“One dismounted here. See the scuff of his spurs? The horseshoes have a funny shape, too, and there’re three of them.”
“And Austra?”
“She took a horse from that farm back there,” he replied. “This is her.” He pointed to a slurred sort of track. “Trotting him. She’s in a hurry.”
“How far ahead?”
“She’s about an hour ahead, and they’re more than half a day.”
“Can we speed up?”
“Sure, but if she leaves the road, we might miss it.”
“She can’t track the way you can. She’ll stick to the road, and hope the men who have Cazio do, too.”
“Well, then,” Artore said. He urged his horse to a trot.
“Come on, Tarry,” Anne said. At first she just matched the trot, but, just to see what he could do, she encouraged the horse to a run and then a hard-out gallop, and for an instant, despite it all, she found herself grinning. She loved riding, and while Tarry wasn’t as quick as her own steed, Faster, he was a good runner, and she hadn’t been on a horse in a long time. She’d almost forgotten what it was like.
She knew she couldn’t push him like that for long, however, so she went back to a trot and they traveled like that, alternating. The leagues between them and Teremene lengthened as their shadows did, until at last night came, with the prints of her stolen horse the only sign of Austra.
They camped on a hill overlooking the road.
“We’ll catch her tomorrow,” Artore promised. “She’s wearing her horse out, and he’ll be slower. That should put us near the Dunmrogh road, and we can take that west toward Eslen.”
“Dunmrogh,” Anne said. “We’re near Dunmrogh?”
“About five leagues, I’d say. Why?”
“Just curious. I know someone from there.” Roderick. He would help—his family had troops, surely. With his aid, they could go after Cazio and succeed.
But he was more than likely in Eslen. Still, if they were going to be so close, it wouldn’t hurt to find out, would it?
But on the heels of that thought came Cazio’s suspicions. What if her enemies were going to Dunmrogh? What if he really was in league with them?
She put speculation from her mind.
Tomorrow she would know.
The hills sloped gently down into a plain Artore named Magh y Herth, the “Plain of Barrows.” Anne didn’t see any barrows, only leagues of yellowed grass and the occasional line of trees marking a stream. Geese streamed overhead and occasional herds of cattle cropped by the side of the road. Now and then side roads led off to small villages, made visible by their bell towers.
Around midday, a line of green appeared on the horizon, eventually resolving into a forest. The road led them beneath the huge, arching branches of ironoak, ash, everic, and hickory. The hoofbeats of their horses were muffled here by falling leaves. The forest felt old and clingy, like a decrepit man trying to hug her.
“Prethsorucaldh,” Artore said, gesturing at the trees. “You would call it ‘Little Worm Wood.’”
“That’s an odd name,” Anne said. “Why is it called that?”
“I’ve heard some tale about a monster of some sort that lived in the ground, but I don’t recall any details. They say it used to be a part of the King’s Forest, but during the Warlock Wars an army of fire marched on either side of the Saint Sefodh and cut it off. Since then it’s been shrinking. Now it’s the Lord of Dunmrogh’s hunting preserve.”
“An army of fire what?”
“That’s what the stories say—Sverfath of the Twenty Eyes summoned an army of fire and sent it against his enemy—oh, what was her name?—Sefhind the Windwitch. Some say it was an army of flaming demons, others that it was a living river of fire. But those are stories, you know? I’ve never read the sober histories. But if it was fire, it wasn’t an ordinary one, because the trees never came back. You’ll see when we get to the other side—not a tree between here and the river.”
“Atte!” One of the boys shrieked, Anne wasn’t sure which one, and in the space after his cry she heard a peculiar noise, almost like rain though the leaves, but with a peculiar whirring to it. Jarne—who was riding ahead—clutched at his heart and jerked weirdly, then fell off his horse. Everything came into focus then, as she understood that arrows where riving the air around them.
“Go!” Artore shouted, and slapped at Tarry’s tail. The horse started forward violently. Pulse racing, Anne lay close to the stallion’s mane and gave him his head. A couple of arrows hissed by her, so close she could feel the wind, and she wondered what it would feel like when one hit her.
As it turned out, it felt like a hard sort of thump—she thought she’d hit a branch or something. But when she looked down, she saw a long feathered shaft in her thigh. Just as she was wondering why it didn’t hurt, it began to, and her head went light.
Tarry screamed, and she guessed he’d been hit, too, though she couldn’t see where.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Anne gasped. She wasn’t sure who she was talking to. Everyone, she guessed.
Tarry kept running, and after a few long moments Anne realized the arrows had stopped. She looked back and didn’t see anyone at all.
“Artore!” she shouted. Her leg was throbbing now, and she felt feverish and weak.
When she turned back around she saw a horseman, coming from the other direction.
10
Overtures
Muriele woke to soft humming. Sleepily, she opened her eyes and looked for the source.
“Ah,” a male voice said. “Good morning to you, Queen Mother.” She went rigid when she saw that it was Robert, seated lazily in her armchair. Alis Berrye was in his lap.
“Get out of my room,” Muriele commanded.
“Well, it’s not actually your room, you know,” Robert countered. “It belongs to the Crown, and that belongs to me at the moment.”
Muriele didn’t answer, because there wasn’t anything to say. She couldn’t call for the guards, because they wouldn’t come. She looked around, searching for something—anything—to use as a weapon, but there wasn’t anything. Berrye giggled.
“Come now, dear,” Robert said to the girl. “Off we go. I’ve some things to discuss with your lady here.”
“Oh, can’t I stay?” Berrye pouted.
“This will be grown-up talk,” Robert said. “Go into your room and shut the door.”
“Well—I will. But she’s been very rude to me. I think you should punish her.” With that, she got up and vanished into her quarters. Robert stayed where he was, stroking his mustache.
“That was quite a surprise the other day,” he said. “I commend you—I didn’t think you had the resources to even know I was coming.”
“Did you kill my daughters?” Muriele demanded. “I’ve no doubt about William.”
“Well, I can’t be two places at once, can I?” Robert challenged reasonably.
“No. But you can arrange for others to do your evil work. I imagine you wanted to kill William with your own hand.”
He laughed. “You know me so well, Muriele. Yes, so I did want that satisfaction, and you know? It was harder than I thought it would be. William was—well, he was right brave there at the end. A credit to our name. Of course, if he hadn’t been such an utter buffoon, it would never have happened. Even you have to admit, my dear, that he wasn’t much of a king.”
“He was a better king than you will ever be, and a far better man, you septic dement.”
He sighed. “As to your daughters, I didn’t order that, though I knew it would happen. William killed them, really, when he legitimized them to take the throne.”
“The praifec was behind it?”
Robert wagged a finger. “Ah, no, that would be telling you more than you need to know. Anyway, the truth is so much larger than you can imagine. I don’t wish to tax your powers of comprehension. Though, again, you are more canny than I thought you were.” He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Here’s the thing. I need you to put an end to any hopes you might have of a countercoup. There really are problems facing us that require a united front. I know you’re a bit angry at me right now, but you’re a practical woman—”