The Sleeping King (9 page)

“At least we did something productive today. Justin and I caught your breakfast for the morrow while you sat around being pretty and useless.”

Arianna drew herself up and said huffily, “I shall be the bride of—” She broke off.

“Of whom?” Raina challenged. To her knowledge, no match had been arranged for her or her sister. Tradition held that the elder daughter got to travel the wide world and seek a husband far away for herself while the younger daughter stayed home and managed the family's lands and holdings. It wasn't fair in the least, not that anyone had bothered to ask
her
about it.

“You'll find out soon enough. Sooner than you know,” her sister replied smugly.

Raina didn't have the slightest idea what Arianna was talking about and, furthermore, couldn't care less. Such matters were still a lifetime away for her. She shrugged and continued walking toward the keep.

“Who's that?” Justin asked suddenly.

She followed his pointing finger and spied movement on the rise where the Tyrel Road topped it. A cluster of robed men walked this way at a steady, traveler's pace. “Probably guests arriving for my party.”

“I don't recognize them. Nor the blazons and symbols on their robes,” Justin muttered.

Raina frowned. The only strangers who came to this remote little corner of the colony were tax collectors. But it was far too early in the year for that. She squinted at the two tall figures leading the little party. Justin was right. The dark green cloaks and angular silver runes upon them were foreign to her.

“Let's go greet them,” she declared.

“It would not be wise until we know who they are…,” Justin started.

Impatient of his caution, she burst into a run. Of course, he was obliged to keep pace beside her. “You're an idiot,” he grunted.

“You forgot to add ‘reckless and impulsive,'” she panted as his stride lengthened, forcing her to work at keeping up with him.

The travelers stopped sharply, seemingly startled at the sight of locals racing at them pell-mell. Justin slowed, and Raina was grateful to pull up. The stupid corset her mother had recently taken to making her wear was giving her an awful pain in her side.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” Justin said formally. “Welcome to Tyrel.”

One of the new arrivals was of an age with her father; the other was perhaps two dozen summers in age. The three men behind the pair in dark blue were obviously servants and each carried a bulky pack.

Raina eyed the two in front. Their cloaks were made of rich wool, the clasps at their throats finely worked silver with triangular symbols on them. Their blazons were intricately worked silver badges with an ancient-looking and stylized triple-leaf design highlighted in green enamel. Even at a glance, she saw the craftsmanship in the baubles was superior. And yet, for all their finery, a disturbing air clung to the men. Sinister. She frowned, failing to put her finger on the source of her disquiet.

“Well met, young sir. And who might you be?” the older one replied formally.

“I am Justin Morland, a servant of the manor. And this is Lady Raina, second daughter of the house.”

Both travelers' gazes snapped to her with avid interest … and something else. Something that sent a ripple of unease climbing her spine. It was as if they measured her. But for what? The younger one's mouth curved up in a self-satisfied smile that made her skin positively crawl.

The older one asked, “Is Lady Charlotte in the manor?”

His tongue wrapped all too familiarly around her mother's name for Raina's liking. She replied stiffly, “Aye.”

Arianna, who had not deigned to run like a hoyden, caught up with them just then, not a hair out of place and not the least bit out of breath. “Greetings. Welcome and well met, I am Arianna of Tyrel. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

Raina gritted her teeth at her sister's smooth courtesy. How come she could never manage to sound so calm and collected?

“Greetings, my lady,” the younger one murmured as he bowed deeply. “It is an honor, indeed, to meet
ane lu kagiri
.”

Raina started. She'd heard rumors of dead languages actually existing, but had never found any real evidence to support the rumors. Where did these men gain access to knowledge of any tongue other than the one spoken by everyone, everywhere? The syllables the young man spoke barely tickled at the edges of her understanding as if they were some incredibly ancient form of Common. She took a stab at its meaning.
She who waits?
Why would the fellow call her sister that?

The older one spoke hastily, as if to distract from his young companion's slip. “Our journey has been long and the road dusty. Perhaps a drink to wet our parched throats is to be had?”

Arianna went into full hostess mode, then, bustling about and calling for servants to come relieve the travelers of their loads and bring water and wine right away.

Raina trailed along behind the party, Justin faithfully at her side. She muttered to one of the mud-spattered load bearers, “From whence come you?”

He looked startled to be addressed, and answered in a bare mumble, “We be Jena men. But them two's”—he jerked his chin toward the men in green and his voice dropped into a bare whisper—“said to be Mages of Alchizzadon.” He made a hand sign to ward off evil magics.

Although Raina wasn't generally superstitious, she understood the man's fear. There was something ominous about the pair. What on Urth could her mother have obtained from such men for her birthday present? Frankly, she wasn't sure she wanted to receive such a gift.

The parade passed under the sturdy portcullis and gained the outer bailey of the keep, which was paved more in muck than cobbled stones at the moment. The visitors were ushered into the manor proper, and abrupt quiet fell in the yard. Justin made to leave her side and head for the kitchens with the fish, but Raina touched his arm. He halted questioningly.

“Thanks be to you for today,” she said softly. “It was the best gift ever.”

He smiled down fondly at her. “You are most welcome.”

The moment froze itself in her memory, imprinting indelibly upon her mind, never to be forgotten, the pungent scent of lye from the recently cleaned stables and the crusty smell of hot bread, fresh from the brick beehive oven beside the kitchen; the red glow of the sunset highlighting one side of Justin's face and casting the other in shadow; the coolness of coming evening upon her bare arms.

He spoke quietly. “Go get ready for your party, muckling.”

“You will be there, will you not?” she asked anxiously. The new guests gave her a bad feeling, and a corresponding compulsion for him to be near surged within her.

“I would not miss your party for all the world.”

Impulsively she stretched up on tiptoe and dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. It wasn't the sort of thing they did between them, and her face heated up. She whirled and ran for the keep.

THE SOUTHERNMOST MARGIN OF THE COLONY OF DUPREE

Will jumped carefully from boulder to boulder at the bottom of Hickory Knot, the big hill just beyond the village of Hickory Hollow, balancing his precious cargo in one hand and trying to remain silent all the while. It was his favorite moment of the day, taking the evening meal to the watch. The sun slipped below the horizon and long shadows hid his movement as he climbed.

Adrick was on duty this eve. Will always tried to sneak up on the seasoned barbarian hunter, and Adrick always spotted Will first. Once the pot of stew was delivered, as often as not the older man invited Will to sit with him for a while. He'd regale Will with stories of his latest hunt or show him a thing or two with whatever weapon he happened to be carrying that night: spear or bow, dagger or axe.

It galled Will that his own father steadfastly refused to teach him even the most basic weapon skills, muttering instead about the danger of being discovered carrying such knowledge in his head. As if the Empire would ever bother investigating the thoughts of a cobbler's son living on the very farthest edge of the civilized world. Oh, Ty taught Will plenty about sweeping floors and stoking forge fires and threshing grain, and even about controlling his emotions, silencing his mind, and marshaling his thoughts. But his imagination ran to heroic adventures and glory in battle.

Into thick brush, now, Will crept more slowly, easing through the brambles cautiously. The slope grew steeper, and he had to use both hands to steady the ceramic pot, which made the climb all the trickier. He'd never approached the clearing atop the knot from this direction before. If he could be quiet enough about it, he would finally win the ongoing contest with Adrick for certes.

He reached the ring of stones crowning the Knot and crouched low, crawling with three limbs while he cradled the stew pot in his left arm. In the gathering dusk, he spied a corner of Adrick's fur-trimmed cloak on the far side of the giant old hickory that gave this spot its name. Will grinned. He eased upright, stepped carefully over the low stacked stones, and charged the tree on light, quick feet.

“Got you this time, Adrick!” He gave the cloak a victorious yank—

—and the rough wool fell to the ground, slithering off the butt of the lone spear planted in the dirt. He started to whirl, to seek his tricky prey, when cold steel bit at the joining of his chin and neck.

“Not bad, boy. Not bad at all.” The steel pulled away.

Will huffed in disgust. “I'll never be as good as you, Adrick.”

“It is nae true. Ye'll make a fine hunter fer sure, if yer father ever lets ye off the leash and out of yon hovel.” The older man swept the pot from Will's hand and held it to his nose, taking a long, appreciative sniff. “Ahh, yer ma's squirrel stew. Best cook in the Ring, she be.”

Adrick made his living traveling the ring of settlements surrounding the margins of the Wylde Wood, hunting and trapping as he went. The woodsman sat down on a flat-topped boulder that made for a decent bench and gestured Will to sit beside him.

Will looked down at the hollow, a muddy village straddling the intersection of two footpaths in the middle of nowhere. While some might call it a fine enough place to live, far from the prying eyes of the Empire, he called it his prison. He desired nothing more than to leave home and see the world. To seek adventure. Honor. Glory.

“Truth be, boy, it is the stew that gave ye away. Smelled it afore ye set foot upon the slope. Good climbing, by the by. Watched yer whole ascent, I did. Clever to come by the most impassable route.”

Will's spirits lifted at that. He rubbed idly at the sore spot under his chin where the razor-sharp dagger had pressed into his flesh. “Mayhap I should not have talked my father into making you that dagger, or at least not making it so sharp.”

“Ty's blades take an' hold fine edges, they do,” Adrick replied, running the pad of his thumb lightly along the gleaming blade. “Woodsman's best friend, a good blade. Yer sire should make ye a sword, and soon. It is time and more that ye've a long blade at yer hip.”

Will snorted. As if he hadn't had that argument with his father a hundred times or more already.

“'Ave ye ever asked yer ole man where he learned to make such a weapon? It is a passing strange skill fer a cobbler in the Wylding.”

Will shrugged. Ty had long refused to answer any and all questions about his past.

Silence fell as the woodsman dug into the pot of stew with gusto. Finally, Will's impatience was such that he had to blurt, “Will you show me a new trick tonight, Adrick?”

“Tell ye what, boy. If ye can run back to yer house, give yer ma this rabbit I snared, get yer folks' leave to come back to the Knot, and run back here afore I take my fill of this here stew, I'll let ye stand watch with me. And I might just be talked into showin' ye a thing or two.”

Exultation leaped in Will's chest as he jumped to his feet. “I'll be back before you've finished half the stew!”

“I'm thinkin' gettin' permission from yer pa's goin' to be the real test!” Adrick called after Will as he took off running.

“You underestimate my skill with words!” Will shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted down the curving path to the vale below.

Will ran down the main street and skidded to a stop at the threshold of his family's freshly whitewashed cottage, last in the row, only a little ways from the encroaching woods. He wiped his muddy boots upon the rope mat before the door. His mother was nothing if not a stickler for cleanliness. He supposed it had something to do with her being an elf. None of the human women in the village worried nearly so much as she did about a little mud on their floors.

He ducked through the low door and into the homey warmth of the cottage. The interior glowed golden from the light of the fireplace and his mother's prized oil lamp. “Here's a rabbit for you, Mother. Adrick sends it with his regards and says thanks be to you for your delicious stew.”

Serica smiled from the rocking chair where she was currently attending to some mending. “Hang it by the fire. Your father can skin it when he's finished with his work.”

Will glanced over at his father, hunched on his cobbler's bench, sewing on an upside-down leather boot. Ty made the sturdiest, warmest, and most waterproof boots in the Ring and had steady work keeping the locals' feet shod. Often as not, payment came in the form of food or labor traded, which meant it was an annual struggle to raise enough coin to pay the Imperial taxes. But they got by better than most, Will supposed. Their house was warm and snug, and there was always enough to eat upon the table.

“Adrick says I may stand watch with him, tonight,” Will started.

Serica looked up in alarm, and then gave a little cry as she pricked her finger with the needle. She sucked it as Ty answered without looking up from his boot, “No.”

“Why not?” Will cried. “You never let me do anything. I am not a hothouse flower that will wilt at the first sign of frost!” He wasn't entirely sure what a hothouse flower was, but he'd heard his mother make the same complaint a while back when Ty didn't want her to go out visiting a friend a few villages over by herself.