It vibrated in waves, as if she were hearing it through water; the beast concentrated and decided after a moment that she was, in fact, hearing a watery echo from a spring-fed lake that she sensed, cool and dark, above her. Despite its distortion there was a clarity to it that could not be denied; her heart began to race with excitement darkened by the cruelty of revenge.
With all the force that her titanic muscles could muster, the beast bore up through the layers of rocks, crawling with every ounce of her coiled strength, gaining speed, gaining fury, toward the surface.
Toward sweet destruction.
28
The royal caravan slowed to a halt at the call of the lead driver.
Gwydion Navarne waited until his carriage had rolled to a stop, then carefully pulled aside the heavy shade and glanced outside. Salt spray blew into the carriage, carrying with it crystals of ice that stung as they made contact with his skin. He dropped the shade and looked questioningly at the Lord Marshal, who was sitting uncomfortably on the velvet bench across from him.
The visit of state to Tyrian, the Lirin forest realm over which Rhapsody was titular queen, had gone reasonably well. Anborn had remained, for the most part, out of sight, as the Lirin tended to still harbor an old grudge from the era of the Cymrian War only recently put aside at the Lady’s insistence. As a result, Gwydion’s first official state visit was experienced almost entirely on his own, under the guidance of Rial, Rhapsody’s viceroy. He had been fascinated to walk the forest streets of Tyrian City, the capital hidden deep within the greenwood, with its ingenious defenses and elevated walkways suspended in the forest canopy between the trees. He felt a sense of wonder that he had long ago forgotten as he watched the passage of the foot traffic, where the people and forest animals traveled the same roads in harmony. His father had always been fond of the Lirin and had maintained friendly relations with them; it warmed Gwydion to see that affection returned in the greetings of the populace of Tyrian, the slender, dark-eyed people of the forest who opened their longhouses and battlements, their palace and winter gardens to him.
It had been difficult to leave, but once his official duties had been discharged, and his tour was complete, Gwydion had bidden Rial and the Lirin dignitaries farewell, indicating that his next stops were the harbor towns of Minsyth and Evermere in the unclaimed region known commonly as the Nonaligned States, as Anborn had instructed him to do. He had received their gifts of state with eagerness, reciprocating with the excellent Canderian brandy and the crystal from his own province that Rhapsody suggested he bring, then met up with the Lord Marshal, who was impatiently awaiting their departure for what he considered the real destinations of their journey. Twelve days of travel followed, much of it spent in silence as Anborn watched out the carriage window, contemplating whatever he was seeing through azure eyes that had beheld much of the region’s bloody history. Gwydion maintained that silence respectfully.
“Are we in Evermere now, then?” he asked uncertainly now.
Anborn nodded shortly.
Gwydion pulled the curtain back again, more cautiously this time.
In the distance the sea was rolling to a windswept shore, crashing in icy breakers beneath ragged floating docks. He could make out perhaps a dozen ships of varying sizes, many of them sea-worn and old, docked at a pier that was similarly old and dark of timber. From the docks a walkway dotted with holes led to a small port town, its wooden and brick shops and houses having clearly seen better days.
After an awkward length of silence, Gwydion coughed politely.
“Er—Lord Marshal, why are we here? I thought you wished to concentrate on Sorbold.”
Anborn leveled his piercing blue gaze at Gwydion.
“We are here because Evermere is well known for its whorehouses,” he said. “An important part of any young man’s education.”
Beads of sweat emerged from Gwydion’s brow.
“I—I had not realized that this was your intention,” he stammered nervously. “Besides, are there not such things in Roland?”
“Indeed,” Anborn said idly, glancing out the window again. “By the time I’m done with your mentoring, you will know each and every one from here to the middle continent.” He caught a glimpse of the young duke’s paling face and blinked in astonishment. “Not to frequent as a client, you young fool, although there is certainly nothing wrong with that when you are older. Brothels are an excellent source of information and refuge. I’ve hidden out in more whorehouses than bunkers in my life.”
“So why are we here now, then? Are you seeking information on Sorbold in the brothels of Evermere?”
Anborn scowled and pulled the shade back, then shouted to the captain of the mounted honor guard accompanying the carriage.
“Roust! Bring two riderless horses round. The young duke and I wish to set out on our own—and once we’re gone, you may visit the port in shifts as well.” The captain’s eyes shot up into his hairline, then a smile crept over his face.
“Yes, m’lord.”
Anborn’s face molded into a forced smile. “Don’t dip your wicks into any suspicious lamp oil,” he said heartily. “Every legend you’ve heard about the brothels of Evermere is true—so it’s best to rosin yourself off afterward, or you’ll be sharing lice with every sailor who plies the wide central sea. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. We’ll be back in a sennight.”
Anborn let the curtain fall back over the window. He reached under his seat and pulled out a bundle of clothes, which he tossed at Gwydion.
“Wouldn’t want to be too conspicuous among the finer citizens of Evermere,” he said, pointing to the crest on Gwydion’s chest. “Imagine the scandal.” He reached around his useless legs and pulled out another bundle, and began to change as well.
Within moments a pair of mounts were saddled and outfitted. Gwydion watched the guards assist the Lord Marshal onto one of them, then climbed uncertainly onto the other. Anborn dragged on the reins and rode off for the port town; Gwydion set off after him, having no idea what to expect once they dismounted.
Once they were over the hill toward Evermere, Anborn glanced back over his shoulder, then turned east and rode off along a cargo path, with Gwydion struggling to keep up.
“We—we’re not going to—Evermere—then?” he gasped, spurring his mount in the futile attempt to catch up.
“Sorry to disappoint your loins if I misled them, but no, we are heading to Ghant now,” Anborn called back. “If they think we are whoring, they will be discreet as to our disappearance.”
“Ah,” Gwydion said; his tone signaled disappointment, but his relief was immediate. The concept of lessons in a seaside whoring town had turned his stomach to porridge, especially given Anborn’s reputation for wenching and some of his proclivities.
They rode in silence eastward along the windy coastline, through frost-bleached highgrass and over rocky roadways that had been all but overgrown in autumn from decades of disuse. Most of the sea traffic of the Nonaligned States came into port in the western port of Minsyth, which found Tyrian to be a more comfortable neighbor than Evermere found Sorbold to be.
Anborn’s handicap limited the length of each leg of their travels, though Gwydion was grateful each time the Cymrian hero called a halt to their ride; he found himself sore from the saddle as he helped the Lord Marshal down from his horse. A few hours of rest by a hastily built fire, another hour of instruction in the use of Tysterisk, and they would mount again, riding with the intent of crossing the border unseen.
Each time Gwydion drew the all-but-invisible blade from its sheath, he felt the wind around him die down, as if the very air awaited his command. Anborn seemed to be aware of his discomfort but ignored it. He had blindfolded the young duke from the outset of his training so that he was able to feel the heft of the weapon, rather than be deceived by the seeming absence of a blade. Day by day, Gwydion felt his anxiety diminish. Achmed’s words rang in his head as Anborn’s rang in his ears.