Abramm stared in rising horror, for he knew it was no natural storm but a battle between supernatural forces. Though what armies might be involved, he could not begin to guess. Esurhite? Barbarian? How could they possibly have mustered with the winter having locked in the land for these past months? And how could Simon have failed to note and report an enemy presence of that size marching through the realm?
Still, something obviously dire was happening, and he had no doubt Simon was in the midst of it.
He turned to Channon and had just given the order to rouse the men when the flickering in the cloud increased and the booms came so often they overlapped, the ground shaking continuously. Then the cloud lit with a great flash of scarlet . . . and all went dark and still.
Abramm held his breath. No one moved nor spoke around him, all faced toward the cloud, barely visible now in the first dull lightening of the sky as dawn approached. Even the horses stood frozen. Then, into that deathly silence came a low rushing that swiftly escalated to a roar, and a wind swooped down upon them, cold on their faces as it ruffled their beards and tore at their cloaks and tossed the horses’ manes yet stirred neither grass nor bush nor any leaf of the trees around them. Then it was gone.
And now, running in its wake, came a host of dark forms, bounding and scurrying and scuttling and leaping, breaking out of the trees, rushing over the grassy hillsides. A sea of creatures running south as from a fire: deer and badgers and squirrels, fox and rabbits and mice . . . They ran past the men and horses as if they did not exist. Then they were gone, too, and an eerie calm descended. Beside them, the great river had become like silver glass, its current having ceased to flow.
Shaken, but determined, Abramm repeated his order to rouse the horsemen. They would move out immediately, leaving the foot soldiers to break camp and follow as fast as they could.
They encountered the first remnants of the defeated army that afternoon— individuals and small groups on foot, bloodied and weaponless and so jumpy, one look at Abramm and his men sent them skittering into the hills. Finally, though, they encountered a party of combined horsemen and foot soldiers that was large enough and ordered enough to hold its ground. It flew no identifying banners, but a look through the spyglass confirmed that one of the men riding point was Simon Kalladorne.
Abramm cantered forward to meet him, and it was a measure of Simon’s exhaustion and shock that he only pulled his horse to a stop and waited. He wore no uniform, only a torn and bloodied shirt and filthy breeches. His face was nearly as gray as his untrimmed beard, marred with cuts and blood and a great bruise on one cheekbone.
“I’m afraid you’re too late, sir,” he said as Abramm reined in before him.
“What happened?”
“He took Skaevik, and once he did, it was all over.”
Abramm frowned at him. “Who?”
And now Simon frowned back. “Didn’t you receive my dispatches?”
“I received dispatches about small raiding parties and the destruction of hill settlements. I thought you had everything in hand. I’m only here now because of Carissa.” He explained what Simon obviously knew nothing about, then asked, “So what happened exactly?”
“It was Rennalf, sir. With upwards of five hundred men. They came around the western foothills and were preparing to march on Sterlen when we spotted them. Ethan said we had to keep them out of Skaevik, and for two weeks we did. Yesterday afternoon he broke through our lines. . . . I’ve been sending urgent requests for the last three weeks—almost daily, sir. Yet you received none of them?”
“Blackwell told me the morning I left that Archer’s Vale had been raided and you were out trying to round up the perpetrators.”
“There was no raid on Archer’s Vale.” He grimaced and passed a bloodstained hand through his short gray hair, looking down at his horse. “Once he held Skaevik, he used all those things you told us the Esurhites used: the fearspell, the darkness, the Command. And all sorts of creatures, things that could hardly be killed. We were decimated.”
“So he has won,” Abramm said grimly, turning his eyes to the north and wondering what in the world he could do that Simon had not even come close to accomplishing.
“No,” Simon said. “We were falling back, not quite turned tail to run but close, and suddenly the Mataians took the field. Fifty of the brothers with their pans of flames, and behind them, a phalanx of horse soldiers, maybe a hundred of them—Gadrielites by their uniforms.”
“Gadrielites?” Abramm cried. He’d outlawed that order five years ago.
“And with them, a civilian army of foot soldiers. They had a monstrous battle—exploding fireballs, moving walls of darkness or of red light . . . and they won, Abramm. The Mataians and their Gadrielite lackeys won. And once it was clear they had, they turned on us, slaughtering all who wore a shield. They tried to kill me, too. But Ethan used his Light to draw their attention his way, and I escaped. I don’t know what happened to him, but we’ve not seen him since.”
Abramm stared at him fixedly, each new incident searing into his soul like a hot iron. A phalanx of Gadrielites and fifty Mataians? No wonder the new Keep had been quiet. They’d known about this. Planned it, even. And kept it all from him.
And then he recalled the sense he had awakened with, the feeling of disaster unfolding back home. The Gadrielites revived . . . the roads deserted . . . the absence of boats on the water even heading north. And all those Mataians in Springerlan for the reconsecration of the Holy Keep. . . .
Oh, my Lord Eidon!
Simon’s dispatches had been concealed to keep Abramm from getting up to Sterlen in time to help. And the dispatches had all come through Blackwell, whose sister had committed suicide, it was said, because Abramm hadn’t married her. And it was Blackwell who had made a point of telling him about Carissa, and also about a small raid on Trap’s land, so he’d learn what Rennalf had done and go up to face him. Pulling him and a sizeable number of his forces out of Springerlan.
He began to feel sick.
“I’ve got to get back home!” he said.
But even as he did, he feared he would be far too late.
CHAPTER
37
Maddie drew the thread tight on the line of stitching she’d just completed to close up the hole in the belly of Simon’s precious stuffed horse, then took a number of tiny backstitches to anchor it before tying it off. She cut the thread, then held the toy up for inspection. It looked considerably fatter than it had, more like a pregnant mare than the war stallion Simon had made of it. And she wasn’t sure she’d left enough of the buckram in it, for its belly still felt hard and clearly round if one pressed it. Of course, that would be the case regardless, and the point was not to have anyone feel it. The point was to have people ignore it or, in the worst case, cast it aside as a worthless child’s toy. Assuming they could get it away from Simon in the first place. . . .
Better not to think of that.
“Here’s Horsey, Simon,” she said. “Good as new.”
Her son, who sat on the carpeted floor of the king’s sitting chamber not far away, leaped up and came to her. But he took the stuffed horse doubtfully, his frown reminding her far too much of his father. “He looks fat, Mama.”
“He’s well fed, Simon. Ready for the long weeks of battle ahead of him.” Oh, Eidon, I hope that wasn’t prophetic.
Byron Blackwell stepped into the room from the antechamber, bringing with him a whiff of smoke, the smell pervasive throughout the palace these days. “Ah, madam. You’re here. Good.”
Simon was feeling his horse’s belly with a frown. “Mama, what kind of stuffing did you—”
“Shush, son.” She turned him gently away from her and faced him toward where Ian sat playing—contentedly for the moment—with Pansy’s ring of keys. “I used what I had. Be thankful he’s whole again, and go play with your brother.”
She stood and joined Byron by the windowed double doors looking out on the balcony and beyond. The big oak’s
new leaves looked dull in the flat light of the overcast sky, coated with the smoke and ash that had been in the air for days. Beyond it lay the city, a blackened char under a layer of smoke, the result of four days’ worth of warfare. The river reflected the sky as a dull gray band, devoid of its normal traffic, all but two of its nine bridges blasted into crumbling, gap-holed hulks, useless, or at the very least dangerous for crossing. Bits of flotsam floated on its sluggish current to collect in a wide, ash- and slime-coated dam of debris marking the line where river met the bay. Smoke and fog mingled over the bay and headland so that she could no longer see Graymeer’s, only the constant light of its guardstar. The harbor was emptier than it had been even during the time of the kraggin, all the merchants who were able having fled long since.
“Southdock has fallen,” Blackwell said quietly. “The Gadrielites will be able to bring all their forces to bear against the palace now. . . .”
She nodded and clamped down on the panic that wailed within her. “His sovereignty rules over all. . . .” she quoted silently. I have no need to fear. As bad as this looks, He will deliver us. He has promised. . . .
It had begun right before dawn, five hours after Abramm had departed Springerlan. Channon had been right to worry about all the Heartlanders that had poured into the city on the pretext of celebrating the crown prince’s birthday and the Spring Fair. As it turned out, many of them were members of the revived order of the Gadrielites—lay Mataians sanctified for the purpose of executing Eidon’s justice and driving evil from his domain. In addition, a sizable civilian contingent had come out to help, as well as the secret sympathizers who had been systematically put into various positions of authority around the city—magistrates, wardens of the gaol, shipyard authorities, wardens of the river—all of whom were instructed to open gates, release locks, and muster soldiers when called to do so.
In a single coordinated move, they had appeared at the doors of prominent and not so prominent Terstan citizens, bursting in to gather them up and bundle them into the closed coaches they had brought for that purpose. Those who fought back were slain on the spot, as were those regarded as especially dangerous on account of their skill in the Light. Thus it had been three hours before knowledge of what was happening had spread enough that anyone could escape.
A simultaneous attack was mounted on the palace, the aggressors wearing the uniform of the royal guard and claiming they’d been sent by Abramm to protect the queen. Trap had seen through their ruse and called the king’s personal guard to arms. A furious battle raged in the Fountain Court, the invaders pressing into the palace’s grand entry alcove before being slain or incapacitated. Meanwhile Byron had herded the royal family—Carissa, Maddie, and the two boys—along with their retainers, into the king’s apartments and set servants to unboarding the secret panel in the bedchamber wall in case they needed a bolthole.
They hadn’t. The palace and its immediate grounds had been secured and held for the last four days. Which was three days longer than they’d expected. All the courtiers and most of the servants had fled, at the queen’s insistence. Liza, two of Maddie’s ladies-in-waiting, and the princes’ nanny had refused to leave. As had Carissa’s Peri and the Coopers, Haldon, Jared, and two of the cook staff.
Word had gone out immediately to Abramm and to Briarcreek, by both pigeon and rider, and he should have returned by now with the troops he’d intended to lead to Sterlen.
“Still no word from Abramm?” she asked Blackwell, watching a flock of sea gulls wing toward the bay.
“None at all.” He paused, then added, “I believe you must think seriously about fleeing, ma’am.”
She frowned at the dead and broken tableau before them and drew a breath to steady herself against the wave of panic his words stimulated.
“I’ve arranged for a boat,” he went on. “If we can hold out until night, we can escape through the bolthole to the docks. From there, it would be a simple matter to row over to the eastern headland beyond their lines and come ashore. Duke Eltrap could meet us there with the horses. It doesn’t appear the navy has yet been compromised, so if we are pursued we might expect help from them, as well.”
“Or not,” Maddie said bitterly. “We have no idea what side they’re on.”
“Well, they haven’t started firing at the palace, and I think that’s what they’d do if the Mataians held them.”
Maddie flashed him a startled, horrified look. The moment he’d said it she knew it was true. The Mataians had no use and little love for Whitehill, or any of the rest of Springerlan, as was demonstrated by their having burned down half the city in four days. “Maybe I should just surrender.” They’d asked for her and the boys right at the start. Surrendering might stop the killing. Might save the palace from being destroyed.
“Absolutely not,” said Trap, coming up close behind them.
They turned to face him, Maddie noting automatically that Pansy and Simon had disappeared, leaving Esmeralda to sit with Ian. Which was why they’d had no notice of Trap’s arrival, since Simon made a most excellent herald when it came to his Uncle Trap. The duke looked more like the old captain now, however. Soot stained his plain clothes and smudged his freckled face. Dark half circles cradled his eyes, and his red beard had not been trimmed in days. He met Maddie’s gaze soberly.
“Do you have any idea what they’ll do with your firstborn?” he murmured, mindful of the boy’s sharp ears, keyed to his own name even from another room. “He’s only four, he doesn’t wear a shield . . . and he’s the heir to the throne. If they get their hands on him, he’ll be their claim to total legitimacy.”
“I heard they’ve got Gillard as their claim,” said Blackwell.
“Simon trumps Gillard for legitimacy,” Trap countered.
“But Gillard would be ready to go.”
Trap frowned at him. “And what do you think would happen to the boy if that is so? Gillard’s already tried to kill his father multiple times. It would be much easier to get rid of a little boy.”
“You can’t think he’d really murder a child,” said Maddie.
“I can and I do. Surrendering is not an option, ma’am.”
“So you think we must flee, as well.”
“Unless Abramm shows up soon, yes, ma’am. I do.”
“He would have been here by now if he were able. We all know that,” said Blackwell. “I think we must assume the worst and proceed without expectation of help.”
Maddie brought her chin up. “I have no intention of assuming the worst, Count Blackwell,” she said sharply.
“Of course not, ma’am.”
“But I will admit help does not look like it will come in time.”
“I expect they’ll attack once it’s dark. And they’ll have had all day to move their forces into position. We should move out by dusk, if not before.”
She frowned, not liking it but not knowing what else to do. She looked at Trap, who appeared no happier with the idea than she. He was concerned, she knew, with the danger and difficulty of moving a party with such a high number of dependents—and especially with Carissa, who could go into labor at any moment.
But he shook his head, defeated. “We don’t have enough men to hold them off much longer, ma’am,” he said. “With the numbers they’ll have freed up from Southdock, we’ll be hopelessly outnumbered. And the palace simply isn’t secure enough in such a situation.”
And so in the end they accepted Blackwell’s plan, with the modification that he would be the one to meet them with the horses on the headland, because Trap refused to leave the queen’s side. After informing the others of their intentions, they spent the afternoon preparing.
When all had been accomplished, Maddie found herself standing at the sitting-room window again, looking toward Graymeer’s and the guardstar’s steady light. She knew Graymeer’s had been under attack, too, for the Mataians regarded it as a great heresy that must be quenched. Still its defenders held out and gave her hope in a time when all her wors
t fears seemed to be becoming reality. It was a torment not to have heard from Abramm, and she was daily having more and more trouble believing he was still free and only working on some sort of rescue. But she could not bring herself to consider the possibility he had been killed. Her train of thought might lead her in that direction, but she always veered away before she got there. Even glimmers of such a notion filled her with a terror that sliced into her heart unbearably. She wanted to trust Eidon, to believe he would never be so cruel as to take her beloved from her after only five years of marriage.
But she could not get Kesrin’s message out of her mind. . . . “You are about to be cast into prison. . . . Whatever can be shaken in your life, he will shake. . . .”
It did no good to dwell on such things, of course, but the fear pressed upon her with a wearying weight, and she found it took all her will and concentration not to let it into her soul.
Ian began to cry inconsolably in the middle of the afternoon. Maddie was the only one who could quiet him at all, and even for her he was fussy. Again, it was as if he knew things were wrong, and she despaired of how they’d keep him quiet when they left. She hoped he’d settle down to sleep, but he was still screaming when Cooper stepped into the room and told her the men were about ready to go.
As Ian continued to cry, she carried him into the servants’ wait room, which had been turned into a temporary nursery by their refugee status.
“Stand there at the door, Pansy,” she instructed. “If anyone comes, I want you to walk out and shut the door behind you and tell them I am adjusting my small clothes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Once Pansy was at her post, Maddie opened the chest of the children’s clothes and bedding, shoved the top things back and drew out the stiff wiry form of the Robe of Light, which she’d taken from the House of Jewels the day Abramm had prepared to leave for the northland. He’d sent her for the scepter, and for some reason she’d been moved to take the other pieces, too— the robe, the orb, the crown, and the ring—in case he might decide to take them, as well. Only the sword she’d left, largely because it wouldn’t fit in her valise.