Echoes of Betrayal

  “Who’s best at tracking?” she asked the group.

  One hand went up, one of the Verrakai vassals. “M’lord, I can read sign.”

  “Did you see any indication that Daryan had veered off the track we were on?”

  “No, m’lord, but we was riding too fast. I can look now.”

  “We’ll start at this end,” Dorrin said. “Five of you—it’s not safe with fewer—and you nontrackers stay back, don’t confuse the marks. We need to find the trace of Daryan’s horse. Is there anything distinctive about it? You were on patrol with him.”

  “Hisn’s got bigger hooves, m’lord. And more width at the heel than any of ours. I know it well, m’lord.”

  “Do you think he’s captured?” the sergeant asked.

  “I don’t know,” Dorrin said. “It cannot be good, whatever it is.”

  They soon found where Daryan’s horse had left the trail; the tracks were easy enough to follow. In a short time, they saw light ahead, flickering light that glittered on the snow, and as they neared, they could see torches burning on stakes, forming a rough circle. The stumps of saplings showed where the stakes had been cut. In the center, bound to a larger sapling from which limbs had been cut, Daryan: alive. Light and shadow danced over his body, his face; it was hard to see how badly he was injured.

  Or if he had been invaded.

  One of the militia started forward. “Stop,” Dorrin said. “It is a trap.”

  “But the boy—”

  “We shall see.” In the light of the torches, she could not see into the trees beyond; the glade had been ringed by quick-growing firs, and now all she saw was a wall of darkness. Enemies could be—almost certainly were—hiding there, ready to shoot into the clearing. But she had to risk it. “Daryan,” she called. “Squire!”

  His head lifted. “D-don’t c-c-come!” he said. “T-trap!” His voice shook; he must be perishing with cold. “D-don’t.”

  “Can you tell us what?”

  “C-crossb-bows. In t-trees. All around.” A pause, then: “My lord.”

  “Back twenty paces and start looking,” Dorrin said to the troops. “They’ll be set with trip cords, like hunters’ traps.” It was easy to set up a crossbow to shoot that way. And it was proof the trap had been planned; they would have guessed another party would be using the trail to Harway. “The cords will be out there”—she gestured at the glade—“and run back to the individual trees, then up the trunks to whatever branch they tied the crossbow to. If we’re not careful, the arrows will kill Daryan; if we don’t find them all, they’ll kill one or more of us as well.” She could not feel any magery at work.

  “Daryan, where are you hurt?”

  “Th-they cut off—my-my thumbs.” A pause and then, “And … my—my heel-cords.”

  Rage and horror filled her, then grief. She had let this happen to the lad, and now he would be a cripple the rest of his life. If he lived. She wanted to run to the boy, but no one could outrun a crossbow bolt. He would have to wait—whatever additional harm that did him—until they could get to him without killing him or themselves.

  It seemed to take forever to clear all the trees—twelve bows in all they found, and she hoped that was all. Finally, she led the way across the snow, catching her feet twice on trip cords. They had brought the torches nearer; now she could see the little pool of blood at his feet and realized that only the rope binding him to the tree held him upright. His skin was cold as the night itself, but his eyes still had the spark of life. She leaned close, wrapping her cloak around, ready to catch him when those cutting the ropes behind the sapling freed him.

  “My lord, I was stupid.”

  “Hush, Daryan … I have no blame for you.”

  “I saw lights. I thought I should see if it was trouble—”

  “The man you saw before I sent you away was not a real courier,” Dorrin said. “The real courier is dead.”

  “If I had done what you told me—”

  “You might well have run into the same ones at the shelter—that’s where we found the body. How many were there?”

  “Three. Th-they—I think they—” He moaned as the others freed his arms, and his wounded hands fell forward. Dorrin put her arms around him, holding him upright as best she could as the others worked on the lower ropes.

  “You’re a brave man, Daryan Serrostin,” she said quietly. “Keep talking—it will help you stay awake, and right now we need you awake, even though it hurts.”

  “It wasn’t so bad after … after I got cold enough.” More of his weight came onto her. One of the others put his own cloak over Daryan’s back and helped support him as the last bonds yielded to daggers. “Th-they put snow …”

  They had wanted the boy to live until Dorrin and her party arrived, wanted him alive and in pain and frightened, and wanted his rescuers to see that they had killed him with their attempt at rescue. As if her relatives spoke directly to her, Dorrin could see their reasoning: the injury or death of a squire would discredit her, even if she was not killed herself, and would impede Tsaia’s defense.

  “I—I don’t know what—what I can do,” Daryan said. “My hands—”

  “You are a man of courage and ability,” Dorrin said. “You will find a way.”

  “But—but I can’t be your squire—”

  “We don’t know that yet,” Dorrin said. “Lie still now—we’re going to carry you to the shelter.”

  With poles quickly cut and blankets, they made a litter for him and before dawn had reached the shelter. Dorrin let her sergeant bandage his hands and ankles and forbore to say he was lucky not to have been gelded as well.

  “I tried to fight, but it was all a dazzle,” Daryan said, sipping the mug of sib she held for him. “Like the light you make, my lord, but flickering. I couldn’t move after a bit.” He winced at the bandaging. Dorrin would have given him numbweed, but he was still too cold, and she dared not.

  “My lord, what next?” That was the sergeant.

  What next indeed? The attack had changed everything again. Knowing there were more Verrakaien in the woods—that they knew she was away from the house—could she justify being away? Leaving the defenses to Beclan, the king’s cousin, inexperienced as he was? And yet to send a messenger back was to risk that messenger. Her magery had not detected her relatives … she could not detect them now. They could be anywhere, just out of sight or on their way to Verrakai Steading, but what they meant was clear—malice.

  For a few moments, Dorrin could hardly think. A youngster entrusted to her care crippled for life … two others isolated, vulnerable. More Verrakai killers on the loose somewhere. Had Gwenno even reached Harway? And Beclan, the king’s cousin—a logical target for the other Verrakai. Her duty to her king and her duty to her people … so closely balanced and calling for such different actions.

  Daryan himself decided her. “My lord, go on. I know what my father would say—you must care for the kingdom first.”

  Confusion settled into the familiar patterns of command. She had, indeed, no choice: the king had named her Constable, war-leader, for the kingdom. With invasion imminent, she must go on.

  “We’re not leaving you, Daryan,” she said. “You’ll come with us.” He looked a little better now; she knew his injuries, though crippling, were not life-threatening. Cold had stopped the bleeding.

  Next morning, the tracks of the earlier party, Gwenno and Arian and their escort, showed clearly. Daryan, clothed, insisted he could sit a horse; the steadiest rider in the militia rode double with him. Nothing untoward happened on the ride to Harway except that Daryan could not stay balanced at any gait faster than a strong walk. They reached Thornhedge Grange by midafternoon; it was empty but for the junior yeomen set there as a watch.

  “Marshal and them’s over along the river,” one of them said. “Royal Guard set them to guard there, case them Pargunese try to come over.”

  “Where’s a surgeon?” Dorrin asked. “My squire’s hurt.”

  T
he boys stared curiously at Daryan, at his bandaged hands.

  “There’s Master Llasstin, down Market Street,” one said. “But us Girdish, we ask t’Marshal. I know just where he’s stationed—want me to get ’im?”

  “Daryan?”

  “He’s—on—duty,” Daryan said. “Could I just—stop? Here?”

  “Help him down,” Dorrin said to her militia. “You lads—is there a litter in the grange?”

  “Yes … but it’s not but a few steps,” the boy said.

  “He can’t walk right now,” Dorrin said. “One of you, run ahead—find the Royal Guard commander and tell him I’m here. And one of you go tell the Marshal.”

  Daryan gasped as the Verrakai soldiers helped him off the horse and into a litter.

  “Daryan, I’ll send someone to bring the surgeon to you. I’m sorry, but I must go.”

  She met the commander of the local garrison in the main street, riding toward her. On the heart-shoulder of his rose-and-white tunic he had a knot of Clannaeth yellow and rose.

  “I’m Duke Verrakai,” Dorrin said. “Currently Constable—and you are?”

  “Sir Flanits Clannaeth,” he said. “Local Royal Guard commander. Didn’t you bring troops?” He looked past her. “Your squire—that girl—said you would.”

  “I brought all who were nearby,” Dorrin said. “Then we were attacked on the way. One of my other squires is hurt—he’s at the grange, and I left those troops with him. What’s the situation?”

  “I sent a courier for you—he should have told you—”

  “He’s dead,” Dorrin said. “Killed on the way; we found his body.” She told the rest as quickly as she could; his expression reflected her own shock and horror at Daryan’s maiming. “So tell me—what’s the situation?”

  “No Pargunese have come here, but they hit Lyonya hard. I hear tell Riverwash is gone—some kind of magical fire. We saw a glow from here,” Sir Flanits said.

  “The whole town’s burned?”

  “Aye. Something like white fire, hotter than any fire ever seen. We had Lyonyans fleeing to our border, of course; one of them claimed to see it, Riverwash vanishing in flames. Third night of the invasion, that was, same night your squire arrived and that Lyonyan woman with your squire went back over the border.”

  “Arian,” Dorrin said. Should she mention that Arian was a King’s Squire? No. “One of their forest rangers,” she said instead. “She told me of their rangers killing some renegade Verrakai that had come into their forest.”

  “Ah. I wondered what she was doing here.” Sir Flanits gave her a searching look. “Do you think you’ll ever catch them all?”

  “I hope so,” Dorrin said. “But the ones who hurt Daryan got away. Two, maybe three. The lad thinks he wounded one.”

  Sir Flanits nodded, then went on with his report. “I’d already sent word to the king, when we first heard of invasion. We put more guards at the border, and I asked the Marshal to send his yeomen to watch the riverbanks. There’s a Field of Falk here, too, and the Captain’s people have moved south, along the border.” He paused. “Ardli’s dead, then? The courier I sent?”

  “Yes. It must have been more of my damnable relatives who did it. And we—or you—have another problem. My other squire, the one who was to follow me with more troops, is Beclan Mahieran, the king’s cousin, second son of Duke Mahieran. Royal family and a natural target for those Verrakai who attacked Daryan Serrostin. You know I must remain here; I expect the king will send more troops this way, and other peers should be sending their levies. The king expects me to command them in case of invasion. You must take at least a tensquad of your troops—more would be better—and go to my steading, find Beclan.”

  “My lord!” Sir Flanits drew himself up, chest out. “I know the king sent word that you were to take over as field commander if anything happened … but he also said the Royal Guard remained under his command. You can’t order me—”

  “Your duty is to protect the royal family,” Dorrin said. “The king and his heirs; Beclan is close in succession. More, if he were taken over by one of the Verrakai, he would be a positive danger to the king—a trusted relative in appearance but within a deadly enemy. That must not happen. I can’t prevent it, having to stay here, but you can.”

  “But only the king gives me orders,” Sir Flanits said. “I am a Knight of the Bells; I am a count’s son—”

  And he was an idiot, Dorrin thought. Saying so would not help. “Sir,” she said, letting those decades of command stiffen her tone. A pause, then: “Your duty is to the king and his family. A member of his family, close in succession, is in deadly peril. I told you renegade Verrakai—traitors, under attainder—are loose in the forest.”

  “But they’re your—”

  “What do you think the king will say when Beclan Mahieran is killed, or captured and tortured, or worst of all invaded and made into an enemy, because you, sir, would not move one finger to help him?” She did not pause for another interruption. “Beclan is a brave lad, but he is not yet of age. He has no battlefield experience, nor have most of the household troops with him. He has no protection against magery.” She paused then, and when she saw a more thoughtful expression on the commander’s face, she went on more quietly. “I am not ordering you; I am reminding you of the king’s orders that you protect not only the king but his close relatives. From what you say, between the Girdish yeomen and my own troops, I can take over here in Harway, and you can take your troops to help Beclan.”

  “I was sent here to watch the border,” Sir Flanits said. “That was the king’s last command.”

  “I understand,” Dorrin said. “And your dispositions, so far, have been those I’d have made. But now that I’m here, your primary duty—”

  “Is directly to the king. Yes. But you have so few troops.”

  “I will have the yeomen from Briarhedge Grange and the soldiers of the local field as well,” Dorrin said.

  “You expect them to come under your command?”

  “Yes. And as you were told that I am Constable, so also were granges and fields, as well as other lords whose troops may be sent here.”

  This time he nodded. “Very well, then. I don’t know this boy. What’s he like?”

  “A handsome young man, like that whole family, but privilege had gone to his head. However, he has matured since Midsummer and I’ve found him energetic and quick to learn once he admits he doesn’t know everything. Did you see his brother Rothlin at court?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “Then you’ll recognize him. He’s much the same, just a few years younger and his hair is a shade or so lighter. Beardless. He’ll have the Mahieran colors on his shoulder, of course.” Now that he was listening and seemed more cooperative, Dorrin let her voice relax to a warmer tone. “If it were just leading some troops from the steading to Harway, I would not be so worried,” she said. “But with the attack on Daryan—knowing some Verrakaien are loose in my domain—that’s not something Beclan has the experience to handle. And my own people are in peril as well, especially the young children, but I know that’s not your duty.”

  “If we were at the house … is it defensible? Do you even know how many Verrakaien we might face?”

  “No. The former duke deliberately falsified the family rolls: I know his records are untrustworthy and have no way of knowing how many more Verrakaien might be at large. The house is not designed to be defended by force but by magery. The biggest danger is not recognizing the Verrakaien for what they are. At the house—if they’ve taken over other bodies—” Who could resist best? “If she’s alive, trust Farin Cook. She rules the kitchen and would be hard to invade. If Beclan’s not there when you arrive, then he’s still out in the southwest of my domain, trying to gather troops. My advice—not an order—would be to leave half your troops at the house, with orders not to trust visitors, and send half to find and guard Beclan. My steward, Grekkan, has maps; he can show you Beclan’s patrol route.” If Grekkan
had not been taken over. Dorrin pushed that thought away. “For now, I must find an inn.”

  “The mayor here, that’s Saldon Rennit, he said you could have the Council meet-house. It’s got tables and maps and things, he said. I can show you the way. And since I’m taking my troops away, you’re welcome to barracks space for your militia.”

  Once dismounted and inside the warm Council meet-house, Dorrin felt the fatigue of the past day and night weighing on her shoulders. Her eyes felt gritty; she wanted at least a few hours’ sleep, not a conference with civilians, but it could not be helped. She refused the offered mulled wine and accepted sib instead.

  Gwenno arrived, looking bright-eyed and excited. “The Guard commander said something happened to Daryan. Where is he? My lord,” she added a moment late.

  “At the grange,” Dorrin said. “He was ambushed and injured.” No sense in hiding it; Gwenno would find out soon enough. “They cut off his thumbs and cut his heel-strings.”

  Gwenno paled. “Holy Gird!”

  Before the girl could start asking the questions Dorrin knew were coming, she said, “Right now, Gwenno, I want you to go to the grange here. Find out if the Marshal has arrived, if he is able to heal Daryan, if the surgeon has come. Do not try to talk to Daryan even if he is conscious. Report back to me if I have not come to the grange by then.”

  “At once, my lord,” Gwenno said.

  Dorrin had just completed her first briefing to the mayor of Harway when Marshal Berris himself arrived with Gwenno, looking grim.

  “Marshal Berris,” she said. “How is my squire?”

  “Not dead yet,” he said. “Asleep. The surgeon and I are sure the wounds are cleaned, which is all we can do.”

  “In the Duke’s Company, we had a surgeon who once reattached a cut heel-string,” Dorrin said.

  “Perhaps he could, but Llasstin can’t. And his thumbs—nothing to be done there, either.” He shook his head. “This will do you no good, Duke Verrakai. A duke’s son, come to such grief in your service.”