“Anything broken?” asked the stranger.
“Dallen says no—”
“I meant you,” the stranger interrupted.
Mags took a deep breath—or tried to. Every muscle in his chest suddenly constricted painfully. But there weren’t any stabbing sensations, and he answered, “Don’ thin’ so.”
“Blessed Cernos, I have no idea how that happened. Do you see that?” The stranger pointed to a rectangular shape lying off to the side of the road. Mags guessed it was about at long as he was tall. “That was a seat in the carriage. At a guess there was one of them driving and one on the floor, making sure the girl didn’t bounce out or come to and jump out. He ripped out that seat and flung it at you when you came alongside. It probably weighs about as much as you do.”
“Oh.” Well, that explained what had hurtled into them.
“You can thank all that game practice for keeping you both from breaking your necks.” The stranger, who had an oddly familiar look to him, raised his head, rain streaming over him as he closed his eyes for a moment. “There. Everyone knows you’re all intact. Friends are bringing Nikolas up from Haven.”
He whistled shrilly, and a moment later, an extremely tall Companion came trotting in through the rain curtains.
“Any sign?” the stranger asked his Companion.
The Companion blew out a disgusted snort and shook his head vigorously.
“Well, it was worth trying. If anything could track them in this muck, it would be you.” The stranger sighed and turned back to Mags. “All right, let’s get you into the saddle. I’d rather you didn’t walk too far until a Healer has a chance to look at you.”
Obediently, Mags turned toward Dallen, but the stranger’s Companion shouldered in between them. The blue eyes bored into his. ::Not Dallen, he’s in no better shape than you are,:: said a crisp, clear Mindvoice with the sound of bells in it. ::My saddle.::
“Uh... oh... aight,” he replied, blinking, and with every muscle in his body screaming in protest, he reached up to the saddle horn.
He managed that, but he couldn’t get his foot high enough to go into the stirrup—
Before he could think, he felt the stranger boost him, so he did manage to scramble into place. The strange Herald started trudging up the street, plowing with determination through the downpour. His Companion followed, and Dallen moved painfully alongside.
::Who is that?:: he asked Dallen, half of his mind trying to figure out why the stranger looked so familiar, the other half trying to think of some way, any way, he could find Amily and get her back.
::Sedric,:: Dallen replied, shortly.
That name was... familiar.
“You’re lucky I was close, and I’m a strong Mindspeaker,” said Sedric. “I have literally just gotten back from my first circuit. I was waiting out the rain at Master Soren’s when I heard you shouting.”
“You know Master Soren?” Mags asked, still thinking furiously, but fruitlessly.
“I should, I just proposed to Lydia.” There was a sort of grim amusement in his voice. “It’s a damn good thing she doesn’t believe in evil portents, I suppose.”
“Evil... Lydia?” With his mind racing in a hundred directions, he tried to make sense of that. “You—you’re going to marry Lydia?”
“She seems to think so. I’m glad she knows what she’s getting into, or this would likely have sent her screaming away from me.” Sedric waited for a moment for the two Companions to catch up with him, and he put a steadying hand on Dallen’s shoulder when he stumbled a little.
“If you’re—why didn’t I know about this?” Mags asked, staring down at the young man.
“Because, my dear naive Trainee, it’s generally not a good idea for the Heir to the Throne to broadcast his choice of wife when he’s about to be away from the Palace for two years,” Sedric said dryly. “Father tentatively approved when I left, provided Lydia felt the same when I got back. Reasonable—well, my head knew it was reasonable, even though my heart was sobbing worse than a mooncalf lover in one of Marchand’s treacly ballads, and we will not mention in polite company how other parts of me took the edict.”
Finally, the words penetrated the fog of anger and grief and guilt that swirled around inside him. Sedric. Prince Sedric. Herald Prince Sedric. The son of King Kiril’s first marriage—made when the King himself was still a very young Prince—a marriage of state, in which the poor bride, very, very much older than the Prince, had not survived the birth of her son.
A son who had been raised by the very young second wife, the love match, a situation that in ballads, at least, was not inclined to end well.
“Mother was incensed on my behalf,” he said fondly, then sighed. “Dammitall, these bastards have a wretched sense of timing. She’d be beside herself with joy except that right now she’s beside herself with worry over Amily.”
“It’s—it’s all my—” Mags began, the grief starting to overpower everything else.
“You can just stop that foolishness right now, Trainee,” Sedric said fiercely, looking up at him through the rain, his eyes blazing as Dallen’s had. “I know that you are thinking that if you had been with her, she wouldn’t be in their hands now. It is not your fault. It cannot possibly be your fault. Did you call this damned storm?”
His relentless logic startled Mags. “Uh... no . . .”
“There you are. Now listen to someone who knows. From experience. If you wallow in guilt, you are wasting time you could be using to help figure out a way to get her back. You have only so much time and so much thinking power, so concentrate it all on her.” When Mags nodded slowly, he appeared satisfied and hunched his head down against the rain again. “Now. All I know is what I’ve been getting from Father’s letters and in bits and pieces from everyone mind-shouting right now. Begin at the beginning. What in hell has been going on while I was gone?”
Chapter 19
For all of Sedric’s grim determination, no solutions presented themselves, and Mags felt himself teetering on the very brink of utter despair. Nikolas had already plunged headlong into that state, and for once it was the King and Queen who were trying to comfort the King’s Own, not the other way around.
Lena blamed herself. She was the one, after all, who had persuaded Mags and Amily to leave the safety of the Palace to go to Marchand’s concert. Mags, of course, knew that this was his fault—he should have said no. He could have asked to get off from that last class and gone with her. He had done neither, and this was the result.
Marchand, who had made all the arrangements, babbled about them to anyone who would listen and had not thought anything amiss when a strange carriage and driver appeared instead of the one he had hired. He blamed everyone but himself.
The Karsite agents had made no contact nor any demands, but that was only a matter of time.
. . . or Amily’s lifeless body would turn up.
That was something no one wanted to think about, but it hovered in the back of everyone’s thoughts like a specter. If the Karsite agents wanted to destroy the King’s Own now, it would be heartbreakingly simple to do so. They had to know that.