Glasswrights' Master (15 page)

Sheer luck had brought Hal to the herb witch's doorstep just as Crestman was attacking her. Hal had ducked back into the thick brush on the edge of the clearing, forcing himself to keep silent even as the rampaging soldier beat the defenseless witch, even as he threatened to end her life then and there. Hal had wrestled with his conscience, enraged panic flaring in his veins.

Had Crestman been here before? Had he forced Kella to add something to the draught that Hal's son had consumed? The soldier had tried to poison Hal's family once before; what would make him hesitate here in Sarmonia's lawless forest?

A part of his mind warned that revealing himself would be foolish. Even wasted by his hideous scars, Crestman was more than a match for Hal. The soldier had always been a hard man, conditioned by his years with the Little Army. He could defeat Hal at swordplay, even with one withered arm, even with a dragging leg.

By staying hidden, Hal could learn what Crestman planned. After all, whatever harm had been worked on Marekanoran was done, complete, and Hal could only measure out vengeance as a reply. For now, he listened.

He discovered that the Fellowship was indeed established in Sarmonia. He discovered that Kella knew something of the secret organization, that she was familiar with its secret teachings. He learned that he could follow the mismatched pair the following night, that he could track them and learn still more of his enemy.

For a fleeting moment, Hal had thought to bring Farso with him on his reconnaissance. That would have been foolish, though. The nobleman had suffered too much at the hands of the Fellowship; he had lost his treasured son. Farso could not be depended upon to stay quiet, to be shrewd.

Rani was an even worse choice. Her past was too tangled with Crestman's. Whatever her words of denial, Hal knew that she had once loved the man, that she had planned a life with him. She might have discarded that dream, for she knew that she had been used harshly. Nevertheless, Hal could not trust her to mind her anger, her own bitter brew of revenge.

And so Hal hid alone in the woods and watched the woman's comic horsemanship. He watched Crestman's unexpected calm. And he watched the pair begin to ride down a forest path.

Well, the old woman would not win any awards handling her mount. In fact, she would delay the pair, especially given the dim moonlight. Hal swore to himself and set off down the path they had chosen.

It actually felt good to run, good to stretch his legs along the pounded earth track. The horses required one of the larger trails in the woods, so that Hal was not very concerned about twisted roots blocking his path, about overhanging branches. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of the pair he chased. They were making bad time; the herb witch must be having even more difficulty than he had predicted.

Hal grimaced to himself. Crestman would be displeased. The man had no patience. His anger would flare.

Anger would flare. How much to dare? Must chase the pair.

Where were they going? Where would Crestman take an herb witch, take a woman who clearly had never traveled by horse anywhere in her life? Hal had been a fool to set out after them. They might be going leagues. He had acted out of frustration, out of concern for his wife and son. What did he think he was going to do, run all the way to Morenia?

He was a fool.

Oh what a fool. Call Crestman to duel. Fate could be cruel.

Grimacing, Hal thrust down the chittering voices. He could not say how long he ran. When he glanced through the tangled branches, he could make out the moon-sliver, higher than he'd expected. He checked the lateness of the hour against the breathlessness in his lungs, against the ache in his legs, and he was surprised–his body seemed to accept its punishment, to embrace the chase. He was determined to succeed.

Several times, the forest path branched, but Hal was always certain of his quarry; the pair of horses left clear marks in the damp earth. Once he found a scrap of grey cloth on a snagging branch, and he grinned grimly–the herb witch had likely fought to keep her balance against the tree's prying fingers. The trail narrowed, spread out again, found a woodland stream to wander beside.

Then, without warning, the path debouched into a clearing. A grassy field spread out before him, grey in the moonlight. Horses snorted in the darkness, several steaming as if their owners had run them hard and arrived late. Hal ducked back into the shelter of the woods, forcing himself to take quiet breaths, to calm his pounding heart. He closed his eyes and offered up a quick prayer to Arn, adding another to Gar for good measure. Courage and vengeance–they made good companions in the moonlight.

Then, when he thought that he could make his way around the edge of the clearing without drawing unwelcome attention, he began to explore. He worked in the shadows, testing each step with careful feet, verifying that there were no traitor branches before him, no trailing vines to snag his tunic or briars to catch his leggings.

There were more horses than he had thought at first, perhaps three dozen shuffling beneath the autumn sky. Hal identified three guards posted around the cottage, all men by their size. Each was cloaked in black, anonymous and nearly invisible in the darkness.

Hal imagined striding up to them. He could make up a password, insist that he had the proper hidden words. He could invoke Jair, demand that the First Pilgrim's fellowship accept one of its own.

He had no cloak, though. No hood. Not a single friend in the Sarmonian enclave. His ruse would fail.

His ruse would fail. His heart must quail. He should turn tail–

No!

Before Hal could succumb to the songs in his mind, he gave himself over to another noise, a dim thunder that grew as it approached. Horsemen. Two by the sound of them. Yes. There they were, bursting into the clearing from the far side. From the east. From the direction of Riadelle.

The men took a moment to drop blankets over their mounts before they shrugged their black cloaks into place. Even in the dim light, Hal could make out the plumes on the blankets, the single white feather that was blazoned across each man's arms. These were electors, then, men who controlled King Hamid. These were men who proved that the Fellowship had its claws deep into Sarmonia.

Crestman used the Fellowship. The Fellowship used the electors. The electors used Hamid.

Hal must place himself at the head of that chain. He must defeat Crestman to guarantee that Hamid was a free man, free to aid Morenia. But how was he to best a soldier who was stronger than he, wilier, more inclined to use any means, fair or foul?

There was another way, Hal thought as a deceptive silence settled over the clearing. He could grab the other end of the chain. He could step over Crestman and the electors, go directly to Hamid.

It was time to reveal himself. Time to make his true birthright known in Sarmonia, to talk to Hamid as one king to another. Hal would gain nothing more by lurking in the dark, from chasing after conspirators on foot like some hero in a folktale.

He must return to his own camp. He would gather his own advisors and tell them of his decision. He would listen to their complaints, their fears, their certainty that he was endangering himself and others. And then he would act; he would go to the king of Sarmonia.

Hal crept away from the edge of the clearing, stepping around a handful of dried branches. His chest ached from his long run, and his legs trembled like leaves in a breeze. Nevertheless, he straightened as he struck the main path, and he forced himself into a rough trot.

He was the king of Morenia, and he would fight to save his land.

 

* * *

 

Kella swallowed hard as the opening prayer faded into the silence of the rundown hut. Her thoughts chased after inconsequential details, desperate to avoid focusing on her frightening surroundings.

What was the name of the old man who had lived here? He had been ancient when she was a child; he must have been dead for three score years. And, from the smell of mildew emanating from the walls around her, no one had paid any great attention to this croft since his passing.

Well, someone must have, or the walls would have fallen well before this. Someone must have trimmed the grass back from the lintel, kept the woods from reclaiming the structure. Someone had kept the clearing from yielding to the forest, from giving itself back to the encroaching darkness of trees.

Kella shuddered as she thought of those trees grasping her cloak. She'd spent her entire life walking through the forest; she was well-accustomed to the feel of branches catching at her clothes, tangling in her hair. In a strong wind, they could whip by her face with a frightening speed. But she had never felt the forest assault her with the energy it had mustered as she sat upon the horse's back. She had never been subjected to the forest's prying fingers with so much vehemence.

Riding on horseback might be fine for some, but she saw no reason to repeat the experience after this strange night ended. There was no place that she needed to reach in such a hurry, no reason to rush about so. After all, when she was mounted up on a horse, she couldn't see the herbs growing by the path. She couldn't interpret the scents of the night flowers unfolding in the darkness. She might have missed any number of perfect herbs as the soldier led them pell-mell through the woods.

No. Once the soldier-man got her home, she'd be through with horses.

As Kella shook her head, determination hardened her jaw, and her hood started to slip backwards. The soldier had given it to her when they dismounted in front of the cottage–the hood, and a mask. He had waited in silence as she sorted out the silk garments, nodding in blunt approval when her face was completely hidden. Then he had set a firm hand upon her arm, pulling her forward with an urgency that brooked no protest.

She knew that if she could see his face, she would recognize the same determination that had planted his knee in her kidney the day before. He was a soldier on a mission, and he was not about to be put off by any details of decency or common politeness. “Stone,” he said, and she barely heard the word against the forest night. “Bone. Moonlight.”

What? Had he been driven mad by their night-time flight among the trees? Was he babbling random words? A dose of feverfew might cure him, but what was she to do here?

As they approached the cottage, two hooded figures materialized from the darkness. Kella caught a glint of sharpened steel, and her breath snagged as the soldier pushed her forward.

She staggered to a stop in front of the cloaked pair. “Speak, Fellow,” one of them whispered, and Kella wondered what she should say. She started to turn back to the soldier, started to demand that he negotiate for her, but then she thought of his whisper. “Stone,” she said, and her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “Bone. Moonlight.”

She could imagine eyes upon her, glaring through the midnight hoods. She pictured steel flashing in the darkness, brilliant white beneath the moon, then shimmering red with her blood. She started to turn, gathered her breath to run, but then the shorter of the pair gestured with one hand, summoning her forward.

The soldier pushed behind her as he said to the pair, “Stones bleach pale as bone in the moonlight.” The passwords worked more easily for him. The shadowed watchers eased back a breath. Kella was not certain that she was relieved to step inside the rotting cottage.

Certainly she was no safer with the mad soldier by her side. She was no more likely to survive the night surrounded by his colleagues. Nevertheless, she felt a little thrill of victory that she had passed some test, that she had been cleared for the secret convocation.

And convocation it was. A cloaked person stepped forward, an old man by his gait. His voice confirmed Kella's suspicion as it quavered a greeting. “Let us be joined in the name of Jair.”

“Let us be joined in the name of Jair,” the group repeated, and Kella was surprised by the volume of the assembly. They might hide in the woods. They might wear disguises in the night. But they were not afraid to state their unity, to proclaim their bonds in the night. She shivered and wondered about the identity of her secret neighbors.

“I will not waste your time, Fellows,” the old man said. Kella heard his voice and realized that he did not live in the forest. Of that she was certain. She would have known him, if he did. She would have known his querulous voice, recognized the fragile set of his shoulders. “We are gathered this evening because of a visitor, one of our number who has ridden far, with momentous news. He was the one who demanded our coming together. He was the one who asked to speak to all of you tonight.”

Kella heard the old man's irritation. He wanted to be the one to make decisions for this group. He wanted to be the one to say when they would ride their horses through the forest, when they would make their journeys beneath the moonlit sky. He had been used by this mysterious visitor, forced to call a meeting, and he did not like it one jot.

Neither did the soldier beside her, Kella realized, as the young man's grip tightened on her arm. She started to pull away from him, to ease the pressure as his fingers bit almost to her bone, but her resistance only heightened his control. His breath came short and sharp; if they'd been back at her cottage, she would have suggested a tisane of heartsease.

They were not in her cottage, though. She was at a secret gathering in an abandoned croft, meeting the Fellowship of Jair under the light of a freshening moon. Others stepped aside to let a hooded stranger walk to the front of the room. “Greetings, in the name of Jair,” the newcomer said, and his words were thick with a northern accent.

“Greetings, in the name of Jair,” the assembly responded, but Kella did not join in, even when the soldier pulled her closer to his side.

“I come to you from the north,” the stranger said. “From Morenia. I come to report upon our progress as we search for the Royal Pilgrim, as we seek the one who will join together all the lands and give us power to rule them all as one.”