grass beneath the firstsummer moon, squeezed Stephen’s heart, opening the doors for that sense of loss, and the loss of Lydia, to weigh upon his chest like bricks. He tucked Melisande into bed without her customary lullaby, kissed Gwydion good night without their accustomed talk, truthfully pleading a pounding headache.
Around midnight the gale died down, and Stephen decided to risk the cold for a moment. He opened the balcony doors and stepped outside, bracing himself against the outer wall as the shattering breeze blew through again, freezing his face and hands. Despite the cold, the air felt sweet and clean as he drew it into his lungs, though he could still taste remnants of the smoke that was venting from the castle’s many chimneys.
The lightposts were dark; the lamplighters had given up attempting to ignite the lamp wicks in the wind, and so the courtyard below him was darker than usual. Stephen’s eyes could make out the buildings below: the newly rebuilt stable and barracks, which had burned, casualties of an unexplained peasant revolt last spring, and the Cymrian museum that edged the courtyard on the northern side, its solid stone walls marred with soot but otherwise undama
ged in the raid. All seemed quiet, as if frozen in time by the wind.
Then he saw it. At first he thought he’d imagined it, a bluish glow that gleamed for a moment in the museum’s solitary window, and then was gone. Stephen blinked back the water the stinging wind had brought to his eyes. It was there, he was certain of it.
And then again.
Stephen crossed the icy balcony, pulling his tunic closer around him, skidding momentarily on the snow that had frozen in between the stones of the elevated floor. He stood at the rail and watched again. He was certain he had seen it.
There it was.
It would take a great deal of time to get to the museum by going back through the keep. Stephen discarded the thought and climbed gingerly over the railing at the top of the curving exterior staircase that led from the semicircular balcony down to the courtyard below, hurrying down the stairs through the heavy drifts of snow that had accumulated on the steps.
By the time he had crossed the courtyard his legs were stinging from wading through the knee-high snowbanks encrusted with ice. His ears and hands screamed in mute objection as the wind blasted through again.
The museum’s door was locked, and there was no sign of light, bluish or otherwise, in the building’s one window, a small arched pane over the doorway on the second floor. Stephen fumbled for his key with hands that were beginning to tremble with cold.
When he located the large brass key on his ever-present ring, he inserted it quickly into the rusty lock and turned it. The door moaned in protest as he pulled it open, its wail swallowed in the howl of the wind. Stephen hurried inside and pulled the door closed behind him.