Sunset of Lantonne (34 page)

“Yes…questions,” the man mumbled. “How about this: Do you know who my servants are within Lantonne yet? I would hate to think the surprise is already spoiled. I am counting on them if you fail to bring me what I ask for.”

“I will bring you nothing,” warned Therec. “Your spies will die when they are caught. The king’s orders are rather straightforward in that matter.”

Grinning, Dorralt shrugged. “I would hate you to think I am not grateful to have company in my home that does not drool on itself. If you will promise not to ever set foot in this city again, I will give you one name of a spy that serves me.”

“I promise…though that does not shield you if you set foot outside the walls.”

“Of course not. Her name is Ilarra. I’m having her go back to the city right now. She will likely arrive by the time you return yourself. Please treat her with some hospitality. I have been kind enough to you and would hope that you could return that favor.”

Without a word, Dorralt reached across the table and grabbed at a roasted bird on a platter. He unceremoniously ripped a chunk off of the animal, then began pulling fruits and breads onto his plate beside it.

“I still have one question left,” Therec announced, drawing another surprised stare from the man. “You claim to have known Turess. Tell me your clan’s name.”

“No.”

“You promised to answer truthfully. Did you lie? Should I trust even your supposed name?”

Dorralt sneered and shook his head. “I am from clan Oshlath, of the western deserts.”

“Oshlath? That was the clan formed from Turess’ descendants. They were hunted down and killed for betraying the memory of Turess and conspiring against the council many centuries ago. Every trace of their deeds was wiped from record.”

“Funny that,” mused Dorralt, sipping at his goblet of wine. “Maybe they did learn something after they agreed to have me caged like an animal. That information is rather refreshing and saves me from trying to hunt them down. Thank you, Therec.”

Therec picked up his own goblet, sniffing at the wine that filled it. The sweet smell was familiar, but not one he had ever tasted. A sip confirmed how incredibly sweet the taste of the wine was and that it was a style foreign to him.

“You like?” asked Dorralt, smirking. “The wine is from the lands they now call Turessi, though at the time we considered it a temporary province. Sadly, the vineyard where my clan grew the grapes was turned into a shrine for that simpering idiot after his death. The council remembers the rambling words of a dying man as law for the clans, but they forget the virtues of the others who lived at the same time as him. I doubt there is another bottle of this wine anywhere in the world that was kept intact.”

“I do like it,” said Therec, sliding the goblet away as he stood up. “Now I would like to leave.”

“I still have one more question, Therec. Sit down.”

“No, you asked if I liked the wine. Our discussion is over.”

Dorralt giggled hysterically, waggling a finger at Therec. “Clever boy. Go back to your pet soldiers. I will not stop you. Just remember that I will expect some degree of civility in return for my own. I forgive much, but I do not forgive rudeness.”

Bowing despite the urge to lash out at the man, Therec hurried after a single shambling servant that carried a torch from the hall.

Therec had a lot of work to do. He needed to get back to Lantonne to prepare for the arrival of the servant of Dorralt. He wanted to see what this girl was like in great detail, so that he might have insight into what the others Dorralt had hidden away in the city might be like.

Once he knew them, he could hunt and destroy them and bring some justice to his clan and his family.

Ilarra woke gradually, the light of the library’s torch sconces painful in the darkness of her sleep. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, but the light was brighter than she could block. Groaning, Ilarra threw her arm over her face, shielding herself from the light. A second later, she realized her arm was freezing, as was her face.

Memory came back to Ilarra in a rush and she looked around, wondering if the library had been overrun. The iron stoves in the corners of the room had kept the place warm despite the archers at the windows and the damage done to the front door, so the bitter cold was even more surprising. For it to be so cold in the building, the place had to have been left open and unattended for quite some time.

“The furless is waking up,” came a voice nearby as Ilarra blinked to try and focus her eyes. Even lying still, she saw shapes moving past her. “I can put her back out if you want. Speak up if you want me to be nice to her or something.”

With an aggravated snort, Raeln appeared over Ilarra, his grey-furred face blocking out the intense light. He touched Ilarra’s face tenderly, though she could feel his fingers at her neck, checking her pulse. For some reason, having the man’s blunted claws so close to her throat made her uncomfortable when she realized that he could strike without warning. It was a thought that had never crossed her mind before.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, shoving Raeln’s hand away. “What of the others?”

“Oh, this will be good,” came Greth’s amused comment somewhere ahead of Ilarra and to one side. “The two greatest talkers at work here.”

Raeln glared off toward where Ilarra had heard Greth and then looked back to her. He made a series of motions that made no sense together, but roughly translated as, “Walking…you…sick…mother made me do it.” Another more curt gesture was about as vulgar a term as Ilarra had ever seen Raeln make, followed by a thumb pointing toward Greth. Whatever she had missed, Raeln disliked the man even more than before.

Squinting to see past Raeln, Ilarra realized she could see the cold blue sky far beyond him, and his fur was buffeted by a strong breeze. They were neither in the library, nor anywhere near it if she could see the sky without trees at the edges of her vision.

“How long was I out?” she demanded, sitting up. “Where’s father?”

Ilarra found herself atop a fruit cart that had been emptied of its normal contents and filled with blankets and fur pelts to keep her warm. By raising her arm to cover her eyes, she had pushed one particularly heavy blanket off of herself, letting her feel the bitter wind. Shivering, she pulled the blanket back over herself.

She half-watched Raeln while searching the area around them for some clue where they were. The man was trying to explain something more complicated than the crude language of gestures could possibly communicate, so she knew she had to glean some of the information for herself.

At the front of the cart, Greth waited between the handles, as though he had been pulling her along. Ilarra nearly let her attention pass over Greth before realizing he was wearing a fine elven outfit of patterned fabrics under a thick fleece traveling cloak and mantle. Had she not known who he was, she would have thought him to be another wildling from Hyeth. More remarkable still was that he carried a sword and bow without any hint that Raeln intended to take them away or beat him with them.

Raeln had changed his own clothing, she noticed. He wore heavy traveling attire and a cloak similar to Greth’s. Also like Greth, he was barefoot despite the snow, something Ilarra had always marveled at with the wildlings. Such a miniscule thing, but it set them apart from the other races in odd ways. Today, it struck her as so entirely weird, especially when she noticed that Greth wore gloves, making the lack of shoes seem all the more odd.

On a whim, Ilarra checked her own clothing and found that it had been replaced with fresh riding pants, new boots that came almost to her knees, and a thick cotton shirt to better handle a long journey in the cold weather. A cloak had been rolled up beside her under the blankets.

The cart stood in the middle of a wide road that, though filled with snow, was packed from enough passings to be recognizable as more than a field. To either side, the land was less distinguishable, with rolling hills for as far as she could see, all covered with a thin layer of snow. Small bushes and stunted trees appeared occasionally from the snow, standing out against the white blanket everywhere else.

Ilarra turned in the cart, looking toward the direction they had come. The road wound through the hills as far as she could see. Judging by the location of the mountains on her left, they had gone roughly south from Hyeth, and no small distance, based on the peaks she could see. Ilarra’s initial guess was a day’s ride, which had to have been wrong.

Raeln continued gesturing furtively until a belabored groan from Greth brought him to a stop.

“I’ve been trying to get him to say something…anything…for days,” the shorter wildling admitted. He rubbed at a freshly-healed cut along his muzzle. “We waited almost a week in Hyeth before his mother told…I guess ‘told’ is the wrong word…pointed us on our way. That is one bitch I wouldn’t cross. My father would have loved to meet her. They’d have gotten along fabulously.”

Raeln’s furious glare did not so much as slow Greth’s words. Ilarra, on the other hand, felt her blood go cold, seeing Raeln so close to trying to kill the man. Speaking about his mother like that was a sure way to get beaten soundly.

“I know a country healer who might know what the Turessian did to all of you back there. Your father agreed it was the best plan anyone had, so he packed us up and sent us on our way. As for him…he’s doing about as well as you.”

Ilarra stared off toward the north, unable to see the trees that would be the edge of Hyeth’s woods. “Why do we not have horses?” Ilarra asked, looking around.

“Undead ate them. We couldn’t find any left in Hyeth.”

“How far have we gone?” she asked, pressing a hand to her head. The village had dozens of horses…that they all had been massacred was difficult to imagine. “I know of no other villages near Hyeth where your healer might live.”

Greth shook his head. “No village. She lives in the middle of nowhere about a week’s journey from Hyeth. Only thing out this far are a few farmhouses filled with some foul-tempered furless. We should arrive sometime tonight. You’ll love her…she’s patched me up a bunch of times when I got into scrapes with the Altisian troops and the occasional wild animal.”

“A week? I’ve been unconscious for a week?”

“Two. You forgot the time we stayed in Hyeth.”

Ilarra groaned. She felt a little under the weather, but anything that could have kept her down that long without killing her had to be magic of some sort. If her father could not find its source, that did not bode well for some country healer who might be little more than an herbalist who had delusions of being something more.

“Thank you for trying to help,” she said to Raeln, squeezing his hand as much out of thanks as to pull it away from examining her. Touching him also helped snap him out of the furious glare he had been directing at Greth. “And thank you for not killing him.”

“Me?” Greth asked, laughing. “I damn near saved everyone’s lives. When the Turessian dropped, the zombies went crazy, but all your warriors were so worried about you and the other wizards they nearly got themselves killed. If I hadn’t been there, the corpses would have been chewing on the living before anyone realized they were moving. All I had to do was walk away and you’d have been corpse-meat.”

Ilarra looked quizzically at Raeln, who reluctantly nodded. Apparently there was some truth to Greth’s story.

“And since your brother,” said Greth with ill-concealed disgust in his tone, “won’t tell you what your father said, let me sum it up for you. Don’t use magic and go find a cure. Simple enough when you’re willing to talk. It’d take the big idiot an hour to say that with all his hand-waving.”

The orders Greth gave her made no sense. She felt ill, as though she had caught a severe cold or something similar. What that had to do with her using magic was a mystery. “Did he say why?”

Greth shook his head and said, “No. I overheard him working with one of his apprentices, though. They tried to work on figuring out what the poison might have been, but it was well beyond them. Worse yet, when they used magic, they all got very sick. They traced it back to a well that stunk something fierce. Makes me understand why the gypsies all drink wine instead of water, though I doubt that’d be enough to kill whatever got dumped in that well.