Chapter Eighteen
On the Road to the Black Hills
Halithe tried to remember if she’d ever learned how to get men to stop talking.
Their escort had left them at the border hours ago. The sun was high, the sky clear, and Ritathan and Aramal would not stop bickering. Mind, it wasn’t anything cruel, just two old men arguing about everything inconsequential while clearly avoiding some important topic.
She shifted in her saddle, waited for one of them to take a breath, and plunged in. “Could we stop for a bit soon?” She really did try not to whine.
Aramal threw her a nod. “Been looking for a place to stop. If I remember correctly, around this bend, there’s a site off the road with a fire pit.”
Ritathan cleared his throat, urging his horse into a trot. “About that.”
Aramal gave him a confused look, glanced at Halithe, shrugged, and followed. Halithe’s horse needed no urging to keep abreast, not wanting to be left behind.
Just beyond the bend, to one side of the road, was a huge camp, dozens of servants coming and going from the large main tent. In the center, a fire pit and a long table. Two women were snapping a large white tablecloth over it, while another brought an arrangement of fresh flowers for the center.
Halithe pulled her horse to a sudden stop, jerking the reins in surprise. Aramal drew up next to her.
“Ritathan,” Forterren called as he emerged from one of the smaller tents. “Took you long enough.”
Aramal shifted in his saddle and stared at Ritathan. “You never intended to camp.”
Ritathan raised his eyebrows. “I never corrected your erroneous assumptions.” He dismounted, handed his reins to a waiting servant, and walked toward Forterran.
Aramal huffed. “Arrogant bastard.”
Halithe pulled her horse close. “Was he always like this?”
Aramal nodded. “Oh, yes. One of the reasons my father despised him.”
A gout of flame arose from the cooking fires.
“And that was the other.” Aramal sighed.
“Master, mistress.” The servant at their horse’s heads got their attention. He was patiently waiting, holding the halters. “There’s bathing tents to refresh yourselves before the meal, if you wish. We’ll see to the horses.”
“Oh, yes,” Halithe said with joy as she dismounted and headed to where he pointed.
Hot water and soap and towels and all the necessities!
A chance to wash her face and hands and brush her hair.
She was thorough but didn’t dawdle; she was curious to learn more about this luxury in the middle of nowhere.
She emerged from the tent to find Aramal standing nearby, washed and combed, just staring at the table, which was set in the shade under the trees, on carpets spread over the grass.
In addition to the fine white cloth and the flowers, there were place settings: china, glassware, and utensils.
Ritathan and Forterran stood nearby, talking.
Aramal didn’t seem happy, in fact he looked uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?” Halithe asked as she stepped up beside him.
He glanced at her, and shrugged, looking sheepish.
“I’m used to the common hall and trenchers, not this.
” He pointed with his chin at the table.
“Where talk is loud and raucous and about whether the ram has pizzle rot and who threw crockery in the midden. Not this.” He took a long breath. “Rough hands catch on fine linen.”
Halithe nodded, remembering all too well the harsh lessons she’d learned. The constant fear of criticism and scolding, the dark looks when she’d fumbled a water glass and no praise when she’d managed to do well.
“Halithe, Aramal, come,” Forterran waved them over.
Halithe took Aramal’s arm. “Just do what I do,” she said softly. “That’s how I learned.”
Aramal gave her a doubtful look but escorted her forward.
From one of the tents, two women emerged.
Halithe recognized them both from her brief visit to the Guild.
Obeda, her expression kindly, and the much older woman, Ila, her face like a wrinkled apple, tottering with a cane over uneven ground.
A servant escorted her, though the walk was brief, and helped her to her chair.
Forterran held a chair for Halithe and gestured Aramal to the one opposite him. Ritathan sat opposite Halithe and snapped his napkin out.
“Nothing too fancy, I fear,” Forterran said as he settled in his chair next to the old woman. “My wife, Obeda, and my mother, Ila. Mother, I would make you known to Aramal of Athelbryght. You have met Halithe and you know Ritathan.”
Halithe blinked. She had met Ila before, but she was still trying to absorb the idea that Forterran’s mother—that Forterran had a mother—was a master of portal magic. Despite her marriage. Despite giving birth.
Ila leaned over and pinched Ritathan’s cheek. “I know this rascal,” she said, her voice thin and wavery. “But Aramal? Not the Aramal that —”
“How much did you see when you scryed?” Ritathan interrupted her.
Ila chortled and patted his hand.
Foreterran snorted. “Not much. Athelbryght does not lend itself to scrying and the vore are sensitive.”
Scrying? Her interest piqued, Halithe picked up her napkin and spread it on her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aramal do the same.
“Bread?” Forterran asked. He offered Halithe the basket. “There’s honeyed butter,” he said. “But I also have a pepper and garlic oil for dipping, if you prefer.”
Halithe pulled out a piece of warm bread, and offered the basket to Aramal. He was frowning slightly, as if concentrating on what to do.
Butter, please,” Halithe said. Aramal took some bread, then passed the basket to Ritathan, who had already splashed his bread plate with the seasoned oil. The mage took two pieces of bread, tore off a piece, dipped it into the oil, and crammed it into his mouth.
Aramal gave Halithe a look that conveyed, “what was I worried about?” and began to eat.
Halithe took a bite of bread to cover her smile.
“So,” Foreterran said as he started to butter his bread. “What happened?”
“Well,” Ritathan started, his mouth full.
Forterran stopped him with a gesture of his butter knife. “I wish to hear it from Master Aramal.”
Aramal stared, his bread in his hand. “Guildmaster Forterran, wouldn’t Ritathan be the better one to speak? I am no mage, sir, and come to that, not even a Master of any craft.”
“Aramal can do anything he puts his mind to,” Ritathan spoke up.
“Jack of all trades, Master of none, but offtimes better than master of one,” Forterran quoted with a nod. “I’ve already heard Ritathan’s version of the story.”
Halithe shot Ritathan a glance at that. Surely there hadn’t been enough time for him to explain everything.
“Your tale of the events at the Rim of the Wastes is just as valuable as theirs and maybe more so, since you weren’t wrapped up in the magic.” Forterran leaned back to allow one of the servers to pour him a foaming ale. “Ale or wine?”
“Ale, please,” Aramal also leaned back to be served, following his lead. Ritathan was already gesturing with his cup.
“Wine, well-watered,” Halithe murmured to the server, having learned that lesson early on. To her delight, the drink was cold and sweet. It tingled on her tongue.
Another server placed a hot dish before her, something topped with a flaky crust, slightly steaming. She waited until all had been served, and then broke the crust with her spoon, to find a rich chicken-in-gravy below, with tubers and carrots.
“Smells wonderful,” Aramal said.
“My wife’s recipe,” Forterran beamed. He looked at the servers. “My thanks,” he said. “We’ll call if there is a need.”
The servers bowed and retreated into the tent.
“Dig in before you start your tale,” Forterran urged.
Halithe did just that, marveling at the slightly spicy, peppery taste. For long moments, they all just ate, passing bread and fixings. Halfway through his helping, Aramal took a breath and wiped his mouth with his hand.
Halithe froze.
Such manners would have earned her a punishment.
No one said a word. No one even gave him a side-glance.
“I need to take a breath,” Aramal chuckled. “This is so good.”
“Good to see a man enjoy his food,” Obeda said with a smile.
Ila’s eyes were closed, the glass she held close to tipping. Obeda reached over and gently took it from her hand.
“So, here’s what happened,” Aramal began.
Forterran gestured him on with his spoon.
“The Chosen and the Packmoot gave permission for us to follow the trail of Dust and the marcus to learn of their fates. So we headed toward the path to the Rim,” Aramal started.
Obeda reached for more bread. “I’d thought the Marcusi a myth, legendary protectors of the Blood of Xy.”
“They are real enough, ma’am,” Aramal said.
“The marcusi have used that path for years, one of the few that lead to the Rim through the mountains.” He paused to take a sip.
“Long ago, the marcusi and the vore combined their mutual needs. To search for those born with the mark of the Chosen and to aid in the defense of the Blood. Both tasks became harder when the Blood started to war with each other and the Chosen became few and far between.”
Forterran snorted. “Wouldn’t put it past Satia to carve the mark into her newborn.”
Aramal shook his head. “The vore are not easily fooled. That’s been tried in the past, and it doesn’t end well.”
“So you started up the mountain?” Obeda prompted.
“Aye,” Aramal said and resumed his tale, eating while talking. Ritathan made grunts of agreement now and then.
Forterran and Obeda focused on Aramal as they ate, asking few questions. Halithe did the same, hearing for the first time his impressions and his and Bright Fang’s view of their journey. Until Aramal reached the moment when they arrived at the Rim.
“Ritathan shot over to one side and started digging,” Aramal said. “I thought he was mad, but Bright Fang joined in, and they uncovered a cache.”
With a dramatic flair, Ritathan reached for the bowl of flowers in the center of the table, shoved it aside, and dropped two items in its place.
A ring and a key.
The gold of the ring and the blue of the stone set within caught the light and sparkled.
“Doubt I would have found it, without my link to the key.” Ritathan said.
“Well, well, well,” Forterran said as he sat back in his chair.
“Which was when Aramal decided to go look over the Rim,” Ritathan added. “And the wyverns attacked.”
“You burnt them to a crisp, I’m sure.” Forterran said dryly. “Did you think to bring back a specimen?”
“I might still have some ash on my shoes,” Ritathan said loftily.
Aramal coughed, covering his mouth. Halithe hide her smile in her napkin.
Obeda tapped on the table three times with her finger. “Behave,” she said mildly.
The men looked sheepish for a moment and reached for their cups. Forterran drank deep, then cleared his throat. “Xyrath has had the battlefield scoured, looking for that ring.”
“Is it magic?” Aramal asked.
Curious, Halithe concentrated on it, invoking her mage-sight. There was a faint glow from the key, but nothing from the ring.
Out of the corner of her eye, something flickered. She turned her head, to see the tent flaring with pure power.
Her breath caught. There was a portal in the tent!
Halithe blinked. Of course. Hot food from an oven, cold wine and ale from a cellar, of course they were using a portal.
A snort from Ritathan broke her concentration and she found him giving her a look. “Took you long enough,” he muttered.
“The Ring of Xy is not magical,” Forterran said to Aramal.
“It has no properties in and of itself. But it is…an influence. Part of a set, perhaps. It has been handed down from monarch to monarch since even before the Mage Wars.” He frowned at it, as if it was somehow the ring’s fault that it was sitting in front of him.
“Xyrath has shrugged its loss off, but I know it grates at him.”
“My heart bleeds for them,” Ritathan said. He reached out with his spoon and tapped the ring. “Wouldn’t do to take that into the Wastes.”
“Agreed,” Aramal said. “The Wastes tolerates nothing forced by the hand of man, or so they say.”
Ritathan frowned. “Clearly, they couldn’t take the ring. But who separates a holder from their key?”
“Who takes a babe into the Wastes?” Obeda asked. “How can you raise a child in that dreadful place?”
“If any can, the marcusi can,” Aramal said.
“A marcus would know of your link to your key.” Forterran said. “Perhaps it was also done to prevent you from finding them.”
Ritathan scowled. “Who better to protect—”
“Not to the marcusi,” Aramal said. “They don’t trust mages. To them, mages are even worse than they are to the vore.”
“At any rate, best not to leave them out in the open,” Forterran gestured.
Ritathan shrugged. “The ring is your problem. I don’t want it.”
“Oh no, I don’t want it,” Forterran scoffed. “Safer to have Master Aramal take it back to Atheylbryght with him.”
“I am not going back to Athelbryght.” Aramal said quietly. He lifted his gaze to Ritathan. “I am staying with you, going where you go.”