Hunted (Book 3) (5 page)

Chertanne spent his time near Padra Athan, the two frequently leaning close, heads together in some private counsel. From time to time her husband would look over his shoulder to throw her an odd, pained look. While her mother would not reveal the details of her conversation with Athan outside the building near Elde Luri Mora, the Padra was obviously deeply offended or troubled by what she said. For her part, Mirelle remained as poised and calm as ever.

As the Chalaine did twenty times a day, she slipped her hand inside her cloak and into the pocket where she kept Gen’s
animon
, the stone the Millim Eri had given her. Its warmth provided comforting testimony that her Protector still lived. Her mother had disclosed to her earlier that day that she thought Gen had very likely escaped, though she would not give her reasons for this hope.

Beside her rode Fenna, face cast in an unrelenting scowl. Geoff rode behind his wife as if dragged by a chain, the feather that had once seemed so indomitable now drooping unceremoniously off to the side. Fenna wouldn’t look at him, speak to him, or acknowledge the many little kindnesses he extended to her during the day. Of all the caravan, Geoff was the only person the Chalaine pitied more than herself.

While she knew she should think more kindly of Fenna, the Chalaine wanted to slap her every time she bemoaned her forced marriage to Geoff. Geoff doted on her, and before their wedding Fenna had preferred the bard’s company over any other, including Gen’s, though she would never admit to it. The Chalaine considered her former handmaiden’s treatment of Geoff as undeservedly punitive and hoped Fenna would mend her ways before the bard went mad.

The Chalaine sighed, ducking a low branch as they wound through the thick trunks of tall trees. The forest floor was clear of detritus and rolled gently around small rills. The leaves had just started to turn, edges hinting at yellows and reds to come. The thick canopy of high branches admitted spotty light to pepper the ground, and the Chalaine judged the place pleasant enough, though the gloom in her heart stripped her of any enjoyment of the scene.

Maewen, who ran as often as she rode, strode to her side. “How is your wrist, Lady Khairn?” she asked.

“Please call me Chalaine, if you will. The wrist is quite fine. I hardly feel it anymore.”

“I am surprised,” Maewen returned. “It should have taken far longer to heal. Perhaps I misjudged the damage done.”

“Perhaps. At least it is one piece of good fortune.” While the quick healing of her wound was unexpected, the Chalaine also felt unusually fit. While those around her groaned or slumped with weariness, she awoke each day stronger and more alert than the one before.

“Maewen?” the Chalaine asked, noticing the half-elf preparing to run ahead.

“Yes, Chalaine?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Have you ever heard of someone named Samian?”

Maewen’s head snapped around, eyes wide.

“Yes. Where have you heard this name?”

“Since I’ve worn the stone necklaces Gen had you give me, I see this man every night. He is in some magnificent Cathedral. Gen taught me enough of the old tongue that I know that he is speaking it. But besides exchanging names, we have understood little of each other. It is strange. It is a dream, but it is far too lucid and real to be just something from my own head. What do you know of him?”

Maewen turned her head away, but the Chalaine thought she caught some tender emotion on her face before the half-elf could hide it. “He was a human leader during the First Mikkikian War. He lived among the elves, took one to wife, and had a child by her.”

“Here, let’s try something,” the Chalaine suggested, removing the necklaces. “Wear them tonight and see if he comes to you when you sleep. Maybe you can figure out what he is saying. He seems quite urgent about something, and I think he’s even said your name a couple of times.”

The Chalaine expected protest to her offer but got none, Maewen grabbing the stones and donning them immediately. “Thank you, Chalaine. I will see what I can make of it.”

Maewen loped off to the front of the party as a hill steeper than most rose before them. The half-elf led them to the east of it along a small creek that proceeded from a still forest pool. As they stopped to water the horses, the Chalaine noticed Athan saying something to Chertanne, who looked at her and then rode to her side. She exhaled roughly. Since leaving Elde Luri Mora the Chalaine had counted herself blessed for never finding herself in her husband’s company.

“Lady Khairn,” he greeted her nervously. The Chalaine wondered if he had ever had a meaningful conversation with a woman in his life.

“Lord Khairn,” she returned politely.

“What were you and Maewen speaking about earlier?”

“Nothing of consequence. She was just checking on the condition of my wrist.”

“Oh.” He patted his horse and looked around.

This is the part where you ask me about my wrist, too, you dolt,
she thought.

He raised his head and regarded her briefly.
“
I shall have the horse put down for throwing you once we return. So, how were you brought up?”

The Chalaine almost laughed at the ham-handed question—Athan at work. “Well, I lived mostly confined in my Chambers. I was tutored in reading and history by the best available scholars, and every day I was asked to recite the prophecy and listen as a wide variety of Churchmen outlined my duty to remind me of the frightful consequences that must occur as a result of any deviation from an absolutely moral life. I only left the Chambers or the castle complex to heal people in the city. And you? I imagine your lifestyle and instruction were quite different from mine.”

Chertanne nodded. “At first they confined me to Ironkeep, but when I grew older, the Churchmen, scholars, and Warlords had a weeklong debate about whether I should be allowed out more often. The Churchmen wanted to keep me safe, the Warlords wanted me visible, and the scholars were divided. I was so tired of being cooped up by that time that I informed them I would leave when I pleased, and the argument ended.

“The Churchmen tried to force me to recite the prophecy every day, as well, but I refused one day. The Prelate, Coriander, I believe, was so angry with me. Oh, at first he tried gentle entreaties to get me to recite it, then humor, and finally a stern lecture. When I still refused, he grew enraged and started yelling at me and threatening me with all manner of ridiculous punishments. After I had him killed for his disrespect, the Church seemed more willing to let me set my own direction.”

“How old were you then?” the Chalaine pressed, horrified.

“Thirteen.”

“And at thirteen they let you dispense with such justice?”

“Yes. All my tutors felt I should learn to act independently as soon as possible.”

“And how old were you when you took your first concubine?”

“Fifteen.”

“And who was the first?”

“I don’t remember. The five principal Warlords of Aughmere gifted me their eldest daughters on my birthday. So I received five at once. Such a gifting of women is not unusual for a Shadan or for one who will likely win that position.”

“I see,” the Chalaine said as calmly as she could. “But normally such a ‘gifting’ would occur after the first wife is taken, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So was the Church furious at your break from tradition? They reject the practice of wives and concubines.”

“Honestly,” Chertanne returned, “I didn’t hear one word about it. I suppose one might call it the ‘Coriander Effect.’” He laughed loudly enough to draw attention to himself. “No, the Warlords taught me early that the Church would try to convert me from an Aughmerian into something more palatable to other nations. I, of course, thwarted such efforts as quickly as possible. After all, Eldaloth had me born Aughmerian for a reason.”

To the Chalaine’s relief, Maewen signaled them forward. As if reading from a script, Chertanne bid her farewell. “Thank you, Lady Khairn. It was a pleasure talking to you. I hope it will be oft repeated.” The Chalaine inclined her head as he rode off to where Athan awaited him.

While the conversation helped her understand him better, his last statement raised questions within her. Why did Eldaloth have the Ha’Ulrich born Aughmerian? Was it a matter of blood or chance? From where she stood, there wasn’t any reasoning in it at all. When the Church had first announced that the Ha’Ulrich was Aughmerian, neither Tolnor nor Rhugoth took it well. The people solaced themselves, however, by convincing themselves that an Aughmerian Ha’Ulrich would be a mighty man of war, just what was needed to counter Mikkik’s forthcoming assault. Even better, his father was the most renowned fighter and warrior of their age.

Her conversation with Gen about the uncertainty of prophecy now rang more true to her than ever. Doom came to the world before she had ever seen or known Chertanne or Gen. Chertanne was selfish and weak, and she desperately loved the man whose destiny it was to destroy her. The only thing she could think to bitterly laugh at amid the wrack of prophecy was that she imagined Mikkik would be just as confused as anyone when he won the coming war without the Ilch’s help and practically without trying. All Mikkik need do now to recapture Ki’Hal was show up.

The Chalaine wiped away tears she didn’t realize she was crying.
How did it all go so wrong?

Maewen led them northeast along a slender stream couched in a small depression brimming with ferns and low leafy plants with small white flowers. The soft gurgling of the water calmed the Chalaine’s nerves. Gradually, the density of the trees lessened and their size increased. Maewen mounted her horse and led the group forward at a brisk pace through the easy terrain.

As daylight faded, they encountered a path of paved stones that forked beneath two towering oak trees spreading toward each other to form a natural arch. One fork disappeared south into the forest from which they now emerged, the other veering southeast. The path appeared to stretch north and south as a single road in an empty plain until it bifurcated where they stood. Maewen called for a dismount. As there were no tents, few provisions, and no fire, situating their camp required nothing more than caring for the horses and finding somewhere devoid of roots and rocks to lie down.

The Chalaine fished a hard roll from her saddle bags after checking the
animon
again. Fenna approached and threw herself down grumpily at her side. The Chalaine steeled herself for another dose of Fenna’s self-pity, but thankfully, the young woman seemed content to smolder while gnawing on a particularly tough morsel of dried meat. Geoff approached, his book, quill, and ink in hand. Fenna turned away, evincing a hurt look from her husband. He controlled his face and strode by them without a word to seek out Maewen, who managed to not appear more annoyed and concerned than usual.

“Maewen,” Geoff entreated her, “may I beg you to tell us more about this place . . . for the record?” Maewen regarded him coldly. The Chalaine quickly stood, Dason following her as she came to Geoff’s side.

“I, too, am curious,” the Chalaine added. “The trees are so beautiful and the breeze so pleasant that this place must have been something out of the common way.”

At the Chalaine’s request, Maewen acquiesced, Geoff flopping open his book and thrusting his quill into the ink bottle.

“We camp beneath the Gate of Three Dreams, for it was said that no matter what path was chosen from here, there awaited a delight in beauty that would linger forever in the dreams of the traveler. The path to the southeast joins the southern fork of the Dunnach River where scented trees line the bank of the wide, clear river. There moose drink the cool water and bear feed on silver fish that leap from the depths.

“The path to the south plunges into the heart of the Muliel Forest where giant firs thrust into the sky with such height and with branches bristling so thick with plump needles that they cast the wanderer into an eternal evening at noonday. Feathered ferns and wide leaved water plants wet the boots and cloaks of those that pass with dew that continually falls to soft, damp earth.

“Our road lies northward. Here the path runs out into an open plain of waving green grass where once mighty herds of elk and deer ran with abandon, hooves striking up a thunder in the air. Low clouds thread through the jagged peaks of the Far Reach Mountains to the west, falling as they pass under the fire of the sunset sky to cover the land in a soft haze that thickens in the night into a blanket of fog.“

Maewen turned to peer into the north where the haze gathered. “I can only hope that some of those herds remain. We need food.”

The half-elf’s turn toward the practical broke the spell created by her descriptions, Geoff scribbling with inhuman speed across the pages to capture her words.

“I long to venture these paths again,” Maewen continued, “and if you should mourn anything, it is that you will tread only one way and likely never see the others.”

“Marvelous, Maewen,” Geoff complimented her, face happy for the first time since his forced marriage. “I think your eloquent descriptions will inspire caravan loads of people to journey here after the Unification.”

Maewen frowned. “Then please strike what I said from your record. Such a crowd would surely ruin the place.”