Cara wet her lips, her eyes fixed on the open door and the stair beyond. No sound came from Desmond but the faint gasping of his breath.
"You have one hope to live," Allegreto said. "You can tell me where she is, and I'll take you out of here before my father comes again."
"No," Desmond whispered.
"Then tell me where I can get a message to her. She must be told that my father is here. She will not expect it. None of us—expected it."
"No, you—will—tell him," Desmond said, his voice a weak grate.
"Cara."
She had to turn. She looked only at his face, his white face, his head lying against the wall. His face was whole.
"You wouldn't listen to me," she hissed. "Listen to me now! Allegreto means to get you free. You can't fight Gian; he'll kill you by inches, or let you live, which will be worse. And we'll die, too, if he finds we came here to aid you! We tried—we tried to spare you this, and you would have none of it! Well might you help yourself now, stupid boy, that Allegreto risks life and limb for you!"
His eyes closed. He rolled his head to the side, mumbling in English.
"Speak French," Allegreto said harshly. "We can't understand you."
"I don't know," the youth muttered. He swallowed and groaned. "I don't know. It hurts."
"Here's my dagger," Allegreto said. "Do you see it? I'll cut you free, and you won't hurt. As soon as you tell me where to send, I'll cut you loose." He turned Desmond's head, to make him see the knife before his eyes. "I give you until she counts to twenty, and then we leave you here to God and my father's mercy."
He nodded to Cara. She began to count, as slowly as she dared, staring at Desmond's racked face. He turned his head from side to side, panting.
"Eighteen," she said, and closed her eyes. Nineteen."
"I can't tell you," Desmond gasped. "But I can—take..."
Allegreto slashed the knife across one set of cords. Desmond cried out as his arm fell.
"Take?" Allegreto demanded, the dagger hovering.
"Take...near. You—give me...the message. Wait for—answer. I swear. Help me!"
Allegreto cut him down.
A band of deep gray-blue threatened rain along the tops of the hills. As the wind blew a warning of late frost from the north, the black branches tossed, showing their tiny green buds in shafts of sunlight.
She hadn't flown Gryngolet long. Her moult would begin soon, and in this weather any stray gust might sweep the falcon beyond a ridge and out of sight. The horses plodded along beside the river, taking snatches at new growth. Melanthe rode dreaming, her mantle close about her ears, thinking of ways she might coax her husband into bodily fellowship.
The music at first seemed like part of the wind. She lifted her head, listening. In a lull she heard it again, or thought she did. Sometimes it seemed a melody, and sometimes only single uncertain notes. She turned in the saddle to look at Hew.
"I hear, my lady." He scowled up at the ridge. "Desmond, my lady. I think me."
Melanthe's hand closed on her reins. "He's come." An old foreboding fell over her, hearing that elvish measure on the high wind—but wavering and broken, a travesty of the song.
Hew was still looking up over the sweep of trees to the heights. He reached for the horn slung over his shoulder.
"Take me to him," Melanthe said.
He paused, the horn lifted. "My lady, Lord Ruadrik said—"
"Take me!" She turned her horse. "Or I'll find my way alone." She urged it down the riverbank. The animal plunged in, fording the stream in knee-deep splashes. They heaved up onto the overgrown track on the other side.
Hew came behind. Without another word he splashed out of the water and pricked his rouncy past her.
Ruck pulled up Hawk from his last gallop. While the destrier recovered its wind, shedding a furry winter coat along with winter fat, Ruck guided him out of the lists. He let his feet dangle out of the stirrups.
He smiled at the May pole that stood ready in the middle of the sheep meadow, ribbons bound tight, the spring blast whistling through them as he rode Hawk in a circle around it. The weather would not smile on their celebrations, he feared; it seldom did, but hope sprang anew each year. If the sun failed them, they would move the pole and festival into the castle bailey.
He left his ax and mace leaning outside the wooden rail of the lists, ready for him when he returned after eating, and let Hawk amble up the slope toward the road. There were already twenty lambs, leaping and running, or staring fixedly at him as if he were some pressing secret to be unraveled. Joany Tumbster stopped him at the gatehouse and demonstrated how she could vault up behind him over Hawk's tail. The destrier bore it patiently, as lenient with girls in fluttering dags as he was intolerant of full-grown men in armor.
They rode into the yard with Joany standing on Hawk's rump, her hands on Ruck's shoulders. Her brother, scraping cow dung into a barrow, yelled at her to let go and stand straight. Just as she dared to chance it, a horn sounded from far outside the walls, taken up by another at the gate.
"Desmond's come!" Joany slipped and snatched at Ruck's neck, bounding free just before she strangled him.
"No. Hold!" His command caught her halfway across the yard to the gate.
She and the others halted, turning their young faces to him, wind-burned and innocent.
"No one goes to him until I know that he does not bring pestilence." He reined Hawk around. "Joany, you come with me, far enough to fetch the princess back—she and Hew went downriver with the falcon. Tell her to wait in her bower until I return."
Until he'd heard the horn, Ruck had not known how much he dreaded it. After he dropped Joany at the crossing, he let the destrier walk across the bridge, as if by going slowly he could gain back the time that had slipped away as the ice had melted from the river.
Hawk hoisted himself up a turn in the familiar path, his hooves sucking in mud. He went without Ruck's guidance, knowing the way out as he knew the way in. They had climbed high on the slope, where the hawthorn buds were still tight and purple-black instead of bursting, when the sharp scent of fresh droppings jolted him from his brooding.
He halted Hawk. The tracks were fresh, ascending instead of descending. They had come in on a side trail.
It could only be Melanthe and Hew. Ruck scowled, unhappy that they had rushed up here to meet the boy. Desmond had not been outside before; he was young and impetuous; he might be fetching anything back—plague and more.
Ruck slapped the horse, urging him to a swifter pace.
Hawk heaved and blew frost, his ears flicking as they drew up to the howling rock and passed it by. The slate cliffs loomed above. Ruck kept expecting to hear Desmond's flute, to meet them all coming down; his nerves grew more taut as Hawk climbed on alone.
The sudden hush of the tarn was like a sound of its own. Beyond the moaning crevice, the pool was tranquil as it always was, black, still ice-skimmed in the cold shadow of the cliffs. As they entered, Hawk shied violently. Ruck grabbed for his sword as a figure rose from the bushes.
It was Hew, without the horses or Melanthe. Ruck controlled the destrier, spurring him forward. "Where is she?" His alarm echoed off the slate, mingling with the ring of Hawk's hooves.
Hew sank to one knee, his head bowed. He had no blood or look of a fight on him. Ruck threw himself from the saddle and grabbed the man's shoulders. "What happened?"
"My lord—a message, my lord. For you, my lord."
For an instant, sight and heart and lungs failed him. She was abducted. Blindly he grabbed for Hawk, to remount. "How long? How many of them?"