Secrets of the Night Special Edition, page 49
She blinked her eyes as gradual pictures emerged, of a large woods--the Gorm Forest!--and Roric Gamal outside a cave, talking to another man. Delbraith? Ah, yes, Conneid Delbraith, the former king's secretary. Well! So they had both left the palace. Had they been banished, or had they escaped? The Gorm Forest, she mused, a land of dark mysteries and monsters. And if they dwelled in the forest, what about the monsters? Had parents passed along tales of the torathors merely to scare their children into obedience, or did such creatures exist? So maybe-- No, wait! She saw one now! A strange being stepped out from a cave, such a tall creature, but he bore no horn in the middle of his forehead.
Intrigued by her findings, Radegunda gazed at the water, expecting to see more visions, but after long moments, the water cleared. With acute disappointment, she set the bowl aside, hoping to be more fortunate next time.
Her intuition told her she'd soon see Major Gamal in the flesh.
* * *
"I intend to do this, Conneid, so don't try to change my mind." Outside a cave deep in the Gorm Forest, Roric's attention slid from Conneid to his new friends who had gathered outside another cave a short distance away. Settled on the ground, several torathors worked with long skeins of cordage, making fishing nets. Roric stood in the shadow of a gigantic pine tree, his gaze swinging back to Conneid.
"Listen!" he continued, not liking Conneid's frown, "we need to know what's happening at the palace. And what about the princess?" he asked, afraid to admit, if only to himself, how much he thought of her, of the times he lay awake at night recalling everything about her, wondering when--or if--she'd be caught. Goddess, he prayed, please take care of her. She means so much to me.
"We've found refuge here," Conneid replied a few paces away. His chest wounds were slowly healing, thanks to calendula poultices Lari applied every day. "And refuge is enough for me. I don't need to visit the capital."
"But I do." Roric nodded toward the cave where an outlander clan had offered shelter to him, Conneid, and Malvina. "I'll always be grateful for the home these folks have provided us. But we can't shut ourselves off from the rest of the kingdom."
"Why not? Roric, can't you see how dangerous a visit to Moytura may be? What if someone recognizes you? Only a little over one nineday has passed since our escape." Conneid shook his head. "You're stretching your luck."
Roric laughed, his gaze sweeping over his stained gray tunic, his dusty boots. "Who's going to recognize me in these clothes?" Although he'd rinsed the tunic and cloak several times in the river since their arrival here, the bloodstains persisted. He fingered his chin. "And with this stubble? I'll borrow a rabbit hat from one of these fellows, wear it low on my head. I need to find out what's happening in Moytura and the rest of the kingdom. When I served under Balor, I had no opportunity to leave the palace. And I should think you'd want to know--"
"Not anymore." Conneid waved his hand dismissively. "That's in the past. My life is here, with Malvina and little Keenan." A look of bitterness captured his face. "Once I thought I could help overthrow Balor." He snorted. "Foolish dream!"
"Not so foolish, which is why I intend to go to the capital, catch the people's mood. I've learned a bit about diplomacy over the years. I can ask subtle questions that lead people to divulge information. We have to discover how things are at the palace, how the people feel about Balor and Aradia. If they are ready to revolt--"
"Hah! As if they are, as if the populace could make a difference! Balor commands the army, and whoever controls the army controls the kingdom."
Roric surveyed the dark forest that enclosed them, the tall evergreens that reached to the sky, creating a perpetual dimness over much of the woods. A network of caves honeycombed this part of the dense woods, each cave chamber occupied by an outlander clan.
A short walk from his forest home, the frothing Deuona River twisted through wooded hills, heading southward. A rocky embankment, thick with grasses and understory and studded with trees, led down to the river. Roric had bathed in the ice-cold water this morning, a hasty ablution he was only too happy to complete. Columns of pine trees blanketed the hills, interspersed with birches and hickories. Smaller streams fed off from the river, yielding lush agricultural land that furnished bountiful crops of fruits and vegetables.
With much grass to graze on, the stolen horses remained tethered, except for the times Roric or Conneid rode them to exercise the animals. Wild goats roamed about, browsing among the meadow grasses, avoiding the horses.
"We've found contentment here, even if we have no purpose," Conneid said, wrenching him back to the moment. "Right now, peace and happiness are enough for me." He sank down at the cave entrance, as if to emphasize his need for quiescence. Roric joined him on the cold limestone floor, drawing his knees to his chest, clasping his hands around his legs. Smoke from a fire inside the cave drifted his way, its sweet scent blending with the aroma of pine. Dried herbs hung from wooden stands inside the cave, adding their fragrance.
"Peace and happiness?" Roric nodded, his eye on a poisonous snake that slithered through the grass a few feet away. He stared upward, where a caracab, with its long-spreading wings, soared in the sky. "Yes, contentment is enough for the time being. But we must work toward Balor's eventual overthrow."
"How?" Conneid threw him a sharp look. "Tell me that."
"No plans for now, maybe not even in the near future," Roric said, aware he wasn't telling the entire truth. If he could only get to Elegia, would King Barzad be willing to help? Did he even know of Tencien's assassination? "But we must rid the kingdom of Balor, must put Princess Keriam on the throne." His body warmed at the mention of her name, a myriad of enticing images flooding his mind.
"The princess." Conneid sighed. "I support Princess Keriam too, but how do we even know she's still alive?"
Fear stabbed Roric, a quick cold blade between the ribs. Nothing must happen to her, for if it did, his life would be empty without her. When would he see her again? He had to see her again.
"Balor and Aradia are clever executioners," Conneid went on. "Surely you know that." He gave Roric a close look. "You don't really think Fergus's death was an accident, do you?"
"One more reason why I must return to Moytura, to discover how the princess fares," Roric said, suppressing a shiver. He clapped his hand on his friend's shoulder. "My mind's made up."
* * *
The morning sun hung low in a bright blue sky as Roric trod the rocky path that led from the forest to the city outskirts. A rabbit cap on his head, he strode for miles through the dark woods. Tempted to take the sleek riding horse, he decided against it, on the very slim chance that the owner might visit the city this same day. His eyes scanned the trees and underbrush, ever on the alert for wild animals. Thorns scratched his hands and tugged at his cloak. He worked the cloak loose and shoved the thorny bush aside, then walked on, watching out for venomous snakes that slid along the uneven forest floor.
He recalled his first few days among the outlanders, a time of adjustment for everyone. It hadn't taken him long to acquire a few words of their simple language, then gradually expand his vocabulary. As much as possible, he and Conneid spoke the outlander language among themselves, a practice that aided him when speaking with the forest creatures. He, Malvina, and Conneid had made friends with these folks, surprised to find that they weren't the fierce monsters their reputation suggested. Besides treating Conneid's chest, they'd applied poultices to Malvina's hand, and they pampered Malvina’s baby every chance they had.
One question had puzzled him ever since their first encounter with these people. After he'd felt fluent enough, he posed the question to Mord.
"Do you fellows usually trek so far from your homes here in the forest? I mean, you were close to the city's edge when we first met you."
"Ah." Mord had smiled. "We do it all the time. We are dark, we hide behind trees. And you people," he said, stabbing Roric's chest with his forefinger, "are afraid of us." He nodded. "Admit it, yes, you are. So your people never come so far into the forest. Like you did when we first met."
Brought back to the moment, Roric saw a gradual illumination that revealed the forest's fringe, where the trees thinned to scattered clumps, and a slight hill overlooked the capital. Closer to the city, the path changed from a dirt road to a cobblestone street. The warehouses and small shops of Moytura came into view, the city spread out before him.
Arrived at Storehouse Street, Roric pulled his cap over his forehead, his gaze covering these warehouses and shops that formed the northern boundary of the city. So many stores, closed and boarded up, so few people on the streets! What a difference from the bustling city under Tencien's rule! As he strode the cobblestones toward the city's center, the shops became more ornate, those establishments that catered to the wealthy. Most of these stores had remained open, for only the rich could afford the jewels, silks, and fancy swords, the ornamental bags and decorative belts.
He stared in the window of a sword shop, the few but finely-crafted weapons a reminder that he would need a sword when the time came to overthrow Balor. Now was as good a time as any, he decided, and since he'd never frequented this store, the proprietor wouldn't know him.
He stepped inside the shop, and a bell rang, bringing the owner from a back room.
"Yes, sir, can I help you?"
Roric's gaze covered the scanty selection. "Are these the only swords you have?" Besides those weapons, the store stocked dirks, daggers, and pikes, but again, only a meager selection.
"I'm afraid so, sir. As you probably know, the best swords come from Elegia, but we've had trouble procuring them."
"How so?" Alarm squeezed his gut. He felt certain of the reason but wanted to hear what the man had to say.
"Sir, the trade caravans can't get through. Indeed, they don't try anymore. Brigands rob the merchants, often kill them. Word is that King Balor doesn't pay Elegia for protection, as . . . as the former king did. Trade was safer under--" He stopped and bit his lip. His eyes widened in fright.
Under Tencien.
The owner spoke quickly. "But these are good swords, sir, the best there are. Take this one, for instance." He withdrew a steel sword from under the wooden counter, then set it on the countertop. "Only look at this fine weapon. It's light and fast, and can be swung easily with one hand as well as two. Has a wood grip covered with leather. Good for cutting and thrusting, but most important, it's made of the very best tempered steel." He pushed it toward Roric. "Here, hold it and swing it. See how easily it maneuvers, as if it's part of you."
Roric grasped the sword by its hilt and stepped away from the counter. He swung the sword, liking its feel, its easy grip. Moving back to the display case, he looked over the others on the shelves but realized this was the best of the lot, and was, indeed, a fine sword.
"How much?"
"One gold and two silvers, sir. You won't be sorry you bought it. This will serve you well, even though the country isn't at war--" He stopped again, his face flushed.
Isn’t at war yet.
"Scabbard comes with it," he quickly added.
"Yes, of course." Roric set two gold pieces down, and while the proprietor made change from a wooden box under the counter, he unbuckled his sword belt and adjusted the scabbard, then slid the sword inside with a ringing sound. Satisfied he'd made a good purchase, he bade the man goodbye and stepped out into the bright sunshine.
Roric passed the Snow Leopard, and painful memories touched his heart. It was here he'd first spoken to Keriam on a bright spring morning when she had "accidentally" dropped her bracelet. He'd often wondered why she had "arranged" their meeting but feared it would forever remain a mystery. He saw her now as if she stood before him, she of the fair skin and deep blue eyes, and hair as dark as midnight. Tremendous sadness overcame him, the very real fear that he might never see her again, talk to her, hear her voice. If only he could have her with him now, reach out and touch her, he would never ask for anything more.
Sighing with his loss, he soon reached another tavern, The White Eagle. By now thirsty and hungry, he entered the dimly-lit common room, noting in a quick appraisal that only a few customers patronized the place at this busy hour. He removed his cloak and hung it on a rack, then pulled out a chair at an empty wooden table. With little adornment, it was a simple tavern, clean and serviceable.
A tavern maid approached, her face lined and careworn, her white apron ragged but clean. "Yes, sir?"
"A mug of corma. What are you serving today?" His stomach grumbled.
"Lamb stew, sir, same as every day."
"Lamb stew, then." He stretched his legs out under the table and glanced around the room again. A few drovers occupied the other tables, their expressions glum, their clothes tattered.
The waitress returned shortly, carrying a wooden tray laden with the corma and steaming stew, along with a few slices of oat bread. Roric caught the tempting aromas of the stew, his stomach grumbling again.
He looked up as she set his order beside him.” Surprised to see so few people here. Business usually so slow this hour of the day?"
An astonished look crossed her face, quickly replaced by one of sadness. "Things are bad now, sir, except for the rich. Pah! Those people never have to worry about money. But the king . . ." She clamped her mouth shut.
"Go ahead," Roric prodded. "The king?"
"He's drafted so many young men, there ain't no one to work the farms," she said in low tones. "No one to work in the shops, either." She shook her head. "Bad times for everyone, not enough to eat, people goin' hungry. And something else . . ." Another pause ensued.
“Yes?” Roric dipped his spoon into the soup. Thick with onions, carrots, and potatoes, the soup tasted of bay leaves and chervil.
"I heard tell of a few cases of the plague."
"What!" He sat up straight. "The plague?"
"I fear so." She twisted her hands in her apron. "Not really sure if that's what it is. But there's been a lot more deaths than usual. Just in case it is the plague, the king has forbidden travel from the city. All the roads are guarded. But the dead--their families wrap up the bodies and bury 'em right away. No mournin' period. So what else could it be?" she said, her voice rising.
She leaned closer and lowered her voice again. "And if that ain't strange enough, some woman's been roamin' the city, warnin' of the black fever. No one paid any attention to her before, just thought she was crazed or somethin', but now talk is . . ." Her voice trembled.
"The talk is . . .?"
"Talk is, she's a witch that brought the plague on us."
A chill raced down Roric's spine, but he forced himself to speak in calm tones. "She'd better beware, then, before she's caught and put on trial, burned as a witch." Despite his fear of witchcraft, he dreaded the notion of a woman suffering at the stake. There hadn't been any such executions in his lifetime, nor for years before that.
"What about the princess?" he asked, his voice level. "Any news on her?" His heart pounded; his hands stilled.
"Ah, sir, the king's offered a reward for her capture--ten gold pieces. Was five before."
She was alive! His heartbeat increased. Princess Keriam had to elude Balor. The alternative didn't bear consideration. Where was the princess now--in the city? Would he see her today? Not a chance in a thousand. Goddess! How he wanted to see her again, hear her dear voice, and if only he could, take her in his arms and kiss her to drive them both out of their minds. Foolish dream!
"So far, no one knows where she is," the waitress went on. "Everyone always talks about her, thinkin' how badly she's been trea--" She shook her head. "Poor princess. Her father bein' killed, her escaped from the palace and hunted down like some criminal . . ."
Obviously afraid she'd talked too much, the waitress walked off, leaving him to the meal and his morose thoughts. Where in the city was the princess now? He regretted the angry words between them, her suspicion that he was loyal to Balor. He tapped his fingers on the table, his every thought on Princess Keriam. By now, his stew had cooled and his appetite had gone, but he finished his meal and dropped two copper coins on the table, then left the tavern.
Mindful of the sun's slow descent toward the east, still he decided to linger in the city. A few hours remained before darkness. Everywhere he looked, he saw beggars, men out of work. Roric wanted--needed--solitude before he returned to the forest, to the cave he shared with several families.
Sacred shrine! How he hated this idleness, this lack of purpose in his life. Within the forest, he helped the outlanders fell trees and chop wood for the coming winter, but he longed to rid the kingdom of Balor. Assured now that Conneid and his wife remained in good hands, he decided to leave for Elegia soon, to try to persuade King Barzad to aid Avador.
Needing quiet, Roric headed southwest, toward the Treasury of Knowledge, and beyond that, the meadow that bordered the Nantosuelta River. Ahead, he saw the tall spire that graced the top of Talmora's temple, a spire that reached to the sky. A short time later, he crossed Aventina Way and reached the meadow, the grass burnt and dying, the trees losing their leaves. Red, gold, and orange leaves crunched beneath his boots and blew in a cold gust that swept across the glade. The winding river glinted in the bright sunlight, its waters rippling with silvery flashes. A barge floated past, laden with lumber, headed for the southern provinces.
He sank to the ground and stretched his legs out, lost in his thoughts of the princess, fearing that Balor might yet capture her. He gazed off in the distance toward the temple and saw a young woman enter the sacred building. Who could she be? He wondered with idle speculation, this woman who sought comfort in these tragic times. For just a moment, he closed his eyes, his every thought on Keriam, missing her like a physical ache, wanting to touch her, hold her in his arms. He opened his eyes, too well aware he dreamed an impossible dream, so afraid he’d never see her again. A shiver of fear raced along his arms and legs, and the very real chance she might be caught and put on trial drove all pleasant memories from his mind. Ah, Princess Keriam, if only I could see you again, hear your voice, see that lovely smile of yours. If only I had you beside me, I would never wish for anything else.
