Fifth Quarter (27 page)

"For now, yes," Gyhard nodded, "that's all we can do."

She thought of Otavas trapped screaming within his murdered body and slammed her heels into the barrel of her horse. Startled, he leaped forward. She swayed but kept her seat and hung on grimly as he settled into a rocking canter, racing in pursuit of the walking dead.

The patterns of light playing against his eyelids woke him, dragging him up out of darkness. Confused and disoriented by the constant motion and the sound of wheels against stone, he tried to remember where he was.

He remembered hearing Karlene sing. He remembered the fight they had. He remembered an alley where the shadows held terror…

Gasping for breath, Prince Otavas opened his eyes.

A very, very old man stared down at him, his expression one of rapt adoration. "Good morning, my heart," he said pleasantly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Morning?" Otavas struggled up into a sitting position. The old man neither helped nor hindered. He'd been lying on a pallet on the rough plank floor of a high-sided cart, his cloak folded to make a pillow. Facing him, were two young men, their skin a pale greenish-gray, their eyes sunk deep above purple crescents. They looked almost familiar. The prince fought to clear the fog from his head.

… where the shadows held terror.

Heart slamming against his ribs, he threw himself backward, crashing up against the side of the cart. The old man reached out to grab his arm, but he twisted away. On hands and knees, he scrambled for the rear of the cart and tried to throw himself over.

Still grieving for her infant grandson, Her Imperial Majesty had taken the abduction of her youngest son very hard. Gabris had spent the night and the early morning at her bedside, playing, singing, giving what comfort he could. When she finally fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, he told her attendants to send for him when she woke and headed for his own quarters and his own bed.

The messenger from the Healers' Hall finally reached him as he left the Imperial Apartments. The message from Karlene reached him a few moments later as he hurried across one of the myriad courtyards honeycombing the palace.

I've gone after the prince. Ask His Majesty to trust me for just a little while.

Although Gabris Sang question after question at the kigh, he got very little information. Karlene was not alone; there were three people with her. She wasn't happy. The kigh wouldn't tell him where she was—had been told not to tell him where she was, and Gabris, even fully rested, no longer had as great a command of the air as the younger bard.

When he reached the bardic suite—having rushed past curious courtiers and servants alike, oblivious to their greetings or stares—he threw open the shutters and stepped out onto the small balcony. He couldn't tell if the kigh he called was the same kigh Karlene had sent to him or a different one as they all shared identical features. Putting everything he had left into the request, he asked it to find Karlene.

It pushed slender fingers through his hair in a mocking caress and disappeared.

Shkodan bards were allowed into the Havakeen Empire by Imperial indulgence. Although the restrictions holding them within the walls of the Capital had been lifted some years before, they were still required to keep the palace informed of their movements. As senior bard, he should be able to tell His Imperial Majesty, at any time, where Karlene could be found.

When the kigh returned a short while later, his relief lasted less than a dozen heartbeats.

Please, Gabris, don't try to find me. This is bardic business and has to do with
… The translation tattered, but the familiar terror of the kigh came through distressingly clearly.
This is His Highness' only chance to rest
.

Gabris staggered back into the suite, sagged down onto the edge of the scribe's table, and buried his face in his hands. "First, walking dead and now this," he moaned. Obviously, the blow to the head and the shock of seeing the young prince abducted had somehow gotten mixed up with whatever had been upsetting the kigh over the past…

But the kigh were back. Gabris slowly straightened, eyes widening. So whatever had been upsetting them was gone from the Capital. Gone with the prince?

He had to admit the slim possibility.

But why had Karlene not come to him? Who were these three others the kigh placed her with? There were still too many unanswered questions.

Ask His Majesty to trust me for just a little while.

Putting himself in the place of a man who barely believed in the kigh at all and who needed a certain healthy amount of paranoia in order to maintain the integrity of far-flung borders—putting himself in the Emperor's place—Gabris could draw only two conclusions.

Either Karlene was involved with Prince Otavas' abduction and had rushed off to join her accomplices or the blow to the head had completely scrambled her brains and a dangerously powerful crazy woman was now wandering the Empire. Either way, it didn't look good.

"No." Swaying in the saddle, Karlene fought to pull the reins from Gyhard's hands, trying desperately to see through the orange and yellow bars of light streaking her vision. "We have to keep going. You said yourself, the dead have no need to rest."

"The horses do." Gyhard told her bluntly. "We've shade here, and water, and I've no intention of wasting either. You can go on without us if you like, but it won't do His Highness any good if your horse founders."

Lips pressed tightly together, the bard acknowledged his point with a reluctant jerk of her head and slid gracelessly to the ground. Leaving her companions to deal with the horses, she staggered to a crude bench under an ancient chestnut tree and collapsed onto it. Directly above the canopy of leaves, the sun blazed white-gold in a sky bleached of color by the heat. Underfoot lay reddish-brown dirt, crushed to the consistency of dust by centuries of travelers leaving the road to rest at this exact spot. If she turned just a little to the left, she could see a one-story building, the same color as the dirt. The world spun, and she closed her eyes.

At the well, Vree pulled the counterweight around and spilled another bucket of water into the stone trough.

"Bards live to ask questions," Gyhard said as he watched the animals suck noisily. "When this one recovers her wits, what have you decided to tell her?"

"What have I decided to tell her?"

"It was
your
choice to bring her along."

He was being deliberately provoking. She wondered if Bannon's less endearing mannerisms were beginning to rub off the inside of his body.

"Hey!"

"You bought her the horse." The sound of the bucket dropping back into the water echoed against the damp sides of the well.

"Come on, Vree; what do you mean, less endearing mannerisms?"

Gyhard stroked his gelding's damp neck. "After you convinced me she represented a resource we could ill afford to ignore."

"What, Vree?"

"She reports directly to the Emperor, you know," he continued. "I imagine he'll be fascinated to hear about you and your brother."

"Come on, Vree, tell me."

"Well, to begin with, you never know when to shut up!" She could feel his hurt retreat, as obvious as it had been when they were children and he'd crawl under the barracks and hide if she yelled at him. But things were a lot simpler back then, and right now she didn't have the time to crawl under after him and reassure him that she still loved him best. "We'll trade her silence for our help rescuing the prince."

"You mean for the prince's body," Gyhard corrected with a false smile. "And silence isn't something usually associated with bards; they see all, they sing all."

Vree studied him for a moment and wondered, if she asked, whether he'd tell her why the old man was so important to him. She knew the bard's reasons for wanting to set Prince Otavas' spirit free, she knew her own. She wished she knew his and even more, she wished she knew when it had become so important for her to know him as more than a usurper in her brother's body.

The horses had finished drinking, so she plunged her own face into the trough and raised it, dripping, a moment later. "The bard can ask all the questions she wants, we don't have to answer. Right at the moment, she needs us and we need her and that makes her an ally." Glaring across the well at him, she added, "There've been stranger."

This time the smile was genuine. "I know."

He thought he was on one of the barges that members of the Imperial Family occasionally took out on the water; that the rocking motion came from waves slapping against the polished wooden sides; that he could hear the creaking of the mast as the huge square sail filled with wind; that he could smell the faint stink of rotting fish that always seemed to drift over the river closest to the Capital; that he'd fallen asleep on deck. Without opening his eyes, he dragged his tongue across dry lips and—certain there'd be a servant close enough to hear—murmured how nice a cool glass of wine would taste.

Heart pounding, Otavas pressed up against the side of the cart and stared frantically around. Except for the position of sun and shadow, nothing had changed. Afraid to move lest the dead lay hands on him again, he craned his neck and peered out at the road.

They were traveling fairly quickly down one of the great roads—he recognized a mile marker as the cart rolled past—pulled by… by… It took him a moment to understand that two more of the dead ran between the shafts of the cart, their gait made horrifying by a unified precision the living could never attain. The younger of the two women had a leather brace around her neck. His stomach twisted as he realized what that had to mean.

Then up ahead, he saw a courier in the uniform of the Imperial Army. Relief hit him so hard he swayed and had to grab the side of the cart to keep from falling.

"Hey!" he yelled, waving an arm over his head. "Help me! Help!"

The courier turned toward the sound, but her gaze slid right over the cart. Reining in her horse, she pulled off her helm and stared back up the road.

"No! Here! Can't you see me!" Voice breaking, Otavas scrambled up onto his knees. "Help me! I order you to help me!"

They'd drawn abreast and for an instant it almost seemed as though she looked right at the prince. Then her eyes widened in terror so that the whites showed all around. An instant later, she shook her head in disbelief and crammed her helm back on.

Then they were past.

Tears cutting through the dust on his cheeks, Otavas turned to stare at the rider, quickly being left behind. "Help me," he cried. "I order you to see me…"

Otavas looked down at the offered wineskin then up at the old man. He swallowed and the sides of his throat scraped together. Slowly, fingers trembling, he reached out. Smiling happily, the old man pushed the yielding skin toward him.

Although he shook so hard he could barely find his mouth, if he concentrated on the wine, and only on the wine, Otavas found that he could drink. The normalcy of the action helped. Clutching the leather sack as if it were the hand of a friend, he found the courage to look around.

The two dead men at the rear of the cart stared, unblinkingly at him. Otavas shrank back but, with nowhere to go, found himself forced to confront the rising darkness. As though it issued out of another mouth, he heard his voice foolishly proclaim, "You're dead."

The taller of the two blinked. "Yesss, Highnesss."

They knew who he was. They were dead and they knew who he was. His leg muscles jumped painfully as his body fought to run while his fear of having them touch him again held him in place.

They were dead, and they knew they were dead.

The world seemed to pause while Otavas realized what that meant. His heart started beating, his lungs pulled in air, terror became laced with pity. They were more dreadfully trapped than he was.

Wordlessly, he offered them the wine.