Foretellers (The Ydron Saga Book 3) (13 page)

General Barral’s eyebrow’s went up.

“You’re not a spy,” he said, wide-eyed at what she had told him. “You’re a general in a little girl’s body.” Then, he added, “I will consider it.”

“Don’t just consider it,” she replied. “Do it.”

She said it with such intensity he replied in a quieter voice, “It makes so much sense, I believe I will.”

“General, you need me,” Pandy said.

The general stared back, shaking his head as he considered what she had told him. He summoned one of his majors who had reined in his horse and was waiting nearby and set the act into motion.

General Barral took the pair to a canteen in a garrison on the outskirts of town. It was approaching midday, so the room was almost full. Three servers, two women and a man, circulated between tables as two young boys in aprons returned dirty dishes to the kitchen. He had chosen a table in the corner of the room farthest from the door.

They were finishing their meal as he explained, “Even though Nagath-réal is friendly to Lord Sitheh, Bad-Adur draws all sorts of unsavory types. I was only half joking when I expressed my concern you might be a spy.” To their questioning looks, he said, “It’s only because I know Peniff that I’m inclined to trust you at all. Even then, I do so with reservations.”

Peniff chuckled. “She’s just a girl.”

“A week ago,” said the general, “a ten year old boy poisoned one of my majors. It was in a public house near the center of town, very much like this canteen, but outside military control. The boy had been assigned to serving drinks and the major had come in for a meal after a long day supervising the transfer of supplies. At his request, the boy brought him a goblet of wine—not unlike the one in your hand, I might add.”

Peniff looked askance at the one he was holding and set it aside.

“Halfway through his drink, the major seized his throat and fell face down upon the table. The boy was nowhere to be found.” He looked at Peniff and said, “The death of one commanding officer can affect a battle’s outcome more adversely than the loss of a hundred or more troops.”

When the two remained silent, he turned to Pandy and added, “I’m sorry if I offend you, but you must understand that once children have been recruited by the enemy, everyone becomes suspect. That’s also why I am so concerned about the extent of your knowledge.

“Seriously. Where did you get your information?”

Pandy started to respond when Peniff placed a hand on her wrist.

“Are you accusing me of bringing you a spy?” he asked, arching his eyebrows. “After all I have done, you accuse me of this?”

“You wouldn’t have done so intentionally.”

Peniff started to stand when Pandy said, “Let me answer.”

He looked at her and Pandy indicated his chair with a tilt of her head. He settled back down and, for what she hoped would be the last time, Pandy recounted the events that had taken her and her mother from danTennet, then onto the ship.

“After that, she arrived in No’eth,” Peniff continued. “For a short while after, she lived with the Haroun. Since then, we’ve been riding south through the Tairenth Mountains. In all that time, where would she have learned of Cargath’s death, let alone anything related to Hath Kael?”

Barral deliberated in silence. After a minute or two, he apologized.

“I’m sorry. You must understand that, after so much death, I have to be careful. A great deal is at stake.”

“You will risk even more if you don’t take Pandy with you,” said Peniff.

“You must also understand,” said Barral, “why I don’t relish the idea of bringing a young girl—pretty, I might add—into a fortress full of men, let alone into what will become the heart of a great battle.”

“And that’s why I’m coming with her.”

Pandy’s head snapped around.

“No!” she shouted. “You cannot!”

Her eyes were wide and her breathing grew rapid.

“Pandy… ”

“You must return today,” she said. “This is a critical moment.”

“The endaths… ”

“Curse the endaths! How fast you get there has nothing to do with it.”

Peniff tried to speak, but she shouted him down.

“It doesn’t matter whether you are carried to Mostoon by an eagle or commandeer an ox cart. In fact, it doesn’t matter if you go to Mostoon at all. The important thing is that you do not come with us.”

“I don’t understand,” said Peniff. “I thought you wanted me to help my family.”

“I do,” she said, then corrected herself. “I did, but that’s not why I don’t want you to come with us. Something has changed.” When Peniff cocked his head, Pandy pressed her lips together, then said, “Someone is going to try to kill you.”

“And he will fail,” said Peniff, tapping his head with a forefinger.

“That won’t help,” she said, then added, “He’s like you.”

Barral interrupted.

“You can argue all you want. I have to arrive with my troops at barakMaroc before nightfall. Come along if you choose, but I need to leave at once.”

As he rose, Pandy said, “I’m coming with you, General, but Peniff is going home.”

“No, Pandy. I’m coming, too.”

Barral frowned, pushed back his chair and turned to go. Torn between wanting to accompany him and the need to explain herself to Peniff, Pandy watched as Barral walked towards the door.

“Please, Peniff,” she said.

“I can’t leave you alone.”

“But you must. At least read my mind, if you won’t listen.”

Peniff shook his head. He rose from his chair and took her elbow.

“Come,” he said.

She was about to explain her reasoning in detail, when a pair of soldiers at the neighboring table began to argue. As their words turned to shouts, they shoved back their chairs and stood. When one grabbed the other by the collar and the second one threw a punch, Peniff rushed Pandy to the exit.

On the ride out of town, he positioned Chossen far enough away that conversation between them became impossible. Pandy cursed him for his stubbornness. She cursed Barral for not listening and herself for being female and for not being older, neither of which commanded their respect. She was angry and frustrated and in the back of her mind the longing for her mother rose anew. The one emotion she did not feel, she realized, was fear.

Curse them!
thought Harad.

He tightened his jaw and clenched his fists, halting a moment as his body grew taut at the recollection. A sharp pain in his side halted his breath and forced him to relax, reminding him he had several broken ribs. He exhaled and drew a few cautious breaths.

They had beaten him severely. No one would do so ever again in this lifetime, and he made a solemn oath to insure he would not forget. The seamen had almost gotten the better of him, until he recalled his newly acquired ability. Once he remembered he could enter their thoughts and anticipate their every move, the fight had assumed a more positive tone. It no longer mattered that they outnumbered him. Although, he conceded, had they injured him much worse before he came to this realization, he could not have moved adroitly enough to evade their attacks.

When the fighting was over, he had enjoyed how they begged for their lives, how the tears streamed down their faces when they realized the imminence of their demise, as if they would have been merciful were the situation reversed. Consequently, he took great pleasure in killing them, prolonging and delighting in their agonies during the hour it took until their screaming stopped. That matters had almost gone in their favor did not elude him. Harad ached with each step as he staggered from the forest’s gloom into the bright light of day. The sight that met his eyes brought a smile to his lips before the gash at the corner of his mouth stifled his grin.

Ahead lie danMis, the place he used to call home, sprawling peacefully across the valley beyond. Beyond it, the crimson battlements of barakMis, Monhedeth’s fortress, stood out against the surrounding greenery. Unlike the desolate lands farther south, the pristine city and verdant countryside seemed to be caught in the past, in a time when war was not yet thought of. It was here, in a place far removed from the world’s distant battles, he intended to regroup. It would take time for him to heal, then rebuild his life and reshape his future, and this refuge would permit him to do so.

There were times, during the days it took him to reach this safe haven, when he doubted he would ever see this place again. He had brought nothing from the ship and had sustained himself with only water—some of it brackish—since leaving the beach where he’d come ashore. By now, he was almost collapsed with hunger. Even so, the prospect of fulfilling his plans renewed his strength and he shut out the hurt and fatigue that had nearly overwhelmed him.

He tried to think clearly as he attempted to recall who in this city might assist him. Most of the men Harad would have preferred had died during the failed mission to kidnap Darva. Only one man came to mind, and although he was an unlikely candidate, no other face rose in his memories. Nonetheless, it was a starting point. Other names would come later.

Harad was dimly aware of the looks people gave as he made his way through the city streets, of the women who pulled their children away, of the couples who whispered, pointing as he passed. With a singular focus, he studied the buildings and their signs, searching for some familiar sight to guide him. He had rounded a corner where a woman was hawking skeins of homespun yarn, when he spotted a shop where a few men occupied its outdoor tables, conversing, partaking of their meals and sipping tea. He halted a moment to reflect, then seemed to recall the place.

It had been years since he had entered danMis from the west, but he believed he recognized this establishment. The friend he was looking for—a man called Rodic—had brought him here one distant morning to discuss long forgotten matters. And while Harad had only a faint recollection, he now recalled that it had been a short walk from Rodic’s home to this café.

He continued thoughtfully, eyeing each storefront or intersecting lane for additional clues. After almost an hour wandering up and down each avenue and alley, trying to jog his memory, he was about to abandon the entire effort as futile when, to his great amazement, he saw Rodic strolling toward him.

His old friend had changed greatly. Even so, Harad recognized him at once. This one time petty thief and pickpocket now appeared to be someone of substance. Although his clothes were not of the finest weave—a sure invitation for robbery in this part of the city—they appeared new and well made, as were his high leather boots.

Oblivious to Harad, Rodic was focused on the young woman dangling from his elbow. While Rodic would now be a man in his forties, the woman appeared half that. The couple were smiling, talking with great animation as they made their way past the vendors whose shops lined the street. Once, the woman paused to examine some trinket, but her attention was more on Rodic and the object did not hold her attention long.

So caught up was Harad by his friend’s transformation, he almost allowed the pair to slip by. Recovering at the last possible instant, he stepped into their path and the three almost collided.

“Will you watch it!” snapped Rodic, catching his companion before she fell.

“Rodic,” croaked Harad, his throat nearly too dry to speak for lack of moisture. “Don’t you remember me?” he wheezed.

At first, Rodic appeared not to hear, occupied as he was with the woman’s near mishap. All at once he came upright, perhaps startled to hear a vagabond call him by name. At first, he grimaced as he examined Harad’s face.

“May the gods protect us! Did someone beat you?” he asked.

It took several more seconds before his inquiring look showed a spark of recognition. Rodic offered a tentative smile before asking, “Harad? Is that you?”

Harad nodded and reached for, then missed the edge of a vendor’s cart as his field of vision tunneled.

… … … … …

“This should do you some good,” Rodic said as the manservant placed a steaming bowl of stew before Harad. He ladled a small portion of broth with a spoon, then brought it to his lips, blew on it until he felt it might be cool enough and sipped. He forced his throat to swallow, then sighed as the warm soothing wetness ran down it. So many days without eating had rendered even that simple act difficult. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, then dipped his spoon deeper, this time filling it with meat.

Rodic allowed him to eat, and refrained from asking questions until Harad began mopping the bowl with a thick slice of bread. Only then did he ask, “Care to tell me what happened?”

“Where are we?” Harad asked, unable to keep himself from glancing around his new surroundings. “This place, I mean. What is it?”

He had awakened little more than a half hour earlier, with no recollection of having been transported, scant minutes before Rodic had assisted him into this chair.

“This is my home,” replied Rodic, ignoring that his question had gone unanswered.

“But this can’t be in the part of the city where we met. It’s too nice.”

“You’re correct. It’s some distance away. My servants helped me bring you.”

“Servants?”

Harad tried to comprehend the gulf separating the man he once knew from the one who now sat before him.

“I’ve been fortunate,” answered Rodic, offering nothing more by way of explanation. “And you?”

Harad studied his host and considered his response. After a minute’s deliberation as to how much he should reveal, he recounted an abbreviated version of his journey to Monhedeth, omitting those aspects he was not yet willing to share: the events that had sent him to Sandoval and his encounter with the woman and girl aboard the ship. He attributed his altercation with the seamen as arising from his inability to produce payment for his passage.

As he related his tale, he studied the house in which he now sat. It was not the grandest, as Monhedeth houses go, but it was by no means modest. Its walls and floors were planked with the planed and varnished wood of both dur and barrel stave trees and handsome paintings adorned the walls. The furniture was of solid construction, finely lacquered or varnished and newly upholstered. A large number of candles supplemented whatever natural light the windows let in, and the fact those windows were glazed impressed Harad all the more.

It was clear Rodic had risen far from his days as back alley swindler and cut purse. Even so, because Harad was still learning how to use the gift of telepathy that the thought gazer, Peniff, had unwittingly bestowed upon him, try as he might he could not unearth the history behind Rodic’s rise to his present prosperity.

“You’ve done well,” he admitted and Rodic nodded.

“Do you mind telling me how you managed?”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Rodic, waving the question aside with a flick of his hand.

Since the story behind his friend’s success remained buried, Harad wondered if steering the conversation to more current affairs would reveal something he could use.

“The city seems peaceful enough. Didn’t something just happen at the palace?”

The strategy proved correct. Just as Rodic began to outline the events surrounding Lord Orr’s assassination, the conspiracy he was involved in to seize power swam to the forefront of his thoughts.

“You know,” said Harad, as Rodic concluded his account, “taking the throne won’t be nearly as difficult as you are imagining, with the right kind of assistance that is.”

Rodic halted, mouth open as if to respond, and stared. After an awkward pause, believing, Harad knew, that the comment’s approach to the truth had been accidental, he was starting to reply when Harad again interrupted.

“The key will be knowing what the powers inside the fortress are thinking so you can circumvent them.”

“Really,” said Rodic, “I don’t know what you’re… ”

“Talking about? Of course you do,” said Harad. “You and the colonel to whom you supply weapons have been wrestling with this problem almost since the moment you learned of Orr’s death.”

Rodic’s face darkened.

“Who have you been talking to?” he asked.

Harad sighed, blotted his lips with a napkin, then replied, “The young lady you were walking with this morning is named Sannah and she is the daughter of a baron with the same ambition as yours. You’ve been milking her for information about what her father is up to, but until now you’ve been largely unsuccessful.”

“Impossible!” snapped Rodic.

“That I would know this?”

Harad suppressed a smile. While he would have enjoyed protracting Rodic’s discomfort, he decided to come straight to the point.

“You’re right. There is no way I could know this unless I could read your thoughts.”

He paused briefly as Rodic’s stare intensified.

“Well, I can.”

He raised a hand as his host started to object.

“I’m not going to dwell on those other matters I also could not know, like the conversation between you and Colonel—Antel, isn’t it?—in this very room last night about the wisdom of bringing Major Ullow in with you, or your breakfast this morning of mure tea, deleth fruit and clotted cream.”

Rodic’s jaw dropped.

“What I want to know now,” said Harad, “is whether you would like my assistance.”

In the face of Rodic’s silence, Harad smiled.

“Good,” he said, sneering as he set the napkin beside the now empty bowl. “I thought you would.”