The Hero's Lot (15 page)

Rale's face closed into cautiousness. “What persuaded Jens to help you, Princess? It seems to me he plays a dangerous game.”

She smiled. “When he returns, he can feign shock and indignation at being so foully used by the king's niece. No one will believe him, of course, but what can they do? If your mission is successful, you and I will owe him a favor—a considerable advantage for an ambitious member of the watch.”

Errol's pulse pounded through his temples. “I'll tell you what they can do. They can make me responsible for this insanity.”

“But you're not responsible,” Adora said.

His eyes bulged. “When has that mattered? They make me responsible for things that have nothing to do with me all the time. It's like I'm still a whipping boy—only now instead of a rod they're using politics.” Feeling his panic starting to run away with him again, he took a deep breath.

“Do you want me to go back and marry Weir?” Adora asked.

Errol stared, unable to breathe or blink. He knew his mouth was hanging open. His teeth clicked when he closed it. “Why, of all the cheap, manipulative, underhanded—”

“Answer the question,” Adora said. The look of confidence written in the hint of a smile and the unwrinkled skin between her brows told him she knew his answer already.

His heart, heavy as a stone, sank through his chest to end somewhere near his feet. “Of course not.” He shook his head. “But they'll never let us be together now. Your uncle and Duke Weir will roast me as a kidnapper and a rogue for putting your life in danger. I can't say I'd blame them much. You should be someplace safe.” He sighed. “Away from me and where I'm going.”

“I outrank you.”

“What?”

She laughed. “Earl Stone, I rarely stand on my title, but you are mine to command, became my uncle's and mine when you received your title and swore your oath.” She shook her head. “No. The blame will be mine. I will make sure of it.”

He felt relieved and hated himself for feeling it. “Is there any message?”

Adora's face grew serious, almost somber as she dismounted. “Only whatever meaning you derive from my presence, Earl Stone.” She drew a dagger and made to cut a lock of hair that had escaped her cap.

Rale gasped and darted forward. His hand closed over the princess's, forcing it down. “Do not!” He hissed. “Not where you can be seen.” His face flushed, and he checked over Errol's shoulder toward the rest of the company.

“Who knows why you left Erinon, Princess?” he growled.

Adora drew herself up. “I don't like your tone, Captain.”

Rale's sudden change mystified Errol.

“Your likes and dislikes are no concern of mine, Princess. If you're going to draw attention to yourself, I will insist you leave. As Deas is my witness, if you even think of doing anything else to proclaim your royal blood, I'll drop you off with the nearest priest with instructions to take you back to Erinon—in chains, if necessary.”

A swirl of thoughts made Errol dizzy.
Proclaim . . . ?
What had she done?

“You wouldn't,” Adora said, but her eyes betrayed her doubt.

“I don't allow threats to my men, Princess. Not from you, not from the archbenefice, not from anyone. Others have made that
mistake, to their regret. Does anyone besides those two know you were searching for us?”

Adora crossed her arms and presented her profile to the captain, refusing to answer.

“Errol,” Rale said, “please have Master Ru pick two of the guards to accompany the princess back to Erinon.”

She spun, met his gaze. “No. No one knows. I left a note for my ladies that I needed time to think and that I was headed for my uncle's estates outside of Baden.

Rale nodded. “Good. That's well north of here, but we still need to get rid of your companions.” Sternness etched fissures in his smooth baritone. “I don't want dead weight on this trip.”

She nodded. “I'll dismiss them immediately. I am certain they will keep their silence.”

“You're going to let her stay?” Errol asked.

The look the captain gave Adora carried the threat of expulsion in it. “Yes. I don't want to diminish our company. And if I simply order her back to Erinon in the company of her companions, she'll just follow us.”

“But we're going to Merakh.”

His former master grew somber. “Boy, if we don't break Valon's circle, it won't matter where the princess is—we'll all be dead.”

 15 
Retracement

M
ARTIN LOOKED
across the rolling hills of Lugaria and winced. For most of his life, his ample stomach had been one of his most reliable advisors. If all was well, it merely growled when he ignored it for too long. When danger threatened, it tightened in anticipation of physical conflict. Yet now it lurched and roiled in his midsection like a boiling pot.

The source of his stomach's complaint mystified him. They'd eaten their midday meal only an hour ago. Martin could only conclude that his midsection had become aware of some subconscious train of thought that troubled him. But what?

Karele sat his horse, a small placid mare, as if he neither knew nor cared where they were going. The sight of the solis sent Martin's stomach into a series of tumbling maneuvers. He belched. The healer's presence unnerved him. Perhaps his stomach protested the death of his pride. The little man they'd picked up in Windridge, the man who'd saved them, might very well be his theological superior.

That Karele wielded power superior to Luis could no longer be contested. The survival of their mission in Windridge would
have been proof enough, but the solis's ability to block or allow the casting of lots seemingly at will turned all of Martin's clerical experience and knowledge on its head. Knowledge—yes, that was the key and the curse all wrapped up in the same package. Every time Martin attempted to refute Karele's eldritch power, he learned—and regretted learning—something new.

He laughed out loud at himself, waved away the questioning looks from the rest of the party, and continued to chuckle at his foolishness. Oh yes, he'd disguised it to himself as prudence, but what he'd really wanted was to figure out a way to be rid of the solis. But three nights ago, camped in the middle of the grasslands of northern Avenia, he'd completely outsmarted himself.

Martin had waited until the solis snored in his blanket, tiptoed across the ground, and forced Luis to cast to test the healer's allegiance. Luis had carved the lots as if he'd known what the cast would be before he made it. Perhaps he had, but he went through the motions anyway. Three dozen times they pulled one of the spheres from Luis's burlap sack. Thirty-three times the lots said the solis served Deas.

As he now rode, Martin chortled. “I'm a coward.” His horse cocked one ear at the sound and continued his plodding.

Luis smiled. “Really?”

“Hardly that,” Karele said. The small man straightened in his saddle. “I doubt Deas would have chosen you to bring the knowledge of Aurae to the Judica if you lacked courage.”

The words failed to comfort Martin or his stomach. The sound of a single horse ridden at an easy canter offered a welcome distraction. Cruk, looking almost normal, reined in.

He directed his concern to Luis. “Are you sure this is the main road between Lugaria and Sorland?”

The secondus nodded. As a reader, Luis knew the provinces of the kingdom in exhaustive detail. His training demanded it.

Cruk shook his head as if he were trying to rid himself of a suspicion that refused to leave. “It feels wrong.”

Martin surveyed the way ahead. The hard-packed earthen road, interrupted by cobblestones or bricks in the villages, seemed
peaceful enough. A farmer hauling turnips to the next village, Goran, preceded them by a couple hundred paces. Other than that, they had the road to themselves. After all that had happened in Windridge, Martin was just as happy for the solitude.

“Do you sense anything amiss, Luis?” Martin asked.

The secondus shook his head.

Martin turned to Karele. The solis sat his horse as before, calm, unperturbed. Martin forced the words past the stubborn knot in his throat. “And you, master healer, do you sense anything wrong?”

Karele smiled as if he sensed Martin's internal struggle. “No. Aurae isn't telling me anything, but if I may make a suggestion . . . ?”

Cruk nodded.

“We could overtake the farmer ahead of us and ask him if he knows if aught is amiss.”

Martin hid his surprise. “So you credit our captain's unease without confirmation.”

Karele's smile held a note of triumph whose justification eluded Martin. “I'm sure we'll find the captain's suspicions are justified. This is his area of expertise, after all.”

They kicked their horses into a canter, but as they neared the farmer he cracked the reins to force his team into a gallop. Turnips flew from the cart at each bounce. Martin caught a brief look of white-faced terror on the driver. Cruk urged his mount to a gallop and caught the farmer after a quarter mile. Even Karele's placid mount would have had no trouble catching farm horses.

Martin drew even with the farmer opposite Cruk. Tears rolled down the man's face while he urged his horses on, reins clutched with one hand and trying to unsheathe an ancient-looking sword with the other.

“Goodman!” Martin yelled. “Goodman farmer, stop.” He held up the symbol of his office. The sun glinted off the polished emblem, and the reflection hit the farmer in the eyes. He started, dropped the sword, and sawed the reins. The horses skipped to a stop.

Tears rolled down his cheeks and his chin quivered. “Thank Deas, Pater. I was sure you were raiders come to take my turnips.”

Cruk's eyes narrowed. “Why would you think that?”

The farmer avoided looking at Cruk, chose instead to address his answer to Martin. “Because of the raids.”

Cruk's jaw came forward and he inhaled, but Martin held up a hand.

“What sort of raids?”

The farmer's eyes widened. “Have you not heard, Pater?”

Martin kept his tone gentle. “We're just lately come to Goran, goodman.”

“Well, they burned Tomlin's farm to the ground not three leagues from here—all the rutabagas went up in flames. And I heard tell that they hit the villages and farms to the east as they came through, stealing the produce they wanted and torching the rest.”

Cruk cursed, his patience at an obvious end. “Who came through?” Martin could hear the captain grinding his teeth.

“Why, the Morgols, Pater.”

“Have you seen them?” Cruk grated.

The farmer jerked. “I don't need to see them to know what the mayor in the village says or to know what smoke in the sky at midday means.” He pointed down the road. “I'm bound for Goran with my first load of turnips of the season. If I didn't need the money, I wouldn't be going. I raise the best turnips in the region.” He held a purple-and-white sample up for Martin's inspection, beaming with pride. “Are you bound for Goran, Pater?”

Martin nodded. “We'd be happy to accompany you, goodman. Please lead on.” He signaled Cruk, and the captain fell back to join him, Luis, and Karele at the rear of the wagon.

Cruk snorted. “I'll warrant the farmer doesn't know much beyond growing turnips. Any idiot who's seen a Morgol could tell we weren't from the steppes, even at two hundred paces.”

Luis nodded. “True, but something has him spooked, and the traffic on the road is less than it should be.”

A new worry dropped into Martin's gut to fester there with the
rest. “I dislike what he said about the villages to the east. Morgol raiders here? Now? Might they have overtaken Callowford?”

They crested a hill. Below, a cluster of thatched roofs and chimneys drifting welcome tendrils of woodsmoke told Martin they'd arrived at Goran. A low fence reinforced with a new palisade of sharpened poles surrounded the village. The road in and out was manned by a middle-aged man who brandished a sword like a club and a younger man in a bedraggled uniform of some local nobleman. Martin stifled a flash of disappointment at the absence of a church. A priest would give a more coherent report.

“Perhaps the villagers will provide us a more cogent report than our farmer,” Luis said.

Cruk harrumphed. “It would be difficult to give less.”

The men on the road swung open the fortified gate at a wave from the farmer, but the looks they gave Martin and the rest were hard. Cruk reined in, leaned forward in his saddle toward the guards. “Could you direct us to your mayor?”

The first man, burly with a blacksmith's shoulders, gripped his sword and eyed Cruk with open distrust. “What's your business in Goran, stranger?”

“Our business is our own, neighbor, and—”

Martin put a hand on Cruk's arm. “We're heading east, goodman. We're hoping your mayor will be able to advise us on the best route.”

The second guard hawked and spat. “There ain't no best route, leastways none that head east. Morgols are coming over the mountains. Blast me if they ain't.”

The blacksmith nodded. “That's it.”

The knot in Martin's gut twisted tighter. Witnesses were piling up, and even accounting for the natural unreliability of people who spoke from fear, the agreement among tales spoke of something very wrong in the province. “Our business cannot be delayed, I'm sorry to say. Which way did you say the mayor was?”

The blacksmith jerked his thumb toward a small timbered inn with a slate roof halfway down the street. “Bolger's in the inn.”

Martin nodded thanks, which the two men didn't bother to
return, and followed Cruk through the mud of the village's main thoroughfare. The smell of turnips mingled with the sour odors of sweat and fear of the villagers he passed. Furtive looks came to them from old men and youths, widowers and lasses, and even children. This last stuck to him like a sodden tunic. Children in villages all over Illustra greeted visitors with frank curiosity. What had happened to make these little ones so cautious of strangers?

Bolger sat at a large round table in the inn, an empty tankard in front of him, his tunic stretched over girth that made Martin feel slim by comparison. A handful of men with short bows stood behind him, attentive. Martin's first impression was dispelled by the presence of maps spread across the expanse of the table and the sharp eyes that searched him and his friends as they entered the dim interior.

“Are you Mayor Bolger?”

The man snorted. “Only when there's trouble. When there's not you'll likely have to ask after me by less complimentary names.” Bolger's eyes scanned them again, rested on Karele as if the man were a riddle and then moved on. “You have the look of authority. You'll not be in the market for turnips, I'm guessing.” He pointed with his chin at Cruk. “He wears his weapons like they're a part of him.”

Martin nodded. “You're a perceptive man, Mayor Bolger. We'd prefer not to announce our presence too loudly in the region.”

The man's eyes, little more than slits in his fleshy face, narrowed until they almost disappeared. “If you bring trouble on us, I'll do my best to make sure you regret it. Now, unless you can prove to me you're not highwaymen on the run, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

A whisper of movement behind Bolger caught Martin's attention. The mayor's men, dour and efficient, had each nocked arrows. A small movement, too small to be prevented, would bring those bows up to target each of them.

Martin held up his hands, palms forward. “I'm going to reach into my cloak very slowly, Master Bolger. I'd appreciate it if your men didn't take my movement as a threat.”

Bolger held up a hand. The arrows didn't rise to their target, but they didn't lower, and the bowstrings still held their tension. Martin pulled his symbol of office from his pocket and placed it on the table.

Bolger didn't seem impressed. “How do I know you didn't take this off someone?”

Martin allowed his irritation to show. “The soldier behind me is a captain of the watch. I can perform any rite of the church you care to name”—he shot a suggestive glance at Bolger's men—“including last rites.”

The mayor's cheeks bunched up like summer clouds before a rain with laughter. The men behind him didn't laugh. Instead they eyed Cruk the way dogs looked at a wolf.

“What can I do for you, Excellency?” Bolger asked.