Secrets of the Night Special Edition (68 page)

He stared in the window of a sword shop, the few but finely-crafted weapons a reminder that he would need a sword when the time came to overthrow Balor. Now was as good a time as any, he decided, and since he'd never frequented this store, the proprietor wouldn't know him.

He stepped inside the shop, and a bell rang, bringing the owner from a back room.

"Yes, sir, can I help you?"

Roric's gaze covered the scanty selection. "Are these the only swords you have?" Besides those weapons, the store stocked dirks, daggers, and pikes, but again, only a meager selection.

"I'm afraid so, sir. As you probably know, the best swords come from Elegia, but we've had trouble procuring them."

"How so?" Alarm squeezed his gut. He felt certain of the reason but wanted to hear what the man had to say.

"Sir, the trade caravans can't get through. Indeed, they don't try anymore. Brigands rob the merchants, often kill them. Word is that King Balor doesn't pay Elegia for protection, as . . . as the former king did. Trade was safer under--" He stopped and bit his lip. His eyes widened in fright.

Under Tencien.

The owner spoke quickly. "But these are good swords, sir, the best there are. Take this one, for instance." He withdrew a steel sword from under the wooden counter, then set it on the countertop. "Only look at this fine weapon. It's light and fast, and can be swung easily with one hand as well as two. Has a wood grip covered with leather. Good for cutting and thrusting, but most important, it's made of the very best tempered steel." He pushed it toward Roric. "Here, hold it and swing it. See how easily it maneuvers, as if it's part of you."

Roric grasped the sword by its hilt and stepped away from the counter. He swung the sword, liking its feel, its easy grip. Moving back to the display case, he looked over the others on the shelves but realized this was the best of the lot, and was, indeed, a fine sword.

"How much?"

"One gold and two silvers, sir. You won't be sorry you bought it. This will serve you well, even though the country isn't at war--" He stopped again, his face flushed.

Isn’t at war yet.

"Scabbard comes with it," he quickly added.

"Yes, of course." Roric set two gold pieces down, and while the proprietor made change from a wooden box under the counter, he unbuckled his sword belt and adjusted the scabbard, then slid the sword inside with a ringing sound. Satisfied he'd made a good purchase, he bade the man goodbye and stepped out into the bright sunshine.

Roric passed the Snow Leopard, and painful memories touched his heart. It was here he'd first spoken to Keriam on a bright spring morning when she had "accidentally" dropped her bracelet. He'd often wondered why she had "arranged" their meeting but feared it would forever remain a mystery. He saw her now as if she stood before him, she of the fair skin and deep blue eyes, and hair as dark as midnight. Tremendous sadness overcame him, the very real fear that he might never see her again, talk to her, hear her voice. If only he could have her with him now, reach out and touch her, he would never ask for anything more.

Sighing with his loss, he soon reached another tavern, The White Eagle. By now thirsty and hungry, he entered the dimly-lit common room, noting in a quick appraisal that only a few customers patronized the place at this busy hour. He removed his cloak and hung it on a rack, then pulled out a chair at an empty wooden table. With little adornment, it was a simple tavern, clean and serviceable.

A tavern maid approached, her face lined and careworn, her white apron ragged but clean. "Yes, sir?"

"A mug of corma. What are you serving today?" His stomach grumbled.

"Lamb stew, sir, same as every day."

"Lamb stew, then." He stretched his legs out under the table and glanced around the room again. A few drovers occupied the other tables, their expressions glum, their clothes tattered.

The waitress returned shortly, carrying a wooden tray laden with the corma and steaming stew, along with a few slices of oat bread. Roric caught the tempting aromas of the stew, his stomach grumbling again.

He looked up as she set his order beside him.” Surprised to see so few people here. Business usually so slow this hour of the day?"

An astonished look crossed her face, quickly replaced by one of sadness. "Things are bad now, sir, except for the rich. Pah! Those people never have to worry about money. But the king . . ." She clamped her mouth shut.

"Go ahead," Roric prodded. "The king?"

"He's drafted so many young men, there ain't no one to work the farms," she said in low tones. "No one to work in the shops, either." She shook her head. "Bad times for everyone, not enough to eat, people goin' hungry. And something else . . ." Another pause ensued.

“Yes?” Roric dipped his spoon into the soup. Thick with onions, carrots, and potatoes, the soup tasted of bay leaves and chervil.

"I heard tell of a few cases of the plague."

"What!" He sat up straight. "The plague?"

"I fear so." She twisted her hands in her apron. "Not really sure if that's what it is. But there's been a lot more deaths than usual. Just in case it is the plague, the king has forbidden travel from the city. All the roads are guarded. But the dead--their families wrap up the bodies and bury 'em right away. No mournin' period. So what else could it be?" she said, her voice rising.

She leaned closer and lowered her voice again. "And if that ain't strange enough, some woman's been roamin' the city, warnin' of the black fever. No one paid any attention to her before, just thought she was crazed or somethin', but now talk is . . ." Her voice trembled.

"The talk is . . .?"

"Talk is, she's a witch that brought the plague on us."

A chill raced down Roric's spine, but he forced himself to speak in calm tones. "She'd better beware, then, before she's caught and put on trial, burned as a witch." Despite his fear of witchcraft, he dreaded the notion of a woman suffering at the stake. There hadn't been any such executions in his lifetime, nor for years before that.

"What about the princess?" he asked, his voice level. "Any news on her?" His heart pounded; his hands stilled.

"Ah, sir, the king's offered a reward for her capture--ten gold pieces. Was five before."

She was alive! His heartbeat increased. Princess Keriam had to elude Balor. The alternative didn't bear consideration. Where was the princess now--in the city? Would he see her today? Not a chance in a thousand. Goddess! How he wanted to see her again, hear her dear voice, and if only he could, take her in his arms and kiss her to drive them both out of their minds. Foolish dream!

"So far, no one knows where she is," the waitress went on. "Everyone always talks about her, thinkin' how badly she's been trea--" She shook her head. "Poor princess. Her father bein' killed, her escaped from the palace and hunted down like some criminal . . ."

Obviously afraid she'd talked too much, the waitress walked off, leaving him to the meal and his morose thoughts. Where in the city was the princess now? He regretted the angry words between them, her suspicion that he was loyal to Balor. He tapped his fingers on the table, his every thought on Princess Keriam. By now, his stew had cooled and his appetite had gone, but he finished his meal and dropped two copper coins on the table, then left the tavern.

Mindful of the sun's slow descent toward the east, still he decided to linger in the city. A few hours remained before darkness. Everywhere he looked, he saw beggars, men out of work. Roric wanted--needed--solitude before he returned to the forest, to the cave he shared with several families.

Sacred shrine! How he hated this idleness, this lack of purpose in his life. Within the forest, he helped the outlanders fell trees and chop wood for the coming winter, but he longed to rid the
kingdom
of
Balor
. Assured now that Conneid and his wife remained in good hands, he decided to leave for Elegia soon, to try to persuade King Barzad to aid Avador.

Needing quiet, Roric headed southwest, toward the Treasury of Knowledge, and beyond that, the meadow that bordered the
Nantosuelta
River
. Ahead, he saw the tall spire that graced the top of Talmora's temple, a spire that reached to the sky. A short time later, he crossed
Aventina Way
and reached the meadow, the grass burnt and dying, the trees losing their leaves. Red, gold, and orange leaves crunched beneath his boots and blew in a cold gust that swept across the glade. The winding river glinted in the bright sunlight, its waters rippling with silvery flashes. A barge floated past, laden with lumber, headed for the southern provinces.

He sank to the ground and stretched his legs out, lost in his thoughts of the princess, fearing that Balor might yet capture her. He gazed off in the distance toward the temple and saw a young woman enter the sacred building. Who could she be? He wondered with idle speculation, this woman who sought comfort in these tragic times. For just a moment, he closed his eyes, his every thought on Keriam, missing her like a physical ache, wanting to touch her, hold her in his arms. He opened his eyes, too well aware he dreamed an impossible dream, so afraid he’d never see her again. A shiver of fear raced along his arms and legs, and the very real chance she might be caught and put on trial drove all pleasant memories from his mind.
Ah, Princess Keriam, if only I could see you again, hear your voice, see that lovely smile of yours. If only I had you beside me, I would never wish for anything else.

Time slid past and Roric rose to his feet, brushing leaves and bracken from his tunic.

He turned to leave, saddened by the changes in the city since Balor's ascension to the throne, worried about the threat of the black fever. As for Balor, Roric itched to drive that tyrant from the throne.

Hunger, misery, and disease prowled the streets of Moytura.

* * *

Keriam ascended the steps to Talmora's temple, a grandiose sandstone building that commanded a massive space beyond the city hospital. A tall stone statue of the Goddess herself guarded its entrance. Keriam pulled at the gleaming gold handle of the wide oaken door, her worn shoes flapping on the flagstone floor as she stepped inside and approached the altar against a far wall. At the altar, an eternal flame burned before another statue of the earth-mother Goddess, this one smaller but more ornate, with solid gold shoes and sapphire eyes. Her white robe glittered in the firelight, an iron spear clutched in her right hand, the Book of Laws in her left. Her face appeared serene, near lifelike in its compassionate smile. A selection of fine white tapers rested on the altar, awaiting petitioners' prayers.

Hungry and frustrated, Keriam hoped to gain much-needed solace and inspiration from the temple. What had all her warnings accomplished? Nothing, save ridicule. Two worshipers walked past, casting her disparaging glances. Her gaze covered her ragged dress, her scuffed shoes. Why, she looked like a beggar.

Aside from the white-robed druidesses, only a few other people walked the temple's wide corridors, murmuring quietly among themselves. The polished wood ceiling shone like glass, and numerous bas reliefs of the Goddess adorned the white stone walls, interspersed with sandstone pilasters. The fragrance of frankincense floated in the air.

Keriam lit a candle from the eternal flame, then knelt in silent prayer.
Dear Talmora, please watch over my people. Protect them from the plague, so that they may all live to serve you. Please help me gain the throne, not for my sake, but for yours and for my people
. Head bent, she continued, including in her silent entreaties all those she knew and cared for. She prayed for Radegunda and Maudina, all the palace servants. And Roric Gamal? An inner voice whispered. What about him? She didn't know. If he were truly loyal to her, would he still serve Balor? Watch over Roric Gamal, was all she could implore. Sadness overcame her, near painful in its intensity, a desire to see him again, to learn–once and for all–if he remained loyal to her father’s memory, or if he truly believed in Balor. Will I ever see him again? She wondered, afraid to accept that he was gone from her life forever.

About to stand, she looked up at the statue--and gasped. The statue had moved! She looked again and wondered if she'd only imagined it, for surely the statue was in the same position as before. She leaned against the altar and took deep breaths. Yes, only your imagination, she assured herself. How could a piece of stone move by itself, sacred though it was? She stayed in the same position for long moments, waiting for her breathing to return to normal. Rising to her feet, she brushed a tear from her eye, only then realizing how her emotions had wrought such havoc within her. And maybe that was what had caused her to think the statue had moved--only her emotions.

A druidess approached, her soft velvet slippers whispering across the floor, her white robe billowing behind her. A white veil covered her hair and flowed down her back, a gold diadem holding the veil in place. "Child, would you like to come to my private prayer room and tell me what's troubling you?"

"No, but I thank you, druidess." If only she could! And if she revealed her identity, that information would ensure her the death penalty.

After a few quiet words with the druidess, she left the temple, wrapping her dirty woolen cloak around her against the late afternoon chill. A gust whipped her hair in her face and blew dust in her eyes. Tree branches tossed in the wind, scattering their dry leaves on the street. About to head east again to the city center, she stopped, staring across the way, toward the wide meadow. A young man strode across the grass, his walk quick and confident. Something about him--his dark hair, the way he held his head and shoulders--resurrected painful memories. Could it really be Roric Gamal? What was he doing here at this time of day, instead of toadying to that treasonous fiend, Balor, back at the palace?