Chapter Eleven
Athelbryght
It was dark when they arrived at the home of the Chosen of Athelbryght.
As she slid from her saddle, Halithe had an impression of sprawling farmlands and a huge manor house and not much else. Mostly because she was so weary she could barely see straight. They’d been on the road for days and their escort had never let the pace slow.
She blinked grit from her eyes and straightened her back, grateful to be off the horse.
Her skin itched. She was dirtier than she could ever remember being in her whole, entire life.
Traveling had always been in carriages, or the occasional sedate promenade on horseback, not bone-jarring trots, endless hours rocking in the saddle, or sleeping on the hard earth.
Her no-longer-necessary dress and underskirts had not helped much there after all.
Any illusions she had about the romance of travel were gone for good.
She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other while keeping Ritathan’s back right in front of her as she followed him inside. Their escort, human and vore, followed.
The Great Hall was dark and cold, with just a few lanterns clustered around the High Seat of the Chosen.
“So, Ritathan of Edenrich, Chained Mage, you have returned.” A woman, clearly in charge, stood beside the High Seat and greeted them with a snarl, much like the two vore that stood at her side. Her voice echoed coldly. “Bringing ill winds and ill fortune, no doubt.”
A chill rippled over Halithe’s skin.
They walked forward, escort close behind, until they stood at the base of the platform.
“That was many years past, Latarie,” Ritathan said mildly. “I’d hoped you’d grown as a person, moved past those events. Forgiven, if not forgotten.”
Halithe’s stomach clenched as one of the vore showed its teeth. Her life in the Royal Courts had taught Halithe that there were times when it was best to keep one’s head down and eyes on the floor. This was one of those times.
But she was starting to suspect that her wise, old mentor wasn’t as wise as she’d thought.
“You burned down the hay barn,” Latarie snapped.
“That wasn’t me,” Ritathan replied.
“You set the road afire as you fled,” she pressed.
Halithe looked up at that.
“Yes, well, fine, that was me,” Ritathan shrugged dismissively.
“If you recall, I was being chased by farm-hands with sharpened farm implements.” He pulled himself up to his full height and stared the woman down.
“I’m sorry you still carry these grudges,” he said.
“I am honestly not here to cause you—or anyone—grief or pain.” He peered around, as if looking for someone.
“If I could perhaps speak to the Chosen,” he said mildly, as he returned his gaze to Latarie and nodded to the empty High Seat.
Halithe blinked at his nerve.
“No,” Latarie said. “You may not.”
Ritathan cocked his head. “The Chosen has a reputation for hospitality and welcome, and a willingness to hear any who come before her. Has something changed?”
At this, their escort stirred, almost soundlessly, behind them.
The biggest of the vore next to Latarie barked and its interpreter spoke. “We will not risk our Chosen to one who wields—”
“Is there a party?” came a quivering voice.
A white-haired woman appeared from behind the High Seat, looking out at them with wide eyes and a smile.
She was frail-looking and pale. Her hair, as white as the snow outside, was braided and wrapped around her head so that just the points of her ears peeked out.
“It’s cold in here,” she chirped, rubbing her arms.
Halithe froze. Elven. This woman was elven. Halithe had heard of the elves, of course, heard all the old stories, but they had died out years ago. As far as she knew.
Two more women rushed in, clearly caretakers. “We just turned our backs for a moment,” one insisted.
The Chosen ignored them, settling into the High Seat as if she owned it. Well, Halithe thought, she did. “And who is this?” the elf asked, staring at Halithe.
“Halithe, my apprentice, Chosen.” Ritathan said.
“Ritathan,” the Chosen said as her wrinkles grew into a smile and she held out her hands. “Are your chores done? I’ve cookies in the oven.”
Ritathan glanced at Latarie, who shrugged and nodded. He advanced and knelt, gently taking her slender fingers in his. “They’ve been done for some time, Chosen.”
The Chosen’s face fell and it seemed to Halithe that her eyes clouded.
“Oh, my lad,” she said softly as she reached up and cupped his cheek with a frail hand.
“If you chose this path, you cannot stay in Athelybryght, nor ever return. Please do not do this to us. It will crush Aramal, he loves you, we love you, Rit, and we want you to be happy, but not magic, my boy. Never that.”
Tears were forming in her eyes, making them glitter like stars. Halithe was caught by her beauty, ethereal and precious, almost with a magic of its own.
“I promise you, I will do no magic here,” Ritathan’s voice was thick. “I swear it.”
“Such a good lad.” The Chosen smiled and patted his cheek. “And who is this?” she asked, looking again at Halithe.
Halithe stepped forward, and curtsied. “Halithe, Chosen.” she said. “I am Ritathan’s student.”
The Chosen clapped. “Another scribe. We are always in need of scribes, aren’t we, Latarie?”
“We are,” Latarie said, her voice heavy with grief.
“Come.” The Chosen rose and took Halithe’s hand. “I feel the cold these days, deep in the bone. I want my fire. Come, we will have kavage and cookies.” She leaned forward and her nose crinkled with delight as she shared a great secret. “Ritathan loves my molasses cookies.”
Halithe hesitated, looking at Latarie and the vore beside her.
The ruff of the biggest vore shivered. Latarie looked resigned. “Chosen, let’s get you back to your fire,” she said gently. “Ritathan is mistaken. He still has chores to do.”
The Chosen nodded and rose, tiny and graceful. She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Don’t be long, children,” she said as the other two women helped her away.
Everyone stood silent as she went through the door at the back.
“How long?” Ritathan asked softly, all arrogance gone from his voice.
“Gradually,” Latarie said, her voice drained of anger. “It’s grown worse in the last year. Her overall health is good, but she is…fading.”
“No new Chosen found yet?” he asked.
“No,” Latarie pursed her lips. “Why have you come?”
Ritathan sighed. To Halithe’s surprise he spoke the truth.
“I was the chained mage to King Xywellan and Queen Kara. I escaped an assassination attempt from the new regime. I came here, because I am seeking my key. I thought to find it here, but—” He paused.
“It’s gone beyond. It’s north of here,” he said.
Latarie looked at the vore beside her. The vore shrugged. “Tell him,” its interpreter said.
“A marcus passed through here some time ago,” Latarie said.
“He’d been traveling with the vore, Dust. He was intent on reaching the Wastes as quickly as possible.
Dust was to accompany him and return. They took the path north, the old goat track through the hills up to the mountain pass. We have had no word of them since.”
“A marcus,” Ritathan said, rubbing his chin. “That explains much, and yet very little.” Latarie took a deep breath. “We will shelter you this night,” she said. “I will consult with the Packmoot.”
“I could speak with them, explain—” Ritathan offered, but Latarie cut him off.
“It is for them to decide if they will listen,” she said. “The others will see to you and your mounts. For now, your apprentice will come with me.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Ritathan said stiffly.
The vore growled.
“We do,” Latarie said.
She turned to leave, then hesitated, her hand on the back of the High Seat. “Is there anything your magic could do for her?” Her voice mingled fear and pain and a dreadful hope as she looked back over her shoulder.
The vore raised its head and stared at her.
“No,” Ritathan said gently. “Even if I had a power that would aid her, which I don’t, I gave my word.”
“You broke it before,” Latarie said.
“I did. But that was then,” Ritathan said. “This is now.”
Latarie gave a sharp nod and started to walk away. “Come, girl.”
Halithe glanced at her mentor. Ritathan hesitated, then gave her a curt nod. She followed the woman through the door, down a long hall, through another door, and into a kitchen.
A wave of heat hit her face, along with light and color.
It was a cheery place, with all kinds of shelves and crockery in bright colors.
There was an open hearth, plus two small ovens set in a brick wall.
Dried herbs hung from the rafters and there were baskets of tubers and onions and bread stored all about.
Sausages were strung in the chimney, curing in the smoke.
Beside the fire, in a large, padded chair, sat the Chosen, with a fluffy sheepskin, thick and warm, over her legs and pillows stuffed around her to cushion her ancient bones. She was smiling in her sleep.
“Here,” Latarie gestured to a stool by the kitchen table. “Aster, this child needs fed.”
“We’ve toasted bread and cheese and cold chicken,” One of the care-taking women bustled over, smiling. “The kavage is hot, if a bit strong. I’ll add some milk, if you like, else you won’t sleep a wink.”
“Yes, thank you,” Halithe said as she sat.
“Food, then a bath and bed,” Latarie said as she settled opposite Halithe.
A plate was placed before her. Halithe again offered thanks before diving in. The first bite of toast was wonderful. Warm and buttery, with sharp yellow cheese melted on top. She closed her eyes in appreciation.
“Better than trail rations, yes?” Latarie smiled, cradling a mug of kavage. Halithe nodded and kept eating.