How long does he walk, towards that hidden place where he left his horse tethered, before he realizes that footsteps are shadowing his own? He stiffens, not unlike deer when a hunter approaches. Then for a moment he pauses in his walking, reaching for one of the leather straps of his pack as though he would adjust its weight on his shoulder. There are no footsteps when he stops to listen. Of course, for they ceased walking when his own did. But he can sense the people who are behind him by the odors they exude, and he can hear their shallow breathing. The fools probably think they are being silent, Andovan muses. But he is used to stalking game far more stealthy than any human can possibly be, and his nose is as finely tuned as a wolf’s. By animal standards they are making enough noise to scare off a deer at thirty paces, and even a wolf with a headcold could not miss that reek.
He starts walking again, listening now for the false echo of matching footsteps behind him. Yes, there is no mistaking it. Slowly, carefully, he brings his right hand forward, to the hilt of the hunting knife he always wears at his belt. They will wait for him to get to the edge of town, he guesses, where they are unlikely to have witnesses to whatever it is they are planning to do. Such is the way of cowards and thieves. His horse is sheltered in the woods just beyond; he had approached the town on foot. Do they know he has a mount? Will they wait until he reaches it before making their move?
Briefly he wonders if Colivar might have betrayed him, getting him away from the castle so that he might be assassinated without consequence. But no, that makes little sense. Andovan has done nothing to offend the southern Magister, and besides, it would have been just as easy for Colivar to kill him that night at the castle, after they had made arrangements to fake his death, as now. Why wait? And use such crude human tools, when sorcery could do the trick in perfect silence?
Besides, Colivar wants something from him. That much is patently obvious. Ostensibly it has something to do with the woman that is killing Andovan—that much he told the prince—but Andovan is willing to bet there is much more to the story than he is being told. Magisters never confide their true purpose to morati, every prince worth his salt knows that for a fact. And as for anyone else being behind this . . . in theory they all think he is dead now. So no one is going to send out assassins after him. Least of all sloppy, smelly assassins.
He walks slowly down the muddy road, his senses alert for every clue they can pick up. He estimates that his trackers are maybe ten feet behind him, no more. If he turns quickly and steps forward he’ll be upon them before they know it. Boars do that sometimes when you hunt them, and they are deadly adversaries for it. One almost gored him when he was younger, teaching him that lesson.
He begins to turn, grasping the bone handle of his knife tightly—
—and suddenly a wave of sickness comes over him. It is like the attacks he has had before but also unlike them. This attack is a hundred times more powerful than those paltry weaknesses, and it turns his legs to jelly beneath him without warning. For a moment the whole world swims before his eyes like a dream gone mad, and it seems he lacks even the strength to breathe. He falls forward onto his hands and knees, dropping the knife in the mud as he does so. Not now, not now! What is happening? The worst of his attacks have never been like this before. Not here! He can hear footsteps coming toward him, swiftly now, and he struggles to reach out for his knife, but his hand is like a dead thing that has neither feeling nor strength and it will not obey him. It is as if all the vital tissue has been sucked out of his flesh, leaving him trapped inside a shell with no sinew inside. I refuse to give in to this! Other times he had been sick sheer determination won the day, for his strength of will is no small thing, but this time the weakness is so terrible he cannot manage the slightest triumph over it. The arms and legs that are holding him up begin to fold, even as his vision begins to blacken. Figures move in from the surrounding shadows but he can no longer see them. For the first time in many, many years he is truly afraid.
I am going to die, he despairs. Not upon the horns of my prey or by the teeth of an angry predator, as it should be, but upon the blades of cowards while I lie sick and helpless before them.
How has he ever offended the gods so terribly, that they would do this to him? He tries to voice a howl of indignation but no sound comes from his throat. He senses something being swung at his head but he cannot dodge it . . . and then the night explodes in a veil of stars and the last of his consciousness pours out of him like hot blood, leaving him at the mercy of the predators. . . .
For a long time after the flow of memories ceased he lay still, trying to absorb it all. Though he was not generally the kind of man who gave way to fear, this was a different manner of beast than a wild boar, or even a maddened lion. This . . . this disease did not care if he was brave or not, it was not affected by plans or preparations, and it struck from the shadows when he was least prepared for it. This time he was lucky he was not dead. A well-equipped traveler lying helpless along the roadside was an open invitation to theft and assault, or even slavery if the wrong person came along. He was clearly alive, there were no chains upon him, and someone had tended to his wounds, so the worst had not happened . . . but he might not be so lucky next time.
If the disease had progressed to the point where it would take him thus, without warning, perhaps this journey was indeed more than he could handle.
His mouth tightened at the thought; the bandaged spot on his head throbbed painfully. No.
Friends sometimes joked with him that he was not Danton’s son in truth. He lacked his father’s coloring, his harsh features, his casual brutality, and nearly all the other qualities that were generally considered trademarks of Danton’s lineage. He understood the jokes that were made about that and smiled and laughed along with his cohorts. But there was one area in which Andovan was truly his father’s son, and that was his stubbornness.
He had gone out into the world with no royal name, no family ties, limited supplies, and no real sense of how his quest was to begin, just the stubborn determination to seek out the person who had caused his weakness, and an unnamed and untested spell that would allegedly help him find his way. He was doing that despite a weakness that sapped his very strength and left him, occasionally, as helpless as a babe. Nothing in that picture had changed now. Any idiot knew that the symptoms of the Wasting grew more and more pronounced as the end drew near. He’d never heard of anyone losing consciousness from it like he did, but it was not beyond imagination’s reach. Very well. If that was the newest symptom, then he would deal with it. But he was Danton’s son, and he would not abandon his quest simply because of an illness of the flesh. No matter how debilitating that illness was.
“You are awake?”
It was a female voice that spoke, gentle and perhaps a bit hesitant. He tried to raise himself up on his elbows to see its owner, and came near to managing the task. As he looked about he could see the room he was in more clearly. It was a small room lined in split logs, and patched with handfuls of mud and straw, inexpertly applied. He lay on one of many straw pallets near a cold fireplace; four others were currently unoccupied. Through a small window on one side daylight sent teasing streamers that trapped the room’s dust in glimmering rays, allowing him to see a few primitive tools hanging on iron hooks, a pile of dingy blankets, old pottery jars by the fireplace that once must have been gaily painted, now relegated to a cruder life. The whole of the place was dismally poor, but it was clean, and the rushes covering the floor smelled fresh. That spoke well for someone.
Then he saw the girl. She was young, not quite a woman yet, but with a prettiness that promised to become more than prettiness as she matured. Her clothes were patched many times over but clean, and her hair had been brushed till it shone. That was rare in any peasant’s home.
Blue eyes. She had blue eyes. They reminded him strangely of his mother’s. Was there northern blood in her?
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He managed to nod without hi
s head splitting in two, which was a small miracle. Then he managed to smile slightly, an even bigger one. “As opposed to the alternative of being dead, yes, I suppose I feel well.”
“My brothers didn’t think you would live.”
“The gods were merciful, then . . . and perhaps, my nurse skilled.”
She blushed, which confirmed his guess.
Little do they know who or what they saved, he mused.
He managed to sit up. She helped him halfway though, so he was not yet sure he could manage it alone, but even that qualified triumph over weakness and pain bolstered his spirits considerably.
“What is your name, lass?”
Maybe it was something in his tone that made her lower her eyes briefly, as if she sensed the rank he had been born to. Or maybe . . . maybe it was maidenly modesty. She was still young enough for that to be the case, though among the poor such a state rarely lasted. Pretty young virgins were worth too much coin on the open market to be kept away from it for long.
“Dea, sir.”
“Dea.” He smiled, though it hurt his face. “Please don’t call me sir.” Her deferential manner concerned him. Was it so obvious he was not a townsman? That was something to address when he took to the road again. Maybe it would keep him from getting robbed and nearly killed a second time if he could pass for a peasant more successfully. “My name is—” He hesitated, trying to remember back past the pain to the one he had chosen. “Talesin.”
“Talesin.” She smiled. My, she would be a beautiful one when she filled out, if the world did not beat her down first, and crush the natural innocence which gave her smile such charm. Which it probably would.
With a sigh he tried to rise to his feet, and to his surprise, managed it. Evidently his body had resigned itself to living and decided to cooperate with him at last. “Where are your brothers? I assume they rescued me?”
“I found you. They brought you here. They said . . .” She hesitated. “They said that you were well-born, by the look of you, and that maybe there would be a reward to be had, if you survived.”
There would be if they knew who to tell about it, he thought wryly.
“My hands are calloused,” he pointed out, showing her where a lifetime of riding and hunting had left its mark. “Is that well-born?”
“Your fingernails are clean,” she pointed out, showing him. “And trimmed to the shape of fine crescent moons, not worn down by labor.”
He chuckled. “So they are.”
And so I shall have to learn to chew my nails. Though if I had done so before this, I would have been left for dead by my mercenary benefactors. A curious irony, that.
“Tell me of what you know,” he said. And, “tell me how long it has been.”
“I found you last night, as I left the town. You were lying facedown by the side of the road, where carriage wheels might strike you. Your face was covered in blood and your clothes . . .” She blushed ever so slightly and looked down. “Your clothes were half removed, as though someone had searched through them.”
No doubt looking for treasures to steal, he thought. He was lucky his attackers had not needed a new wardrobe. “Go on.”
“I went and got Viktor, my brother, who brought the others. They brought you back here, and fetched supplies for nursing. They thought you were going to die, but I . . . I could see the strength in you.”
“So it has been only one night?”
She nodded.
He felt about his person, feeling for all the various things which had once been stored on his body. All of it was gone, of course. Anything the thieves did not take his benefactors would have.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“If I am standing and talking, I am well enough.” Actually the standing part was a bit hard, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Whatever trail remains is growing cold.”
“Trail?” She blinked. “You mean you are going after them?”
“It seems the thing to do, does it not?”
“But your injuries . . . you need to rest. . . .”
He shook his head. “I can go after them now and take my chances, or take time to heal and lose any hope of finding them. After all,” he said, meeting her eyes and smiling, “I can hardly reward you and your brothers if all my coin is gone, can I?”
He reached up to feel the bandages again, and then, with a wince, peeled them from the wound. The flesh beneath was crusted with dried blood, but it felt sound enough. The pain was now reduced to a hot throbbing that blazed behind his left eye. He had survived worse.
He looked about the stark room, searching for tools that might serve his purpose. At last he saw a length of hemp rope coiled in one corner, which he gathered up. Then he went to the fireplace, where he removed the long iron bar from which a stew kettle depended, setting the kettle aside.
“I will need to borrow these, is that all right?”
Eyes wide, she nodded.
“Come then,” he said. “Take me to where you found me.”
There were no clues at the site. Of course. A muddy road leading to the only inn within miles must be so scarred from wagon wheels, horseshoes, and passing boots he would have been hard pressed to pick out a single human footprint, much less know which one mattered to him. He settled for checking the surrounding brush for any items of his possession that might have been left behind. He had hoped they might have missed his knife, but apparently not.
He sent the girl away, then. He did not want to put her at risk.
A short distance from the road he found his encampment, surrounded by dense enough brush that he had hoped his attackers would not realize it was there. No such luck. His horse was gone, along with his saddle packs and all the supplies they held. Fortunately he always hid his most valuable possessions when leaving a camp unguarded, and a brief foray into the surrounding woods showed him that his hiding place had gone undiscovered. At least he had some coin now, though he would have traded all of it for a good knife. The next time he would have to hide one with his valuables, in case of a repeat of this dismal experience.
Are you sure you want to hunt them? he asked himself. They are many, you are one. They will be armed, you have only household implements. They will be well-rested and healthy, while you—
A muscle along his jaw clenched tight. It was an expression eerily like Danton’s. He felt like Danton in that moment—stubborn, cold, determined. His father’s strength flowed through him . . . and his mother’s.
You are a hunter, he told himself. One whose prey does not expect him to strike. There is power in that.
It was surprisingly easy to pick up the trail starting from his encampment. They had led his mount away on foot—probably arguing over who would get to ride him—and that had left sharp crescent marks scored in the damp earth, a perfect marker. The hoofprints led away from the small town, which told Andovan that his attackers had not been locals, but rather itinerant scum who preyed upon legitimate travelers and then moved on. Good. He followed their trail moving quickly, quietly, straining his senses to the utmost. Shortly he found a mound of horse droppings that he judged to be at least half a day old, which told him that it had been some time since his attackers had passed this way; but night had been approaching when he was attacked, and with luck they had made camp not far from here and were only just stirring now.
Silently, silently he moved, a ghost among the trees, his passage as soundless as an owl’s flight. All those skills that allowed him to sneak up on a hunter’s prey were now doubly valued, being turned against men. As it should be. They had the advantage of numbers, weapons, and condition. He must have the advantage of surprise.
It was possible that his head still hurt, but he was too wrapped up in the hunt now to notice it. It had been like that the day a boar had gored his side as well; his mother had raised bloody hell over it, but he hadn’t even noticed the blood streaming from his flesh until his quarry was brought down.
Soon he caught the scent of a stale c
ampfire on the wind, and he knew he had found his quarry. He circled wide around the area to where the breeze favored him, and let the scent guide him while he scanned the early morning woods for the sort of terrain that would favor a thieves’ encampment. They had left him for dead and probably did not expect pursuit on his behalf; nonetheless they would have taken basic precautions and tried to place their campsite where passing travelers would not notice it. They would probably set someone on watch while they slept as well, and though it was dubious they would keep that up once they were awake, he watched closely for signs of a lookout.
At last he saw the sort of place he himself would have chosen for a blind, a gap in the trees where sunlight had encouraged a thickening of underbrush, which in turn provided a dense screen some ten yards wide, obscuring what lay beyond. He crouched behind a tree trunk and just watched the camp for a while, alert for any sign of human activity. It seemed now that he could hear voices from just beyond it, intermittent, the kind of sounds one made when doing something other than talking. He could pick up the scent of dying smoke, now, and human scents as well. After a moment longer, seeing there was no movement in the blind—guessing that such men would not be disciplined enough to remain perfectly still on watch as soldiers might—he crept forward carefully, placing each foot so that he made no rustling noise, broke no twigs, gave no warning.