He slipped away to his hidden camp, assembled his chosen tool, returned to his blind. The wait began.
He could take that for as long as necessary. All impatience had deserted him long ago.
There was no opportunity that day. The occasional child came out but never the right woman. As night fell he withdrew to his camp. It would not do to begin snoring down there.
He prepared food once he was sure the breeze would push smoke up the slope instead of down. He killed the fire as soon as he was done. The air would soon chill and begin to drift back downhill.
He settled to sleep. The ground was not comfortable. He could not drift off. Vaguely, he was aware of the moon rising. A near full moon.
A mule snorted. It must have heard something. He listened.
The laughter of children tinkled on the edge of hearing, way down the mountain.
Could it be? Withdrawal by night would be even better.
They might never see anything. And they had no dogs.
The moon was his friend. His lover. Connected with the goddess of the hunt somewhere, was it not?
He was excited but he was cautious. He was too old to take anything for granted, too old to be anything but careful. He was still alive.
A shadow drifting through shadow, he reached and settled into his chosen blind. There were, indeed, children at play below, frisking by the light of lanterns and the moon.
It was someone’s birthday. Not one of the children, although they were harvesting the joy of the day.
He spanned his weapon quietly, rested it atop the shorter of the two boulders. There was no need to crouch or lie prone. Darkness cloaked all but his face. With his hat pulled forward that would not be recognized for what it was.
The children raced around a small, rocky field that might once have been an attempt to create a garden. Their energy kept distracting him.
A woman. There were several choices.
There. That had to be her. No one but Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir would wear her hair in a single fat braid down the center of her back. No one but Kristen Gjerdrumsdottir would have so many children swarm around her, then rush away again.
He took aim carefully, as ever he did. His finger squeezed the trigger.
Someone tapped him on the right shoulder a split instant before the release. He jerked. His aim depressed slightly and drifted right.
His bolt flew.
Never so swift as the sound of his bowstring snapping. The soldier men began to turn while the quarrel was in the air.
That struck the side of a granite post masking the target’s left leg. Sparks flashed. The ricochet smashed through the breastbone of a small, beautiful doll of a woman.
The archer was in motion already. He did not see the horrified astonishment on the woman’s face.
Blades filled the archer’s hands almost magically. But he found no one behind him.
“Oh, shit. It can’t be.”
He could not muster strength enough to be emphatic.
The thing known as the Unborn hovered over his escape route. The monster infant’s eyes fixed on his. And that was Louis Strass’s last memory for a very long time.
He did understand who had disturbed his aim. Only Old Meddler had longer fingers than the Empire Destroyer.
…
Dahl and two men stormed the mountainside. They found nothing but an abandoned crossbow and, a few yards on, damp pine needles that smelled of piss.
Below, everyone crowded around Sherilee. Kristen shouted, “All of you, get away from her! Get the children inside!” She dropped to her knees, lifted the blonde’s head into her lap. “Hang in there, Sherry. Hang in. We’ll get that out and you’ll be fine. A couple of weeks of rest and you’ll be fine.”
It did not occur to her to worry about the sniper, or about Dahl charging into an ambush. Only later would she wonder why the assassin had not taken advantage. That would come after a baffled Dahl wondered aloud why the killer had abandoned two mules and all his gear when he made his getaway.
Tears dribbled from the corners of Sherilee’s eyes. She husked, “Tell him I’m sorry. I couldn’t… Kristen, I just loved him so much.”
Kristen could barely see through her own tears as the light left Sherilee’s eyes.
Oblivious to the chance of lethal danger, Kristen held her lifelong friend and wept.
This was Kavelin’s fault. No matter who sent the sniper. Kavelin was the reason. Kavelin was the excuse. She screamed, “Kavelin, you cesspit!”
A hundred angry accusations roared through her mind. She articulated none of them. Her throat was too tight. And even in her mad rage she understood that Kavelin was a geographical entity before it was anything else. An artificial feature, colored on a map. What really enraged her was the Kavelin that existed in the minds and hearts of tens of thousands of people who had attachments to an emotional entity.
Kristen wept a long time. No one tried to stop her. Dahl and her children did what they could to comfort her.
She smothered herself in sorrow rather than endless rage and a hunger for revenge.
Vaguely, she hoped she was setting an example for her son, who would be king one day.
Chapter Ten:
Summer, 1017 AFE:
In The East
Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i, just back from a surreptitious visit to the island in the east, was the first Tervola to hear of the violent demise of the last master of Ehelebe, Magden Norath. He did not shed a tear.
What could it mean?
Initial reports, as always, were confused. Divinations into the past were not instructive. Hours of hard work only left him exhausted and depressed.
The Star Rider was becoming meddlesome again and Norath’s killer could only be a man who should have died a long time ago, in prison in Lioantung.
He must have escaped during the final showdown with the Deliverer. Old Meddler must have had a hand in that.
Ah, there was the villain himself. But…! He was not shaping the plot!
He was just another piece on the board where the blood was flying. Though it was not a critical interest, Shih-ka’i did try to put a tag onto the distracted Star Rider so his movements could be followed.
…
Mist passed the blackboard twice without noticing the added characters below Varthlokkur: where are my babies? As always, she was preoccupied. At the moment that was because of the death of Magden Norath. That could shake the foundations of the world.
The third time past her mind registered the message of the new characters: Mother, we are well, with Aunt Nepanthe. We watch when we can.
Mist froze, transfixed by the multiple levels of meaning. Her children were well and evidently happy.
They-and, by extension, Varthlokkur-could look in on her whenever they chose.
Varthlokkur had found a way of reaching into her powerfully protected private quarters to chalk a message on her blackboard.
She had to be afraid.
Not even the Star Rider ought to have that much power.
She collected herself, erased both messages, took up the chalk and, in elegant calligraphy, wrote: I love you, Scalza and Ekaterina. And felt just awful when she laid the chalk back down.
She could not be a normal mother while she was Empress of the Dread Empire. It seemed sinful to think she had any real claim on those kids.
She drifted into dark reveries about the horror show that had been her own childhood. She had not had the protection that Scalza and Ekaterina did. It was a miracle that she had survived to become an adult.
A racket drew her to the entrance to her quarters.
Two bodyguards awaited her there. One said, “Lord Ssu-ma has sent a message saying you should join him in the Karkha Tower. He says it’s urgent.” The other presented a card beautifully calligraphed with that message and Shih-ka’i’s sigil.
“Very well. You will accompany me. You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves. Meet me in the transfer chamber.”