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“DAMN YOU, JOHN.” Jenny Waynest sank back on the straw tick and covered her mouth with her hands. She was trembling. “Damn you.” For a moment more the images glowed in the fire’s core: the blue and gold dragon stretched dying in its blood, the crumpled form of the man in his battered doublet of black leather and iron plate. Then they faded.
Ian, she thought. Ian must have come. Mages cannot see mages, in fire, water, stone, unless they consent to be seen. Goddess of Earth, let it be that I can’t see now because Ian has come.
Ian was already a good enough healer that it might be just possible for him to save a man’s life. To stop bleeding, anyway; to keep the lungs drawing air. To keep the cold of shock from reaching the heart. John would have forbidden him to follow, but knowing Ian there was a good chance that he had.
She closed her eyes, trying to breathe, trying to abate the shaking that racked her flesh. God of the Earth, help him …
Voices came to her through the window behind her head. Soldiers in the courtyard. “By the gods, I thought he had us last night.”
“Not a chance.” A southerner’s voice, one of the surviving dozen of the twenty-five who’d ridden with her from the Skepping Hills. “He’s just a robber, when all’s said.”
But he wasn’t. Or more properly, someone in his band was more than just a robber’s follower. And it was abundantly clear that John’s information concerning the band’s numbers—and capabilities—was far more accurate than Rocklys’. Well, the southerners would learn—if they lived long enough.
Smoke from breakfast fires stung Jenny’s nostrils, reminding her of her hunger. They had been at Palmorgin, the largest of the new fortified manors in the deeps of the Wyrwoods, when Balgodorus turned and attacked. Fortunately there had been surplus grain in the storerooms. That probably had a good deal to do with the bandit’s choice of target, though Jenny wasn’t sure. They’d have to have known she was following them, and their goal, it was clear, was to eliminate her; to knock magic from John’s—and Rocklys’—armory of resources. Then, too, the fine southern swordblades, arrowheads, and spears stored at Palmorgin made it a target. Early summer—before the harvest was in—was a hard time for bandits as for everyone else. The families from the outlying farms had managed to bring in the remnants of last year’s oats and barley, and a handful had rescued pigs, cows, and chickens, but Palmorgin’s lord Pellanor had nevertheless confiscated the lot and put everything under armed guard. After a week of siege, and no help in sight, Jenny was glad the elderly baron had taken this precaution.
Things were bad enough without starvation.
With her mind she walked from the storeroom where she slept down the corridor, past the guard and out onto the parapet that ran around the whole of the manor’s outer wall. Testing and listening, smelling at every mark of ward and guard she had put on the place, to see if counterspells had probed them in her few hours of sleep since last night’s attack. She’d have to make the walk in person as soon as she got up, but this probing had on a dozen occasions alerted her to trouble spots that she might not have reached for an hour or more: fires starting in the stables or under the kitchen roof, spells of sleep or inattention muttering to the guards.
Balgodorus’ witch was good.
And under her mental probes, Jenny heard other voices. Women in the kitchen, chatting of commonplaces or gossiping of those not present—“She’s been carrying on with Eamon like a common whore …” “Well, what do you suppose her mother was? And Eamon’s wife with child!” None of them dared to speak of what filled all their minds: What if Balgodorus breaks the gate?
There were women in the eastern villages, women who had been through Balgodorus’ raids, who still wore masks and would do so until they died. Those were the ones who had been deemed not pretty enough or strong enough to be sold as slaves in the far southeast.
Somewhere a child laughed, and a small girl patiently explained to a playmate the only correct rules for Hide-the-Bacon. Many bandit troops killed children as a matter of course: too expensive to feed. Balgodorus’ was one of these.
Ian …
Jenny forced herself to concentrate.
Walls, kitchen, barracks. “Three years sweating it out in this godsforsaken wilderness, build this wall and clear that field and drink that cow-piss they call wine hereabouts.” A man’s voice, almost certainly one of the conscripts sent north from the King’s lands in Greenhythe or Belmarie. “And for what? If the folk here had the sense Sister Illis gave to goats they’d have moved out a hundred years ago …”
Jenny sighed. Sister Illis was the southern name they gave to the Many-Colored Goddess. As for the sentiment, it was a common one among serfs who’d been uprooted from their villages and forcibly relocated. There were things that ending happily ever after did not address, and one of them was how everything got paid for.
“One of them’s got to have gotten through.” Very clearly she heard the Baron Pellanor’s scratchy voice. At the same time she saw him in her mind, a tall, stringy, graying man of about her own age wearing serviceable back and breast-plate armor and a cloak of red wool, the color of the House of Uwanë.
So Grand John Alyn must have been, she thought, once upon a long-ago time. Another king had sent that ten-times removed ancestor north to govern and protect those who dwelled between the Gray Mountains and the bitter river Eld. A prosperous land it had been in those days. Caerdinn had told her of a land of rich barley and oats, of sheep and shaggy-coated cattle; a land of endlessly argumentative scholars, of strange heresies that sprang up among the silver miners in the Gray Mountains and the Skepping Hills; of ingenious weavers and bards and workers in silver and steel. That ancient king had told Grand John Alyn, Hold the land, defend the law, protect my people with your life.
And King Uriens—or rather Prince Gareth, who ruled in his father’s mental absence—had given charge of these lands in the southeastern Wyrwoods to Pellanor, a minor cadet of the Lords of Grampyn, after twenty-seven years’ service in arms.
“I don’t know, m’lord,” said a man-at-arms. “The bandits got men all through the forest. They got Kannid and Borin …”
Jenny saw Pellanor lift a hand and turn his face away. Borin had been sent for help four days ago. Yesterday his burned and emasculated body had been dumped in the open ground sixty feet from the gates. It was a difficult shot with an arrow, but after ten or twelve tries one of the men-at-arms had finally been able to kill him.
“Can’t that witch-lady get a word to the Commander at Corflyn?” another soldier asked the baron. “With a talking bird, like in the stories?”
The Baron sighed. “Well, Ront, I’m sure if Mistress Jenny could do such a thing she would have, days ago. Wizards can get word to one another, but as far as I know there aren’t any other wizards at Corflyn now.”
There aren’t any other wizards, Jenny thought wearily, in the whole of the Winterlands. Nor have there been for many years. Only herself. And Ian, not yet sufficiently versed in power to speak through crystal or fire.
And this woman in Balgodorus’ band.
It was time to get up.
She opened her eyes. The fire had burned down low in the brazier, a jewel-box huddle of ember and coal. The heat seemed suddenly unbearable—she whispered the rush of it aside, dissolved with a Word that mimicked the echoes of youth.
John, she thought, staring again into the blaze’s blue-glowing core. John.
The ruined walls of Cair Dhû formed themselves once more before her, sharp and tiny as the reflections in a diamond. Fumes of smoldering heather veiled her sight. John lay close to the broken mess of acid-scorched wall. The warhorse Battlehammer, bleeding from flanks and sides, stood over him, head down, favoring his right hind leg when he moved.
No dragon remained. Nor was there