Shadows Past: A Borderlands Novel Page 4

  However, Mayor Gawell and Master Ednoth did not go with Doyen Dyfrig to either the Royal City’s See or dungeons. They remained in Freston—at least, parts of them did. After one of the swiftest trials I’d ever witnessed, Jusson had their heads nailed over the Kings-gate that they committed so much fraud to build.

  Thadro gave the signal and we halted. One of the Cosdale doyens, in full vestments, stepped to the fore and opened the chest revealing the implements of blessing, and I settled myself down for another round of talking, this time in the form of prayers. The wind, still snapping our pennants and flags, gave a tentative tug on my braid, but I ignored it, keeping my attention on the doyen.

  “Lord Rabbit.”

  I turned from the makeshift altar to see a mountain masquerading as a man standing by my stirrup. Next to him was a slender boy. The boy glowed—pale blond hair, luminous gray eyes, delicate rose-tinted skin—which contrasted sharply with his rough trousers, boots, thick shirt, and heavy coat. A wide-brimmed hat on his head and a tasseled scarf wound around his neck completed his outfit and I blinked at the vision of beauty dressed for hard traveling.

  “I’m Flavio, me lord,” the man said, “and this is my brother, Bertram. Captain Suiden spoke with Mam about our Bertie joining the army.”

  “Mistress Inga is his mother?” I asked, startled. While I had no problem with the man-mountain claiming the innkeeper as his dam, I had a hard time imagining the fey creature by his side springing from the same stock.

  Flavio grinned. “Aye. He takes after Dad.”

  My eyes went back to Bertram, now trying to imagine Mistress Inga with a husband that looked like him. I bit my lip as I succeeded. “I see,” I said weakly.

  “Mam agreed to let Bertie go with you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Good. That’s great.” I shifted in my saddle and pointed back to the Mountain Patrol at the end of the column. “Captain Suiden is over there—”

  “No, me lord,” Flavio said. “She agreed to let him go with you.”

  My arm froze in midpoint. “What?”

  Flavio’s gaze drifted to the feather in my braid before going to the butterflies on my shoulders. “She said that if anyone could show Bertie how to get on in the army, it would be you.”

  “She did, did she?” I waited a beat, then frowned when I didn’t hear any snickering comments and I turned to find both Jeff’s and Arlis’ distant expressions had become ones of abject pleading—as had the Royal Guards’ beyond them. They had all eaten the inn’s cooking. Seeking guidance, I looked ahead at Thadro, but the lord commander’s attention was focused on the Cosdale doyen, who was in the middle of a prayer blessing portals and thresholds. I looked back at Bertie, and he glowed up at me, painful hope on his face.

  “I’m sure Prince Suiden would understand, Two Trees’son,” Wyln murmured while Laurel gave a rumble of agreement. Two more of the inn’s satisfied customers.

  Maybe I could work out something where Bertram would be permanently on loan to the Mountain Patrol. And then Suiden wouldn’t flay me—much—for taking his cook. “All right,” I sighed.

  Flavio grinned. “Thank you, me lord. Ye won’t regret it.” He signaled and the crowd opened up to let more hulking men through. One was carrying a huge trunk, another leading a sturdy mountain pony, and the rest were toting large baskets. Bertram scrambled up on the pony, his eyes shining with excitement.

  “The carts are over there,” I said, waving a hand. Though the baggage train had also left before daybreak along with most of the royal household, a few servants driving lightly loaded carts were traveling with us, just in case Jusson broke a bootlace while out on the road.

  The one carrying the trunk nodded and changed directions. Those with the baskets, though, continued towards us—and suddenly on the breeze wafted enticing smells. I forgot about unexpected cooks and annoyed captains, and inhaled. Deeply.

  “Something to tide you over until your next meal, me lord,” Flavio said. He didn’t wait for my response—which was just as well as I was too busy salivating—but went to his brother, towering over both boy and pony. “Now, you mind His Lordship, Bertie. Do what he tells you. Understand?”

  Bertram nodded, his face turning serious.

  “And remember what Mam said about strong drink and bad companions.”

  Bertram nodded again.

  “Change your smalls every day, make sure your bed-sheets are aired, always wear your hat outside in the sun—”

  I listened with half an ear to the litany of motherly advice as I was trying to see what was in the baskets. My hands were occupied with staff and shield, but others’ were relatively unencumbered; Jeff, Arlis, and Laurel each took one, as did some of the Own. Even Wyln had a basket. He opened it and I inhaled again.

  “Lieutenant.”

  My gaze snapped up to meet the lord commander’s. He’d turned around in his saddle, his eyes frosty. But before he could say anything more, the crowd gave a fullthroated roar and I looked beyond him to see workmen carrying off the rest of the bricks. The Cosdale doyen walked over the now fully opened gateway and lifted up a chalice of wine. Still praying, he poured the wine over the gate’s threshold.

  “Very civilized,” Wyln said. He’d stopped inspecting the basket’s contents to watch the ceremony at the gate. “We use blood.” He caught my horrified look and added soothingly, “Consecrated animals or condemned criminals, Two Trees’son. Usually. Though in troubled times, sometimes a prince of the realm is chosen—”

  Right. I raised my gaze to Thadro, but the lord commander had turned again and was facing forward. Apparently the wine was our exit cue, for the banner men started forward and the rest of us followed. The trumpets once more sounded, the people started to shout and cheer, and from the town square the church bells began to ring. Still praying, the Cosdale doyen dipped a sprig of hyssop into a bowl of blessed water and splashed us as we passed by him.

  “Bye, Bertie,” Flavio shouted over the clamor. “Me lord. Godspeed.”

  I blinked back at the mountain, then down at Bertie, trotting beside me on his pony, his face glowing as if he were going on the adventure of a lifetime. I bit back an oath. In the careful ranking of the column, I’d just allowed an innkeeper’s son to ride in front of the king’s royal guard, several lords of the realm, and two troop units, one led by a prince. Add to it that same prince’s reaction when he found out his cook was given into my care and I figured that the journey was going to be filled with all sorts of excitement.

  “And so it begins,” Laurel said, his ears pushed forward, his face lifted up to the rising sun.

  “So it does,” Wyln said, his face also lifted, his eyes once more pensive. “I wonder what this beginning will bring us?”

  I remained silent, thinking that while I didn’t know about beginnings, a part of my life had just ended. We were out the Eastgate and were moving down the King’s Road, leaving Freston and the clamor of our leave-taking behind us. I looked about. I’d never seen the road from this vantage, as the gate had been closed the entire time I’d been posted at the garrison. I turned to look back at the town that had been my home and refuge for over five years. It too seemed strange from the new perspective; ephemeral in the rising sun, as if it all would vanish like some half-remembered dream in the morning light. The road curved and I could see that the last of the aristos and their armsmen had exited and the King’s Road patrol was now moving out from under the shadow of the gate. Only Captain Suiden and the Mountain Patrol were left, and by the increasingly distant sounds, it seemed that the townsfolk were cheering them as loudly as they’d cheered the king. I started to face forward again but my eye caught something and I looked down. We’d ridden through the Cosdale doyen’s offering of wine, tracking it out onto the road. I could see hoof and Laurel’s paw prints with the blessed wine glistening dark red against the dirt. It looked an awful lot like blood.

  Four

  Mearden was on the kingdom’s western coast where the Artole River flowed into t
he sea. Measuring the distance on Jusson’s maps, I’d figured that, between the royal baggage train and a column that stretched from here to eternity, it would take us over three weeks to reach it. I was wrong. It took us a fortnight. Jusson, proving that he had a constitution and backside made of steel, started our journey each day just after daybreak, setting a ground-eating pace with only one short pause for midday meal, and continuing until just before sunset when we’d stop for the night. It was as hard a slog as any I’d done patrolling the mountains above Freston, and each night I fell into my cot and lay unmoving until I was rousted by wake-up the following morning.

  The first day, we had crested the mountain pass out of Freston’s valley and were well into our descent towards Cosdale when, as the long shadows threatened to turn to dusk, Thadro finally signaled and we turned off the road to a large clearing in the mountain’s forest. There we were met by the king’s majordomo Cais and his legion of servants, and there I learned the difference between being a soldier in His Majesty’s Royal Army versus riding with His Majesty himself. Instead of the usual bivouac with the troopers doing the bivouacking, we rode into a camp already set up with tents pitched in neat rows, cook fires burning, latrine ditches dug. And in the middle of it all stood the royal pavilion, brightly lit inside and out, pennants flying from its roof in the evening breeze. The standard bearers at the head of our column immediately dismounted and, going to the king’s tent, planted the king’s colors in front, just in case there was any doubt whose it was. Jusson and Thadro, also dismounting, followed close behind them and disappeared inside the tent’s flaps.

  They weren’t the only ones who broke away from the column. Bertram, his pony having matched our war-horses step for step along the steep and winding road, slid down from his saddle and hurried over to where Jusson’s head cook was simultaneously overseeing his minions stirring cook pots and tending something a roasting on a spit. By the light of the fire, I could see Cook step aside, his face respectful. Someone else who’d eaten at the inn.

  Neither Jusson nor Suiden had said anything about Bertram and his pony when we stopped at noon to eat. (Both did appropriate a food basket.) I figured that Thadro had told Jusson, for the king showed no surprise at the boy’s presence. Still, even with Jusson and Suiden’s seeming calm acceptance of Bertram’s unexpected attachment to me, I figured it was probably wise to play least in sight for a while, and I dismounted some distance away from the cook fires and their light. Before I could take a step, though, a miniature mob made up of Mountain and King’s Road patrollers emerged out of the falling gloom—the soldiers who’d been assigned to the royal baggage guard detail. One moved to the fore; it was Ryson. Even in the deepening shadows, I could see lines of strain carving his face.

  “Rabbit,” Ryson said, his voice urgent. He waved at the others. “Tell them I didn’t know. Tell them I didn’t know that Slevoic had survived.”

  One of Suiden’s Mountain Patrollers, Ryson was a decent soldier in battle. Off the battlefield he was a disaster. He was infamous, in a garrison full of infamy, for spying and bearing tales, for avoiding soap and water, and for having less sense than a defective sheep. He had also been one of Slevoic’s toadies and last spring he found himself facing charges of conspiracy and treason when the Vicious’ plots had been uncovered. Fortunately for Ryson, it was more politically expedient for Jusson to slap him on the wrist and return him to Captain Suiden than it was to turn him into an extremely painful example. It also helped that no one believed Slevoic had actually told him anything of importance. Then, a lot of folks—including my personal guard Arlis—claimed that the Vicious kept his treasonous schemes close.

  Though sheep-biting stupid, Ryson realized how close he’d come to court-martial and the gibbet, and even before we’d returned to Freston he had been busy proving that a weasel could change his ways. (There were rumors of his having actually bathed. In water. With soap.) When I fought Magus Kareste and Slevoic in His Grace Loran’s enchanted forest, Ryson had chased his former mentor-for-bad as Slevoic tried to escape through the trees (not a wise move as the Vicious, a budding fire mage, had set fire to them earlier). Now, several months later, as I stood in another tree-ringed clearing and looked into Ryson’s anxious face, I clearly remembered Slevoic’s long, drawn-out scream—and the blood on the Vicious’ dragon-skin hauberk that Ryson had brought back. Both could’ve been easily faked, true, but I also remembered the twisting scar that ran from Slevoic’s eye to mouth when I last saw him through the cloudy mirror in the sorcerer’s lair.

  I shifted my gaze to the group of people behind Ryson. It had grown and now included royal guards, aristos’ armsmen, and even some of the king’s servants and groomers. “He didn’t know, lads,” I said.

  “He looked dead,” Ryson said. “He was sprawled on the ground with blood everywhere. And the trees—” He wetted his lips. “Maybe I should’ve checked closer, but I didn’t think it a good idea to hang about.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I agreed. Confronted with the forest’s rage, Wyln, His Grace Loran, and even Laurel refused to venture into it until things calmed down. I glanced around for the fire enchanter and the mountain cat, but they had disappeared into the controlled chaos of the still arriving column. I faced again the listening mob. “The Vicious managed to fool everybody, but he didn’t get away unmarked.” I measured the distance from eye to mouth with my fingers. “His pretty looks are spoiled; he has a scar from here to here.”

  “Something to match his personality,” one of the troopers quipped, and a couple snickered. The rest of the patrollers, though, looked troubled and even the royal guard and some of the armsmen appeared uneasy. Slevoic alive, even if scarred, was much more worrisome than Slevoic dead. However, Arlis showed no expression at all and Jeff seemed more interested in what was happening with Cook and Bertram.

  “See, even Rabbit says I didn’t know,” Ryson said. “I did not help Slevoic fake his death. I did not help him escape. And I’m not in contact with him now—” He suddenly stopped, his gaze tracking something—or someone—behind me. Then he too became very interested in the simmering pots. “Oh, look. Food’s almost ready.” He started towards the cook fires, nonchalance writ large in each step. “Since we’ve an early start tomorrow, maybe they’ll let us eat now.”

  The others, seeing what Ryson saw, were already melting away, some ambling towards the cook fires, others simply fading into the falling night. The back of my neck tingling, I turned to see Suiden, Javes, and Groskin ride by, their eyes gleaming dragon green, wolf yellow, and panther gold in the twilight as they watched the rapidly disappearing crowd. They then switched their unwinking stare to me. I held my breath, waiting, but they didn’t stop. Letting out a long sigh, I started towards the pickets, hoping that by the time I got there, the captains and lieutenant would be gone.

  “You never said anything about Slevoic’s scar,” Jeff said.

  I glanced at Jeff, surprised that he had actually spoken to me, without my saying anything first. I then realized what he said. “I did too tell you—”

  “No,” Jeff said. “You did not. Sir.”

  Scowling at Jeff, I caught Arlis’ expression. Instead of the frown he’d been giving me and the world, he looked troubled. “You didn’t, Rabbit,” he said.

  I paused. Maybe I hadn’t said anything about Slevoic’s scarring. Then I hadn’t been particularly chatty about much of anything. And, just like with the king, I had no desire to start now. I shrugged at Jeff. “I guess I thought the condition of the Vicious’ face wasn’t all that important.”

  “I guess not,” Jeff said, and turning smartly, walked off. Arlis hesitated a moment, then with an unreadable glance at Jeff, headed back to the cook pots, leaving me alone with my horse. With another shrug, I continued to the pickets before returning to where folks were lining up for dinner.

  Later, full and damn pleased about it, I slipped from the dwindling cook fires and found my own way to my tent. Pausing only to undress, I crawled into my c
ot and quickly fell asleep, not stirring until the dark of early morning when I awoke to the rumble of the baggage train leaving for our next campsite. I lay there, drowsily watching the shadows cast upon my tent walls by the lanterns hanging from the departing carts, when I became aware of an unfamiliar sound. Abruptly wide-awake, I rose up on my elbow and, ignoring the stirring butterflies, I scanned the tent, picking out the unalarming shapes of Jeff, Arlis, and Laurel. But there, at the foot of my cot—Unable to see, I reluctantly formed a small fire sphere, casting it aloft to dimly illuminate the tent. It was Bertram. He had somehow squeezed a pallet into the tent and now lay on it, wrapped in a welter of thick blankets. The flames shone on his pale blond hair and gently flushed skin, his light breathing a counterpoint to Arlis’ deeper breaths and Jeff’s and Laurel’s snoring. Letting the sphere wink out, I lay down once more and allowed myself to be lulled back to sleep by the sounds of their slumber. I did not surface again until the clarion call of wake-up, pushing back my blankets with a sigh of relief that for another night my dreams had remained ordinary and even a little dull.

  Five

  “So that’s Mearden,” Wyln said. “Impressive.” Having just rounded a bend in the road, Jusson, with a fine sense of the dramatic, paused the column. The day was cold and blustery and the butterflies and I huddled into my cloak as gray clouds scudded against the sky, pushed by winds that mixed the smell of the fall rains following us out of the north with the chill salty tang of the sea as I gazed at our journey’s end.

  The Marcher Lords’ keeps and fortified manors dotted the northern marches; grim fortresses of dark stone that were built to repel attackers and withstand sieges. Mearden’s castle was also built to withstand attack, but it was made of light, near rose-colored granite that glowed in the intermittent sunshine. Majestic towers soared over the enclosing crenellated wall, and even from our distant vantage point, I could trace the intricate masonry that reminded me of the delicate beauty of elf design. Seated on a tor that overlooked the Artole River on its northern side and the sea to the west, the castle also gazed down on now harvested fields and orchards to the south and east, while a dense forest encircled the base of the rise before flowing northwest, straddling both sides of the river. The trees stopped before the Artole flowed into the sea, giving us a glimpse of Mearden’s busy port, the masts of the oceangoing ships bristling against the backdrop of shimmering water.