But here was a puzzle. This was Lady Estora’s hat, and the dead mare was hers, too, but if that was the lady being carried off, there was a dimension to her he had not even imagined existed. She killed a few of the men, and injured others—he’d watched them ride back down the road with their dead. Definitely not fighting skill he expected from a noble lady.
Whoever it was, then, had done Lady Estora a great service, must have helped her escape when he’d been incapable of catching up with her captors.
He was of two minds. One was to go in search of the real Lady Estora, the other was to follow the band of cutthroats and try to help the brave soul who had taken her place. She—or possibly he?—would at least know what became of the lady, and he owed this person any aid he could render.
He walked over to Goss, who had scented the dead mare and wanted to bolt. He made the stallion stand still long enough for him to mount.
He cantered back to the crossroads and reined Goss west, on the road that led into the Teligmar Hills. A little way along, he hung Lady Estora’s hat on a branch as a clue to any force King Zachary might have sent out behind him.
JAMETARI’S DESIRE
Laren could see Zachary’s reluctance, but she knew the pressure Lord Coutre exerted on him to recover Lady Estora. The pressure, coupled with his own guilty feelings finally overrode his pride. He sat his horse unmoving before the blue tent of the Eletians’ encampment, waiting, just waiting for any indication Prince Jametari would deign to see him.
Zachary asked her along, but relegated his honor guard to a few Weapons. There were no banners this time, no soldiers in shining mail riding in columns. No pageantry. The guards at the city gates ensured no one approached or disturbed him, but curious onlookers gazed down from the wall wondering what their king wanted with the Eletians.
Little was ever seen of them, though a few Eletian “scouts” had ventured into the city. They always traveled in threes, spoke to no one but select shopkeepers, and did not linger. Laren couldn’t blame them, for everywhere they went, crowds gathered and gawked, congesting the street and forcing constables to intervene to keep traffic flowing.
And what could possibly interest Eletians in Sacor City? Reportedly they’d visited the museums and arts district, but much of their interest focused on Master Gruntler’s Sugary, and it was said the master himself was working all day and night to fill orders for chocolate treats. The Eletians had also ordered sacks of roasted kauv beans from a Gryphon Street tea house.
No one knew what the Eletians did in their tents all day, but Laren amused herself by imagining them sitting around popping Dragon Droppings into their mouths, sipping kauv, and reading esoteric poetry to one another—a heady combination. She smiled and wondered if the Eletians truly inhabited the tents at all, or if the tents were really passages to elsewhere. Were the Eletians even here, in Sacoridia? Were the tent interiors in an altogether different location than the exteriors?
It was such mysteries that made the Eletians so intriguing, but the longer she and the others sat waiting for one to appear, the more her curiosity waned.
As their wait became more protracted, the clouds in the leaden sky roiled eastward. Laren sniffed the chill air and thought it smelled of snow. They’d had a dusting already, but it melted quickly in the sun. The cold worked its way into her back, which ached from sitting so long. Bluebird’s head dipped as he dozed. Still, Zachary’s expression was set. He was not moving.
Laren was about to suggest they return to the castle, attempt to convince him to return tomorrow for another try, when the flap of the blue tent folded back, and there stood the Eletian they had dealt with before, Prince Jametari’s sister.
“Welcome, Firebrand,” she said. “My brother will see you.”
Zachary dismounted and his small company followed suit. After he handed off his reins to one of the Weapons, he chose another to accompany him and Laren into the tent. Neither General Harborough, nor Colin, would be happy with just one guard, but they had not been consulted about—or even told of—this little adventure. No, they would not be happy at all when they learned of it.
Their Weapon was Sergeant Brienne Quinn, lately up from the tombs, as were all the Weapons who now guarded Zachary, leaving but a few to watch over the avenues of the dead.
The three of them entered the tent, and it was as before, the birches lining the path, their golden leaves rustling, white limbs holding up the sky. Laren smiled when she saw Brienne’s look of wonder mixed with a healthy dose of suspicion.
The tomb guards were having to make many adjustments with their new duty of guarding the living, such as working above ground and in daylight. They were pale, these Weapons, and seemed always to squint, even on a dim day such as this, as though even the hint of sunlight were too much for them.
All Weapons were quiescent and showed deference to the king, but with the tomb guards it was more; they were almost sepulchral in demeanor, accustomed to hushed and hallowed places, the silent gardens of the dead. How did they view their living king? As a future ward of the tombs?
Laren shook her head. Such thoughts!
They followed the Eletian down the path and across the stream to where Prince Jametari awaited them, this time attired in silvery blue. His attendants set out chairs and refreshments again, but Zachary remained standing, prince and king assessing one another in silence.
Presently Jametari said, “I welcome your return, Firebrand. What is it the Eletians may do for you?”
“You don’t know?” Zachary asked. “I thought you were gifted with prescience.”