Irys Daykyn managed not to groan as she swung down out of the saddle. The sun was working its way towards evening overhead, although that was difficult to tell at the moment. The mature growth forest they were passing through had been only thinly invaded by imported terrestrial species, and even the towering Safeholdian pines seemed small and dwarfed under the shadows of the titan oaks. Most of those titan oaks had probably been growing here since the Day of Creation itself, she thought. Some of them were as much as fifteen feet in diameter at the base, and each individual tree would probably have produced enough wood to build an entire war galleon. Even this early in the spring, they wove a solid, green canopy overhead, and the dense shade of their branches had almost completely choked out any underbrush. It was already dim, bordering on outright dark, under that twiggy roof, but at least the absence of undergrowth had allowed the fugitives to make excellent speed.
They’d maintained an alternating trot and walk for the last twenty-two hours, pausing only to rest the horses occasionally… or to swap their saddles to fresh mounts. Merlin had been right about that, she reflected. Not only had King Zhames’ stables had the best horses available, but there’d been enough of them to provide each member of their party with no less than three mounts apiece. Not all were equally good, but even the worst was well above average, and the spare mounts had allowed Merlin to set a pace they could never have maintained with only a single horse each.
And he had-oh, but he had! Irys was grateful her father had had scant patience with the more scandalized ladies of Manchyr who’d insisted his daughter had to ride sidesaddle. She would have been even more grateful if she’d been able to stay in practice after her arrival here in Delferahk. Although, to be fair, she’d thought she had stayed in practice… until she’d spent the better part of an entire day in the saddle.
But by her estimate, they’d traveled almost eighty miles-something closer to sixty, probably, as a wyvern might have flown-and they’d left the foothills of the Sunthorns three hours ago. Which meant they still had somewhere around another hundred and fifty miles-again, in that mythical straight line-to go.
“He’s a remarkable man, isn’t he, Phylyp?” she asked quietly as the earl took her reins. The princess loosened her saddle girth and patted the weary horse’s neck affectionately, then took the reins of both horses while Coris performed the same service for his own mount.
“I assume you’re referring to the redoubtable Seijin Merlin?” he said, smiling at her tiredly. He’d done more hard riding than she in the last couple of years, but he was also better than twice her age.
“Of course I am.” She smiled back and shook her head, then twitched it to indicate the seijin. “Look at him.”
Prince Daivyn sat on an outcrop of rock, looking up at Merlin with an almost worshipful expression. Irys could have counted the number of times she’d seen him that relaxed since leaving Corisande on the fingers of one hand, yet she knew Daivyn was only too well aware that somewhere behind them they were being vengefully pursued. It didn’t seem to matter to him, though, and she wondered how much of that stemmed from the aura of competence and… well, invincibility that clung to the seijin. Certainly it would make sense for a terrified little boy to take comfort from the presence of an armsman who was renowned throughout Safehold as the most deadly bodyguard in the world. And while she wished Daivyn hadn’t had to see the bodies and blood littering the palace courtyard, knowing all that carnage had been wreaked by a single man who was now dedicated to getting him to safety had to be reassuring.
Yet that wasn’t the whole story, and she knew it. Unlike her, Daivyn’s instruction in horsemanship had been far from complete when they fled Corisande, and King Zhames had discouraged him from pursuing it in Delferahk. There were times Irys suspected the king had been instructed to do exactly that by the Inquisition-it wouldn’t have done for the boy to be capable of escaping them, after all. But whatever the reason, Daivyn definitely wasn’t equal to the brutal, bruising pace Merlin had been setting.
Fortunately, he hadn’t had to be. Merlin had simply taken him up before him on his own saddle, wrapped one arm around him, and told him one fantastic fairy tale after another as they rode along. Irys had never even heard of half or more of the stories the seijin produced effortlessly, and in between tales she’d heard his murmuring voice calmly answering Daivyn’s questions without a hint of patronization. And then there’d been the intervals when she’d looked across and seen her brother sleeping peacefully, despite the horse’s motion, held safe in the crook of that apparently tireless arm.
No wonder Daivyn looked at him that way!
And either Merlin had the homing instincts of a messenger wyvern, or else they were hopelessly lost and he simply wasn’t going to admit it. He’d never hesitated, never taken a false turn, never stopped and looked for landmarks. It was as if he had some internal sense which knew exactly where he was at every instant and exactly where he needed to go next. And he had an equally uncanny ability to find the easiest, fastest going. Irys had been on hunting expeditions in Corisande with guides intimately familiar with the area of the hunt, and she’d never seen anyone thread so effortlessly through such difficult terrain. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if there was anything the seijin couldn’t do.
“I agree he’s remarkable, Irys,” Coris said softly, his eyes, too, on Daivyn as the seijin passed him a wedge of cheese and the boy smiled up at him. “And it does my heart good to see him with Daivyn. But don’t forget-he’s a Charisian, and his loyalty’s to Cayleb and Sharleyan.”
“Oh, I’m not forgetting,” she told him, a hint of bleakness shadowing her hazel eyes. “But I don’t think he’s pretending to be a good man, Phylyp. Daivyn’s got very good instincts in that regard, and look at how he’s opened up to Merlin! And I can’t see a man like that offering his sword to a monster. Or”-she looked back at Coris, meeting his gaze levelly-“to someone who’d murder a defeated foe who’d offered to negotiate an honorable surrender.”
“I agree,” Coris said, after a moment. “And I think Cayleb and Sharleyan are probably about as honorable as rulers get. But they’re still rulers, Irys. Even the best of them have to be willing to do what’s required to protect their subjects and their realms. And Daivyn’s a prize of enormous potential value.”
“I know, Phylyp. I know.”
Merlin drew rein as his weary horse topped out on the long ridgeline and he gazed to the east, down the valley of the Sarm River. The Sarman Mountains stretched away on either hand ahead of them, rising in endless green waves like an ocean frozen in earth and stone. It was the second day since they’d left King Zhames’ palace, the western sky was deep copper behind the mountain summits over his right shoulder, and despite the extra mounts, their pace had slowed as the horses grew increasingly weary.
“What is it, Merlin?” the boy in front of him asked, looking trustingly up at him. He was almost eleven, which made him not quite ten by the calendar of murdered Old Terra, and he was obviously worn-out from the pace Merlin had set. For that matter, all the flesh-and-bloods were feeling the strain, and he knew it. But they were within less than thirty miles of the rendezvous point now.
That was the good news. The bad news…
“I think it’s time for another rest, Daivyn,” he told the prince. “And I need to discuss some things with Earl Coris, Tobys, and your sister.” He swung down from the saddle, carrying the boy with him, then set Daivyn on his feet.
“See if Corporal Zhadwail can find you something a little easier to chew than hard tack while I talk to them, all right?”
“All right.” Daivyn nodded, then stretched and yawned and started off towards Zhadwail. Merlin watched him go, then crossed to Coris and Irys.