Chapter Twenty
The Black Hills
Halithe held her breath, waiting with horrific anticipation for the masked men to become living torches of fire.
Nothing happened.
To her disappointment, Ritathan just lifted his chin. “Greetings. I am a wandering scribe, with his daughter and manservant, and we—”
“Yeah, we heard that part,” said a dark, sardonic voice. “Try again.”
“Sorcery,” spat one archer. “Shoot’em.”
“Nah, get answers, then shoot’em.” said another.
Aramal stepped forward, squinting in the afternoon light. “Rasfel, is that you?”
“Aramal?” one of the masked men lowered his crossbow in surprise. “You find a new way to transport wine?”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Aramal shrugged, spreading his empty hands wide. “Except for the mages.”
“True enough,” Rasfel yanked down his mask and grinned.
“My friend here,” Aramal gestured to Ritathan. “He’s fleeing the chaos. Thought I’d come along for the excitement.”
“Oh yeah? What’s it like, walking through a portal?” Rasfel asked.
“Excuse me,” the sardonic one stepped out from the crowd. “You know this man?”
“Oh, aye, that’s Aramal.” Rasfel said cheerfully. “We’ve been doing wine trade with Athelbryght for years. When the caravans meet at the border, Aramal here has a good shoulder for unloading the barrels.”
Ritathan looked at Aramal. “You didn’t mention that.”
Aramal didn’t look at him. “You didn’t ask.”
Halithe didn’t roll her eyes to the sky for patience, but the sardonic one did. “Step away from the horses,” he commanded. “Send for Jerrold,” he said to one of his men.
“We’d prefer to speak to the Lord High Baron,” Ritathan said, even as he moved as directed.
“Aye, I’m sure,” came the snort as a horn sounded behind him, high and clear. “But Jerrold of Waerington is in charge here, and it’s him you will answer to. Now, sit where you’re told and keep silent while we wait.”
The horses were moved off and Ritathan, Aramal, and Halithe were waved to spots to sit.
Halithe plopped down with her usual grace.
The ground was dry, at least, and covered in leaves and pine needles.
She felt a faint vibration, more like a hum, all through her body.
She wasn’t used to that, but then, when was she allowed to sit on the ground?
She suppressed a grin; her governess would have been horrified.
Ladies don’t plop, and they don’t sit in the dirt.
The men were directed to their own places, carefully separated such that they formed the three points of a triangle under the watchful eye of their captors.
Ritathan folded into a sitting position with actual grace. “And just how long will we have to wait?” he asked, folding his hands into his sleeves.
“What does it matter?” the leader of the group said. “It takes as long as it takes.”
Ritathan sniffed and closed his eyes, sitting straight, looking perfectly at ease.
For a while Halithe studied their captors. The crossbows had been lowered, for the most part, although a few were still trained on them. Some were studying her as well, out of the corners of their eyes.
Both watching and being watched paled fairly quickly. Boredom overcame her nervousness.
She wasn’t the only one. Rasfel had drifted over to Aramal and they seemed to be talking about the grape harvest. The other guards were still all around them, but no one seemed to be paying particular attention to her.
The hum seemed louder now, the vibration stronger. She frowned and pressed her hand to the earth. “What was that?” she asked, interrupting Aramal and Rasfel. “The earth trembled.”
“Eh?” Rasfel asked, then shrugged. “Oh, they’ve started splitting stone up at the old marble quarry. Didn’t notice—part of life here in Black Hills. You’ll get used to it.” He frowned. “Kinda surprised you can feel it so far away.”
“Enough,” the sardonic one barked.
“Get off your damn high horse,” Rasfel said, frowning.
Halithe pulled her hand back into her lap and shifted to get more comfortable. Something hard poked her.
The spoon Obeda had given her was in her pocket.
She eased it out and held it in her lap. The bowl was silver and shiny, holding a distorted reflection of her face. She smoothed it with her thumb, feeling the cool metal against her skin.
She wondered…
She kept her head down, letting her hair hide what she was doing. She stared into the bowl of the spoon. “Show me,” she whispered. “Show me what I wish to see.”
Nothing happened.
Halithe glanced around. No one was watching. She narrowed her eyes and focused. “Show me what I want to see,” she demanded. “Show me…Caris.”
Caris of the lovely hair and eyes. Caris, with the grace of a dancer. Caris…Halithe let the mental image form in her mind, remembering the fleeting touch of lips, the smell of her hair, the taste—
Something moved in the reflection, something shifted. She leaned in, staring—
A boot crunched the leaves near her.
Halithe started, looking up. The image disappeared without even a flicker.
“Must be hungry, the way you’re staring at that spoon,” the sardonic man spoke, his mask lowered as he stared at her with a deeply suspicious expression. “What ya doing?”
Halithe dropped her eyes and flushed, embarrassed. She gave him a shrug. “Nothing,” she muttered, resolving to sit with her hands neatly folded, to appear to not have a thought in her head.
“Bored, most like,” Ritathan spoke up. He caught Halithe’s eye and gave a tiny, warning shake of his head. “Do I hear horses?”
The leader turned, to look up the road. Halithe used the moment to stuff the spoon back in her pocket.
Three men on horses came up the road, surrounding a cart pulled by two goats. They were the largest goats Halithe had ever seen, more like small ponies in size, with white coats and curled horns. The horns were huge and grey and one of them had a broken tip.
“Jerrold,” called the sardonic one.
“Lewald,” Jerrold replied. He was a big man, worn and weathered. He pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted, as did the others with him. The cart drew closer; the man driving it looked familiar.
“Orval?” Ritathan rose to his feet.
The man stared blankly for a moment as the cart came to a halt. “Ritathan? I didn’t recognize you without your robes and—” he cut himself off when Ritathan leveled a withering gaze at him, but Halithe heard the missing, “chains.”
“Books,” the nobleman finished lamely.
The Lord High Baron had certainly changed since she had seen him in the throne room, receiving his “awards” from Xyrath and Satia. The pale, thin scholar looked stronger and tanned, dressed in plain tunic and trous.
“You know them,” Jerrold jerked his head toward Ritathan.
“I do,” Orval said.
“They came through the portal,” Lewald said to Jerrold. “It was close to where Lord Orval said they came through, when they was brought here. All swirly white and pale. These three, and their horses. Damn thing popped closed right behind them.”
“We’ve come to serve the Lord High Baron,” Ritathan said smoothly. “Fleeing the chaos behind us.”
“He’s Lord High Baron in name only,” Jerrold said firmly. “I am Jerrold of Waerington, and I speak for the people of the Black Hills. What brings you here and through a portal?”
“Escaping Satia, I suspect,” Orval said
“She tried to have me killed,” Ritathan said. “Apparently she has run out of Baronies to appoint her enemies too.”
Jerrold snorted, but his frown grew deeper as his eyes traveled over Halithe and Aramal. Halithe felt him assessing her. “We were expecting an army,” he said slowly.
“Satia has offended the Mage Guild,” Ritathan said. “You might see an army march up the roads, but you won’t see one through a portal.”
“You do not call her ‘Queen?’”
“No,” Ritathan replied.
“Can you, or any of you, open that portal?”
“No,” Ritathan said firmly.
“A man of few words,” Jerrold observed, then turned to Orval. “Are you willing to vouch for them?”
Orval hesitated. One of the rams tossed his head, setting his harness jangling.
“Orval of Xy, Queen Kara trusted me,” Ritathan said. “I swear to you that I consider myself bound by all agreements and will bring no harm to the Blood of Xy.”
Orval stared at him for a long moment, until the other goat stamped his foot, impatient, breaking the silence.
“Yes,” Orval said. “I will vouch for him and his companions, and take responsibility for their actions.”
“So be it, Lord High Baron,” Jerrold growled. “I needs must get back to the quarry. Lewald, you have the watch tonight?”
“Aye,” Lewald said. “And now we know the exact location, we can be in a better position if it opens again.”
“Sound the horns if it does.” Jerrold mounted. “Escort the Lord High Baron and his guests home,” he directed, then rode off without another word.
“Well, mount up,” Orval started to turn his cart. “Our Hearth is not far, and Amari will want plenty of warning for dinner.”
“Lynd, go with them and keep a sharp eye.” Lewald barked the order.
Halithe got to her feet and mounted, as did Aramal and Ritathan. They headed down the road, escorted by one of the horsemen who had arrived with Jerrold. The other stayed with the archers; Halithe assumed he would carry word to…Waerington, Jerrold had said.
Once they were out of sight of the guard-post, Orval called out, “Lynd, could you ride ahead and warn Amari of three more at the table? More food for all of us if she knows,” he said. “I promise not to escape or do anything dastardly in the meantime. I just don’t want to feel her wrath.”
“Aye, sir,” the man said with a laugh. He urged his horse to a gallop, racing off ahead.
Orval watched him go, then spoke, his voice hard. “That will buy us some privacy. So what brings the Royal Chained Mage to my Hearth and who did I just vouch for?”
“Forgive me,” Ritathan said. “Aramal is of Athelbryght, and this is Halithe, my apprentice. The rest, I fear, is a long story.”
“You are not wearing your chains,” Orval said.
“But I am bound,” Ritathan said. “You and Xydell are of the Airion Blood, and—”