"Haverness, I need to ride with you," said Garranon hoarsely. "If I stay here longer, I'll slit Jakoven's throat myself—which fool act would do Oranstone no good at all."
Haverness gave him an odd look, then shifted his gaze to watch his two men galloping after the Shavig lordling. "Foolish indeed. Very well, Garranon, ride with us for Oranstone."
"Oranstone lives." Garranon made a sign with his fingers, an old sign of the Oranstone rebels.
Haverness returned the signal easily and switched to his native tongue. "Oranstone free."
Garranon wondered if everyone hadn't been a little too certain of Haverness's loyalty to the king.
Beckram's rented horses were staggering by the time Hurog appeared, dark and foreboding in the morning skyline. Two days and three nights of riding, eight changes of mounts, and most of Garranon's gold had gotten him this far. He hadn't seen Haverness's men since the second night.
Just in front of the gate, Beckram drew his horse to a halt. When he'd ruined a friend's horse by jumping it recklessly over a fence too high for hurdling, his father had paid for the animal. This time there was nothing his father could fix.
Exhausted, Beckram laughed, though there was nothing humorous about it. He'd been bringing his brother to Hurog for his father to fix, and he hadn't even realized it. He let the horses plod ahead.
The sound of hooves on the pavement in front of Hurog alerted the sentries, but they recognized him and opened the gate. Although it was barely dawn, his father was in the bailey talking to one of the farmers when Beckram rode in.
"Erdrick?"
Beckram blinked stupidly, wondering how his father had jumped across the bailey so fast. Then it occurred to him that he'd closed his eyes for a bit.
"Erdrick? What's wrong? Who's…who's on the horse?"
Beckram slid off his horse and continued to fall until he knelt on the cool ground.
"I'm Beckram," he said clearly. "Erdrick's dead. My fault." He stared at his father, waiting for the news to hit, waiting to be punished as he deserved.
"So the king killed Erdrick. Because you were sleeping with the queen? After he'd all but ordered you to do so?"
Beckram wondered that his father's voice was so calm. They sat in a small antechamber, where no one could hear.
Beckram was still tired, but he'd slept, drugged with mulled wine and exhaustion, until the dreams had driven him from his bed. For the third time he said, "The king killed Erdrick, thinking he was me. If I hadn't talked Erdrick into taking my place, he would be alive."
Duraugh closed his eyes. "I saved that young fool's life once, did you know? Saved it so he could kill my son." He sighed. "We'll bury Erdrick tomorrow. Your mother's here."
"She'll want to bury him at Iftahar."
His father heard the need in his voice. "He'll be buried here unless you wish it differently."
"Here. Hurog will protect him from murderers and fools." He hadn't meant to say that, it sounded silly aloud.
His father merely nodded.
Beckram relaxed a bit. "I'll leave the next day for Estian."
"You're still set on joining Haverness in his fool's errand?"
Beckram picked at the table covering. "I need something to do. If I don't, I'll kill him."
Duraugh's mouth tightened. "Don't think I haven't considered it. If it were fifteen years ago, I could do it. Young Alizon was popular, and the world was used to war. But Jakoven has gotten rid of most of the men who could stand against him, and Alizon's a useless fop outside the battlefield." He sighed. "Very well, go. But I won't send you alone. I'll talk to Stala. She and fifty men will accompany you, fighting under your command."
"I can't take them," said Beckram. "Haverness only has leave for a hundred men. I believe I'm the eighty-fifth."
"You'll take them," said Duraugh, standing up. "The Blue Guard's motto is 'We fight as one. You will only be one."
"The king won't accept that."
Duraugh smiled coldly. "I'll talk to him. Leave it to me."
10—WARDWICK
Death is a wretched business, and rain only made it worse.
Several weeks into my quest, my search for glory seemed fruitless. We looked for Vorsagian raiders as we neared the southern reaches of Oranstone, but only came upon a few more groups of ragged bandits and the burnt-over villages where the Vorsag had been. It rained all the time—except when it hailed or sleeted. Oreg's gelding and one of the packhorses had developed hoof rot, despite the oil we used. Everyone's temper was short from being constantly cold and damp.
Tosten, as always, was the worst, seldom speaking except in answer to direct questions. The cold damp caused an old wound in Penrod's shoulder to act up, making practice visibly painful, but he didn't allow me to release him. When Axiel forced him to stop, he and Penrod almost came to blows—would have, except for Bastilla's intervention. Axiel, son of the king of dwarves, watched me like a sheepdog watching his shepherd but said little. Even Oreg was subdued.
We stopped at a village one midafternoon for provisions. It wasn't much, but I sent Penrod to find the headman and talk to him. Oreg took the opportunity to wander off, exploring.
"They say they haven't seen any raiders, nor heard of any," said Penrod when he returned. "They also say that they've no grain for sale, nor any other foodstuff."
We'd heard that often enough. If it hadn't been for Luavellet's provisions and our own woodcraft, we'd have been starving. Oranstonians had a long memory.
"Did you tell them that the village east of here was burned to the ground when we passed it?" asked Tosten.
"I did," said Penrod. "I'm fairly sure they think we're the ones who did it. Where's Oreg?"
"He went to look at Meron's temple," I said. "I think he went to ask her to stop the rain."
"It'll just sleet, then," said Axiel sourly.
This village was larger than the last we'd been in, but that was all to be said of it. There had been people going about their business when we came. Upon seeing us, they'd sought shelter in the small stone and thatch huts that were set in circles off of the path that served as the main road.
The temple of Meron the Healer, goddess of growing things, was a little larger than the other buildings, and some time ago someone had painted it; there were still flecks of blue and white on the orange stone. It had no door, just a bit of ragged oilcloth hung from the doorframe.
"He went to look at the artifacts. Meron's temples are filled with them," explained Bastilla. "I don't feel much magic from the temple, though."
We had gone from being mercenary warriors here to save Oranstone from the evil Vorsag to being unwanted tourists. I rolled my eyes at the thought.
"There isn't very much magic in Meron's temples," I told her. "Not really. Most of the nobles worship Vekke, the god of war. Meron's priests might demand magic as tribute, but that usually means homemade charms from some hedgewitch. Peasants can't afford real magic."
"Silverfells is not far from here," said Axiel, "I recognize that rock formation." He pointed toward an outcropping on a hill. "I think we passed just west of here last time we came. If you're looking for interesting magical items, Silverfells has a stone they claim was once a dragon."
Penrod snorted. "The Hurogmeten said it was as much a dragon as he was a horse when we stopped by there."
Axiel shook his head. "I don't know. It was steeped in magic, I could tell that much." I hadn't known he could detect magic.
Oreg ducked under the cloth door of the temple and sloshed his way to his horse. "Where do we go next?"
"Silverfells," I said. Let's go be tourists, I thought bitterly.