The Still

Chapter 10

Genard stirred. “Maybe he won’t come.”

“Shut thy mouth.” Half-concealed in low bushes, I squinted into the night, but could see naught but dim shadows under the half moon.

“What if Tantroth comes? We shouldn’t be near-”

“Wait with the horses!”

The boy muttered something under his breath, and retreated. I stifled an urge to give chase; I’d distinctly heard the words “better company” in his reply.

A shadow flickered in the moonlight. I peered eagerly, detected nothing. Then a dark form, cantering across the field. I recognized Rustin’s familiar features, atop a wide-nosed bay.

“Here,” I called, from the bush.

Rust whirled with dagger drawn. “Who’s that?”

I tried to stifle a laugh, but only half succeeded; what emerged was more a moan.

He squawked, threw up the sign of protection. “Demons, begone!”

I giggled, pushed through protesting branches. “Don’t carry on so. It’s just me.”

He jumped down from the saddle, sagged as if his legs wouldn’t support him. “You scared me out of two years!”

“Good.” I clapped his shoulder. “Send the girl back, and let’s be on our way.”

“It’s night. They wouldn’t open for her.”

“Let her wait ’til light.”

“After she helped me escape? Father would lash her to ribbons!”

“What matter whether a …” To him she was more than just a servant. I sighed. “Let’s move on. Who knows how long Hester will tarry at Whiecliff, now Tantroth’s attacked.” I brooded. “You were right. Eiber’s come for his lost realm.”

“Between Father and Margenthar, he won’t get far.”

We rejoined Genard and Chela, at the split tree.

The girl jumped down from her mount, wrapped herself round Rust in an eager hug. Only when he’d returned her embrace with sufficient ardor did she release him, look to his steed. “Oh, it’s Santree!”

Rust’s delight was obvious. “You thought I’d abandon my horse? Does not Roddy ride Ebon?”

We galloped northward along the coast road, past fishermen’s shelters and open pasture. The seawall lancing into the bay had discouraged commerce along the north road; Llewelyn’s keep had no public way through its north wall as through the south. Still, Hester must have guided her wagon past the soldiers on the battlements, through the very gate we used. The northern settlements were rude hamlets, cut off from the town of Stryx.

The road to Whiecliff was perhaps a league distant. It followed a meandering stream through the foothills of the Caleds, until it met the coastal way on which we rode, some hours north of the keep.

As we paced our mounts alongside the ocean in the lightening dawn, I glanced to the hills. Along the ridge, the King’s forest clothed the slopes in rich umber. Accompanied by Griswold and a party of retainers, I’d hunted boar and deer in its depths, as I’d lengthened to manhood.

At the junction of the two trails a few houses clustered as if for mutual protection, though the borough had been peaceable for as long as I could remember. Ebon plodded past a foundering hut. Two peasant boys stopped their hoeing to gawk. I paid them no notice, but Genard, oaf that he was, sat proudly in his saddle, and deigned to look neither left nor right.

The road climbed swiftly. A twist brought us a view of the shore. Rustin drew a sharp breath. “Look!” Glittering below us was the sparkling sapphire sea, Llewelyn’s keep but a faint smudge on the horizon.

Lying off the beach, twixt Searoad Meet and the keep, where but three hours before we’d ridden, black sails fluttered in the morning breeze.

“Tantroth won’t have to swim the seawall,” I muttered. He’d mounted a second incursion, north of the keep.

Time pressed. Somberly, we resumed our quest, alternately trotting and walking to conserve the horses.

Whiecliff was still two hours ride, and Hester surely long gone to Seawatch Rock. Would I ever see Elryc? Some part of me whispered it was best if not; I’d be free of responsibility for him, and the risk of betrayal. Manfully I thrust down the thought, mindful of my oath. I could not risk the Still.

The gait of a well-trained horse is steady, even if one’s attention drifts from the reins. Ebon plodded on through the warm sun, and I couldn’t help but doze. Behind me, Genard was all but asleep; only Rustin was alert. It was in near stupor that I lurched into the outskirts of Whiecliff.

“Demons and imps!” Ebon pricked up his ears at my exclamation. What a miserable collection of hovels. Grass grew in the roadway-pathway, more like-that traversed the center of the town. Abutting the road was what claimed to be an inn, but it seemed more a pig-farmer’s dwelling, with a sign propped against the stairs, that I suspected few in the hamlet could decipher.

Still, the morning was well advanced. I was thirsty, and Ebon would welcome a rest. We dismounted, and I had Genard water the horses.

The innkeeper threw open the windows to dispel the fetid air, made grand gestures of welcome as he ushered us to a grimy oaken table, which he ostentatiously wiped with his apron.

Genard would have sat with us, but I bade him sit with Chela. Circumstances forced me to break bread in a dirty country inn, but I wasn’t about to dine with servants. No matter that at the castle I took breakfast every day in the kitchen; that was Mother’s fiat, not a sign of my station.

There was nothing like a bill of fare, but the landlord promised us breakfast fit for a king. I snorted, but Rust put a finger to his lips.

While we waited, I made conversation. Rustin seemed preoccupied and sulky. I put it down to his moodiness, until at last his silences began to rankle. “Does my talk disturb you?” My voice was laden with sarcasm.

He grunted, and I fixed him with an angry glare. At last, he noticed. “Do you ever think beyond yourself?” He leaned forward, searched my eyes. “I’ve defied Father, my home is under siege and my family’s lives at risk. So I beg pardon if I don’t clap with glee at your tale of Ebon’s last shoeing.”

How unfair, that he lash at me. “If my company’s so distasteful, why don’t you sit with the servants?”

He considered. “It hadn’t occurred to me.” He picked up his cloth and glass, moved to the lesser table.

When the food came I tore at it in sullen fury, not deigning to spare Rustin a glance. While he and the servants mopped their plates, I snapped my fingers for the landlord. “Did an old crone pass through, driving a wagon?”

The proprietor’s eye flicked to my purse. “I could inquire, your worship. If I hadn’t so much else to-”

I fished in the purse, found a few coppers. “There can’t be so much traffic that it wouldn’t cause a stir.” Especially considering the drover.

Instantly the coins disappeared into the folds of his apron. “I’ll ask.” He hurried to the kitchen, was inside barely long enough to close and reopen the door. “Yesterday, my lord. A penniless old woman with her grandson.”

“That doesn’t sound-was the cart a great ugly affair pulled by a team of six drays?”

“Aye, and they should have been fed my fresh hay.” He licked his lips at the lost profit, but added mournfully, “She looked at my lodging, decided they couldn’t afford a bed. I heard they slept in Jorath’s barn.”

“Do they tarry?”

He shook his jowls. “They left early of the morn.”

“Very well. We’d best be going.” To my disgust, my party looked to me to pay the bill for all. Rustin was a noble, and should have thought to bring coin of his own. I knew Genard had none to speak of, but then, he’d insisted on coming along. By rights he should do without, unless he could pay his way. As for Chela, she was Rust’s responsibility. But I knew he’d take offense if I suggested it, and the few pence weren’t worth the trouble. I had coin for food and lodging for a month or more.

We asked directions to Seawatch Rock, and rode on in silence. Rust plodded alongside, while Genard and Chela rode behind. “We make good time.”

I grunted, my mood sour.

His tone was light. “Will you be angry long, my prince?”

“When I wanted your company, you chose a churl. Now you’d be in my good graces?”

“Only if you want it so.” Always, Rust seemed to laugh at my moods.

Still, the road was long, and the boredom considerable. “As you wish.” I guided Ebon past a downed limb, that would have knocked a man from his horse as it fell. Gnats swarmed.

Seawatch Rock was a famed landmark, one I’d never seen. It jutted from a range of the Caleds between the coast and my great-uncle’s domain of Cumber. At its base three roads met: Nordukes’ Trek, which threaded through the high passes to Eiber; Cumber Trail, to my great-uncle’s domain; and the Sea Road Track, up which we had toiled.

Were the track less neglected, two hours brisk ride would see us to the rock.

I nursed my resentment against Rustin, Elryc, the witch who led us on this foolish chase. Were the world just, I’d be lazing in the castle, waiting for Mar to arrange my coronation.

Ahead, the road wound round the base of a great granite monolith towering over the surrounding terrain. From the drawings I’d seen, it must be Seawatch. Though five leagues from the sea, it offered a spectacular view of the bay, and for the sharp-sighted, the town of Stryx itself.

Because the imp-cursed road wound back nearly on itself, the afternoon was near spent before we arrived. I’d expected nothing but the rock, but we found farms nestled about its base, and a small town where the roads crossed.

An inn of respectable proportions stood along the roadside, and even a smithy advertised itself on the edge of town. Its proprietor amused himself between shoeings by turning out crude replicas of the rock, which he sat on a plank in front of his door. We stopped for a stretch.

Genard examined his gewgaws openmouthed, but I paid scarce heed; I was sore of saddle, weary, and of a great appetite. “What of the inn, smith?”

The burly fellow laid down a hammer, poked at his fire. “Aye, what of it?” His tone was surly.

“Is the food good?”

He spat. “So it’s said. Though with Eiber’s men in the bay, Lord knows how long before they loot our farms.”

“Genard, leave that toy. Have you seen an old woman in a wagon, coming from the sea road?”

“What if I have?” An angry swipe of the hammer, at some rod on the anvil.

“Then you might tell us. Genard, put that down unless you have coin for it.”

“And you might get on your mounts and begone.”

Reluctantly, Genard sat down the artifact, his eyes fixed on mine as if in dimming hope of a miracle. I slammed the door as we left, but it wedged against the porch with an unsatisfying thunk.

“What demon trod on his soul?”

“Who knows.” Rustin. “Maybe Hester’s at the tavern.”

We had no need to inquire; the door to the livery was ajar, and our drays were nowhere in sight. Nor was there a great lumbering wagon in the yard. We found a table. Chela sat before I could object. Dejectedly, Genard made to sit alone, but Rustin caught his arm, beckoned to a seat.

I glared, but Rust said, “We travel as a party, whether you like it or not. Why make him an outcast?”

“He has no right to eat with-”

Rust’s hand shot to my mouth; I flinched, thinking at first he meant to strike me. “Do you truly want it known, Roddy?”

The innkeeper approached, and I held my peace. After we ordered, it seemed too much trouble to make the boy remove himself.

Rust pointed out the window. “Shall we climb it?”

“We haven’t the time.”

Pungent soup in steaming bowls was set before us. I took a spoonful, gulped at tepid beer to soothe my burning tongue.

Rust regarded me quizzically. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

I gave it thought. “I don’t like the countryside. I’ll be glad to leave it.”

The innkeeper approached with a pitcher, refilled our mugs.

Rustin nodded his thanks. “Innkeeper, why is your smith so peevish?”

“Ertha’s son? Coutil’s spent too many nights in the forest, camped off the road. It’s soured him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really.”

“Who doesn’t know that abandoned earth bears a grudge?” He glanced at the stairs, widened his smile in a grotesque attempt at grace. “We’ve good rooms, if you’d stay the night.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll make up a bed with fresh straw, enough for all. The woods are too cranky, these days.”

I smiled at his peasant prattle. “The old woman driving the wagon. Which way did she go?”

“Estra, her boy called her.” Absently, he wiped his hands on his apron, eyeing a pair of travelers at the door, whose walking sticks suggested they’d just been to the peak. “Nordukes’ Trek, she said. Directions she asked.”

“Thank you.”

“But not the way she went this morn. Hanto, here”-he indicated the perspiring barman-“met her near the brew-house, on the old abandoned Cumber Way. She got turned around, or is too addled to know that rutpath from the new Cumber Trail. On her own head be it, as but five farms rest along the foul stretch to the Gap. Sirs, a fine table, by the door!” He hurried off to his customers.

“This morning.” I drummed the table while we ate.

“In that huge sow of a wagon. She can’t be more than a leagues-”

“Suppose it was a ruse.”

Rustin said, “Her ruse was asking the way to Eiber.”

“Or being seen on old Cumber Way instead of the proper trail. We speak of mad old Hester. What if she turned around and took the trail?”

Rust slapped the table. “I have it! She took neither. She’s on Sea Road Track!”

Yes, that would be just what the old-“No, that’s the road we were on. How could she have passed-” I looked up, saw his grin. “Demons take you!” I stood, threw coin on the plank. “Genard, get the horses. Rust, ask the innkeeper if he has a place for Chela.”

His eyes beseeched me. “Couldn’t she …” My face was stony. He sighed.

Rust took the innkeeper out of hearing. He beckoned to Chela; she joined them. Afterward, Rustin disappeared for a suspiciously long while, and when he returned, straw was stuck to his shirt.

“Come along!” I stalked out, and was astride Ebon by the time he emerged.

We chose the old abandoned road to Cumber. Hester had been seen on it, and she’d said her sister’s cottage was near Cumber.

The rustic village at the rock was soon swallowed in leafy curtains. I rode alone, behind Genard. Rust, moody and silent, brought up the rear.

Our path took us through thickets and groves, ever upward. For long stretches, stands of sycamores and maples supplanted the bright-lit meadows. Only the occasional wagon or rider had kept vegetation from overrunning the road.

At intervals we passed terrain once cultivated but now abandoned. Decaying shelters were reclaimed by relentless vines and shoots.

At least, as we rose, the air was cooler. But a canopy of drooping leaves blocked the sun, and the afternoon bled away in sullen mist.

Rustin fell in alongside. “Hester can’t make much speed on such a road. We’ll soon be upon her.”

“If she isn’t bound for the Eiber passes.” Who could know Hester’s mind. She was a law unto herself.

We plodded along. “Desolate country,” Rust muttered.

“Mother spoke of settling the land, to hold it against Cumber’s ambitions.” I’d played at her feet, while she conversed with Uncle Mar. “Nothing came of it.”

“When you’re King, think of it again.” He looked to the brooding forest canopy. “It could be made good grange, I warrant.”

“I wonder if once it had a Power of its own. It seems … sullen.”

“How can a land have Power, without a people?”

I shrugged. “I’m no Ritemaster.”

Above the thick blanket of trees, the sky was darkening, as if to storm. It was impossible to get dry if one set up shelter after the rain started. If we were in for a tempest, best we unroll our canvas tarpaulins, hang them from suitable branches, and shield ourselves from the worst of it.

I said hesitantly, “I hate to waste the time.”

Rustin wrinkled his brow, laboriously worked through my unspoken thoughts. “It’s too early to stop.”

We toiled on. Once, we came to a rivulet, not deep enough to warrant a bridge. I got down, examined the ruts. “I think she’s been this way. These look recent.”

As I remounted, the first raindrops hit. Quickly we put on our cloaks. Genard, to my disgust, had none. When the downpour intensified I had to lend him a spare jerkin as an overshirt, lest he sneeze and whine and complain all the way to Cumber. He swam inside it, wet and forlorn.

Heads bowed against the driving rain that lashed us regardless of the twists of the road, we made our way deeper into the hills. Hours passed in dreary monotony. Ebon trudged along a track grown muddy, on which water gurgled in the roadbed. Surely Hester, if she had indeed come before us, was forced to stop and wait out the squall.

As suddenly as the torrent had started, it stopped. But instead of the cool that oft followed a summer shower, a sultry mist rose from the earth. The leafy canopy dripped persistently on my neck, but I couldn’t wrap myself in my cloak, lest I broil.

“Demons take this weather!” I stood in my saddle, massaged my aching rump. Ebon chose that moment to slip on a stone, almost catapulting me over his head. I clung precariously to his mane, adding wet horse to the effluvia of our journey.

Another hour, and I’d had enough; Elryc wasn’t worth the misery. I needed sleep, food, dry clothes. Brusquely, I ordered Rustin to look for a suitable place to camp. For once, he made no objection, either because he shared my weariness, or had at last learned to heed his liege.

We stumbled on under darkening sky for what seemed a good hour. At a clearing, I veered off the road, found an isolated glade where a quiet brook flowed.

“Here!” I swung myself off Ebon, stamped the ground to see if it was marshy.

Rustin glanced about. “We need to be under trees to tie the canvas.”

“Bother the tarpaulins, the rain’s come and gone. We’ll sleep in the open.”

“Boars may roam the forest, and-”

“A canvas won’t stop a razor tusk. Genard, lay the tarps on the ground, put our blankets on top.” I stretched, groaning.

“Aye, m’lord.” As if resigned, he began unlacing our bedrolls.

Rustin unknotted a saddlebag. “I’ll loosen the cinches but leave the horses saddled in case a patrol comes on us.”

“And gather firewood after. We’ll brew strong hot tea, to wash down our jerky.”

“Aye, master. And what about you?”

“Me?” I kicked at a rotting log. “I suppose I’ll start the fire.” Did he expect a prince to labor alongside a stableboy?

We made do with dried fruits and crackers, and torn chunks of dried meat washed down with the tea I’d promised. Not the finest meal I’d known, but it appeased my hunger, and the tea revived me.

I threw another stick onto the blaze, watched sparks shoot skyward. Genard leaned close to the fire.

I said, “You’ll roast, boy.”

“Gotta dry my clothes.”

“Wear others, and hang them to dry, as we did.” I flicked a thumb at my wet clothes, on a branch.

His glance asked if I could be serious. “I have but one other jerkin, and Lord Elryc wears that.”

I shrugged. If peasants weren’t so lazy they could afford proper attire.

Rust said, “Hang your clothes from branches, lad, and wrap yourself in my second blanket.” He grimaced at his dried meat, said to me, “A pity we didn’t bring a roast fowl from the inn.”

My mouth watered. “Why didn’t you think of it at the time?”

“You gave me other to think about.”

“Bah.” If he took that road, we soon wouldn’t be speaking. “The light’s gone. I’ll match you stories.”

Behind us, Genard peeled off his garments, draped them over a limb. He wore no underclothes; Lord knew how he survived our snow-blest winters. He unpacked Rustin’s blanket, padded back to the fire in it, stumbling over its tail. “Thank you, m’lord.”

“Sit.” Rustin made a place. “Stories? Made up, or truth?”

“Truth. Tell me what you know, that I don’t.” I made myself as comfortable as I could in the oppressive heat.

Genard said eagerly, “Tell of the Furies. Or the Settling.”

Rust pondered. “No, I’ll speak of Powers.”

I stirred uneasily. We ought not discuss the Still, or its requirements.

“My father Llewelyn is initiate in the Rite of the Seven Nations.”

“Seven?”

“Not the nations you know, Genard.” He patted the boy’s blanketed leg, held up a warning hand. “Though perhaps … the Steppe. In old days, Varon came to rule there, but we speak of times when he was not yet seed in his mother’s belly, nor his grandfather yet born.”

He tossed a berry into the fire; it sizzled and vanished.

“In those times, they say, the Steppe was a vast forsaken land, and its Power was strong.”

Genard piped, “Strong enough to-”

“Hush. The Steppe was one nation. Soushire was another.”

I said, “Soushire’s a mere fiefdom of-”

“The name remains, as a great man will hand down his name to his son, and he to his, until a once-proud title is worn by an idiot of the village, who remembers not.”

An owl hooted.

“Soushire is today such a place, forgotten of the glory of old. The Lady Larissa is but an echo of the Lord who ruled a dominion that stretched west from Farreach Ocean to lands unknown. And the Lady’s Power to make dogs fierce is but a remnant of the land’s ancient Power.”

“Impossible. No king can master so great a-”

“Not kings of our day.” Rustin waved away an inquiring insect. “There were the lands of Cambod, and the Russ, and the Hills of Evalon, a place of such beauty that it is remembered still, though it’s long sunk under the waves.”

“How, m’lord?” Genard couldn’t help himself.

“No man knows. Perhaps Lord of Nature was jealous of its grace.”

For a time we were silent.

Genard counted on his fingers. “That’s six.”

“Aye, and I’ll speak of Erre.”

High above, a bird of night screamed. Ice shivered my spine, despite the stultifying heat. Genard giggled. “Erre is what you say when you forget someone’s name.”

Rustin smiled, but his eyes were solemn. “Fitting then, for Erre is forgotten. Long before Evalon, and the Russ, Erre held sway over lands so vast that Soushire, the Steppe, and even the Norlands are but pebbles on the beach of them.”

I contented myself with throwing twigs at the fire, to watch them glow into nothingness. After a time I said, “Great Powers such a people must have plied.”

“Aye, and there’s the mystery.” Rustin brooded. “There’s one thing on which the legends agree.”

I waited, but Genard blurted, “Yes?”

“Erre had no Power.”

I knew Rustin well. If I spoke my mind he’d stalk off in a fury, and the next days would be dreary until again he came round. But I knew full well no land could subsist without its Power.

True, some talents were more useful than others. The Rood of Norland, carried into battle, brought fear and consternation on the enemy, which was often enough to weaken them and turn the tide. As a result, the Norlanders were enemies to be reckoned with. On the other hand, I couldn’t see what a tree in Cambod might say of interest, when the moon was full upon it. And the Warthen’s Power of Return was a dreadful gift.

The point was, what was a land without its particular Power? How could it be distinguished from its neighbors, hold its character? Caledon was of the Still, and the Still was Caledon. The Power ran with the crown, and the land. Before Elena, long before Varon, there had been the Still.

I grumbled, “How can I know about mysteries and Rites I’ve never been told? It seems to me-” Recalling my good intentions, I restrained myself from saying more. “Let’s go to sleep.” I unrolled my blanket on the canvas carpet. “Bank the fire.”

In faintly hostile silence we got ready for bed. I stepped out of my breeks and shirt lest I smother from the heat, wrapped half the blanket under me for a pillow, threw the other half loosely on top, slapped at a mosquito.

It had been a night and a day since I’d slept, and that poorly. I drifted almost immediately into an exhausted stupor, not quite the blessing of sleep.

Time passed, in the glow of the embers. Lying on my back, I could see few stars; the clouds of evening had not dispersed. I sighed, rolled over onto my stomach, and drowsed.

I woke in the dim night, a persistent insect buzzing round my ear. I chased him off, scratched my back, drifted into torpor.

Again a buzz, and I fanned the darkness. A pin pricked my leg; I spread the blanket to cover me more fully. A moment later I swatted two mosquitoes on my arm. With a muttered curse, I made a tent of the blanket, crawled completely inside. Gnats swarmed about my head.

Rustin yelped, cursed under his breath. Across the firepit I listened to his scratching.

I buried myself under my cover, ears and all. At last I was left in peace, though between breaths I heard the swarm buzzing outside the blanket. I drew up my legs, made sure my toes were covered, drifted into a doze.

I woke moments later, drenched with sweat. I threw off the cover, gasped for breath, batted away a hundred insects, dived back under the covers.

Something was wrong. The ground on which we camped wasn’t marshy. The day’s heat had evaporated what was left of the rain. Why were we plagued with-

“Demons’ lake!” I slapped something on my leg whose bite burned like a coal.

The buzz was incessant. Genard and Rustin too were kicking at the blankets, slapping at invisible tormentors.

I rubbed my face, found swellings where I hadn’t known I was bitten. Desperate, I dived back under my covers, sucked in breaths through the stifling heat

“Roddy!”

I grunted an unheard answer.

“Dress! Now!”

I moved the cover an inch. “Are you giving up sleep?”

“Aiyee! Hurry, for Lord’s sake!”

I risked a view, waving away an avid swarm of pests. Rustin had kicked the last of our pile of twigs onto the embers. He danced, slapping himself, trying to get into his breeks, staggering like a souse. “Now, Roddy! A woods Power is aroused!”

I took a deep breath, flung off the cover, felt for my discarded clothes. Mosquitoes attacked with a vengeance. I batted at my upper arms, my chest. My back prickled as if I’d stumbled into a briar. Where in the demons’ lake were my breeches?

“M’lord, are we leaving?”

“Yes!” I tripped on the blanket, went down cursing. I rose, shaking off ants. “Quick!”

Genard stopped thrashing under his covers, jumped to his feet, made no effort to dress. Instead, he ran, blanket and all, for the road.

Ebon reared and neighed, his eyes white with terror. Santree bucked in frenzy, as if mites bored under his saddle.

I couldn’t find my clothes.

Rustin was half-dressed, his bare chest swarming. “Free the horses!”

“I can’t find my breeks!”

“Leave them!” Easy to say, when he had his. Rust stumbled across the firepit, grabbed my arm, hauled me toward the road. “Run! There’s evil loose!”

“Where did I leave-aich!” I slapped at my loincloth, squashing whatever had darted underneath.

“Now!” He half dragged me toward safety, shutting his eyes to a squint against a horde of probing mites.

“Grab Ebon’s reins!”

With a swipe, he pulled the reins free of the bush on which they’d been tied, but Ebon reared in a frenzy. Rust threw his hands in front of his face, dropped the reins. “No time!” He dragged me to the trail.

On the roadway, Genard did a mad dance, pounding at his wrap, kicking at nothing. “They itch! It hurts!”

I staggered to the miserable excuse for a road, stopped for breath. The swarm had definitely thinned; here only a dozen mosquitoes landed on my chest. I crushed them with frantic blows, leaving spots of blood. “Ebon, here!”

My stallion bucked and kicked, too frantic to heed. Rustin scratched himself, swiveled his head constantly as if expecting ambush. I waved away gnats.

“They’ll kill the horses!”

“We’ve got to-” He braced himself. “Now!” We charged into the treacherous meadow. He raced toward Santree; I veered to Ebon. A thousand pinpricks. Rustin slipped a foot in Santree’s stirrup, but the desperate bay bucked too hard for him to mount. Rust slapped his rump and the bay clattered to the road, turned back toward Seawatch, galloped off.

Ebon wouldn’t let me mount. I got behind the frantic whinnying horse, shooed him out toward the road, eyes near-shut against the angry swarm. Huge mosquitoes, fat with blood, landed on my exposed parts. Flailing, I dashed after the horse, hoping to overtake and mount him.

Ebon cantered along the trail. I tripped on a log, fell hard enough so the breath was knocked out of me. While I struggled to my feet, an ominous buzz grew louder.

Tiny shapes flitted past my head.

“Wasps! Run!” Genard, on the roadway, lifted the skirt of his blanket, raced toward Cumber. I sprinted to the trail, batting aside angry drones that attacked as if in concert. From Rustin, a cry of dismay.

For an instant I paused, thinking to help him, but I wore nothing but my loincloth; a horde of wasps might sting me unto death.

Even as the thought came, the menacing swarm swooped, flitted, danced toward me. “Run, Rust! Save yourself!” I dashed headlong down the road, praying to Lord of Nature that I not trip again.

My eyes were nearly shut from bites. Genard, screaming as he ran, was well ahead, chasing Ebon. Behind me, silence. I hoped it meant Rust had escaped; were he attacked, I could do naught.

As I ran, the meadow alongside gave way to a dark brooding canopy that made a tunnel of the road. Hearing or imagining the whine of wasps I panted into darkness, feeling more than seeing the roadway, knowing from Genard’s panicked cries that I followed him.

I blundered into something large and wooden, squawked with pain, staggered on. I’d gone no more than three steps when a lash cracked onto my bare back, sounding the clap of doom. I shrieked, fell to my knees. The whip cracked again. I convulsed in torment.

“Begone, scoundrels of the night!” A high-pitched voice, from above, that creaked and grated. “Rob us, would you?” Another lash of the whip, which missed my face by a whisker. “Willem, Verstad, to arms! Wake the others!”

Hands behind me to protect my bleeding back, I lurched away, collided with something hard, went down. I clutched it as I fell; it was a wheel.

“Begone, assassins!”

I gibbered, eyes squeezed shut.

“Don’t hurt the Prince!” Genard scampered toward me, arms spread wide, his blanket gone. “Hold, Dame Hester!” He threw his arms round me, tried to haul me to safety. “Help! Lor’ Rustin! Help!”

Another crack of the whip. Genard howled.

From above, silence. Then, “Roddy? Rustin?”

I wailed, “Please, no more, Hester, I’ll be good!”

The clearing reeled. I tumbled, and knew no more.