The Sleeping King (19 page)

Something cool swept down her spine, and all of a sudden her dress sagged, all but falling off of her. She snatched at it in shock, squawking, “Did you just cut all my laces?”

“It seemed the most expedient way to get it off.”

“You not only cut my corset strings; you cut my dress strings, too. How will I hold my dress up, now? I cannot run around the countryside naked!”

“Oh. I confess I am not familiar with women's clothing.”

“You think?” she snapped.

While she pulled the awful corset out from under her clothing and discarded it into the bushes with great satisfaction, the kindari rummaged in his pouch and came up with a ball of rough twine. She rolled her eyes, but let him lace her dress together after a fashion with the hemp. She expected it made her look like a cheap doxy, but there was nothing she could do about it, at present. Frustrated, she stomped after him in the dark.

Cicero commented apologetically over his shoulder, “You didn't run too badly for a girl, and a human to boot. Particularly wearing that corset contraption.”

She retorted, “Next time you want me to run like that, just kill me and be done with it!”

He laughed under his breath as she drew Moto's cloak close around her. “Now what?” she asked Cicero.

“I was about to ask you the same. What are your wishes, my lady?”

“I think we can safely dispense with the title. This is definitely not Tyrel, and my circumstances make it a likely wager that I shall never return home. My title is meaningless now.”

“If you do not object to my asking, what predicament made you flee from prosperity, safety, and a loving family?”

It was still too new a wound, too painful to speak of. She shook her head and answered merely, “Mayhap someday I shall speak of it. But please believe me that only the most dire of threats drove me away.”

Thankfully, he let the subject drop. Idly, Cicero picked up a stick and pushed aside the pine needles to expose a square of black dirt completely foreign to Tyrel's red clay and white limestone. He commenced drawing random shapes in it.

“Have you any idea where we are?” she ventured to ask.

“How far is it possible for that ritual you interrupted to have projected us?” he countered.

She winced. “We could be anywhere on Urth. Literally. We may not even be on the same continent anymore. For all I know, this could be Koth.” Although somehow, that did not feel right to her. This place was still … familiar.

He did not look happy at that prospect of landing in Koth.

“I suppose the first order of business is to figure out where we are,” she offered. “We could make camp for the night, and on the morrow see if we can find someone who can tell us what place this is.”

“It is my considered opinion that it would be better to travel now,” Cicero replied.

“But it is dangerous at night. Bandits and outlaws are out and about.”

“
We
are bandits and outlaws. You ran away from home and are a fugitive, are you not? And I … rendered aid to you.”

Hah.
He had been about to declare himself an outlaw in his own right.

He continued, “Imperial soldiers move during the day. Hence, we are prudent to move at night.”

“Cicero, I have no right to ask it of you, but please do not leave me alone in these woods.” She laid a beseeching hand upon his arm. Something of kindness, rough honor, seemed to emanate into her palm. She continued, “I have no coin to pay you, but I will find a way to—”

He interrupted sharply, offended. “I require no coin to lend my protection to a young girl who would otherwise be alone in a dangerous wood in a strange land. I will turn my sword and my skill to your protection as long as you have need of them.” She must have looked fearful still, because he added more gently, “I give you my word.”

Gratitude nearly brought her to her knees. “Just don't run me into the ground, please?”

That got a grin out of him. “Stick with me and I will make a fine outlaw of you.”

She could do a lot worse than a kindari protector. The forest elves were renowned for their woodcraft and tracking skills, not to mention their skills as hunters and warriors. She supposed it came from surviving in the wilds and having to defend themselves from whatever threats came their way. Not to mention they were known for flying into incredible rages in battle that rendered them impervious to pain and fatigue. The trick was to avoid provoking such a rage when in the presence of kindari, however.

The night's hike took them through gradually thinning forest. At one point, the girth of the trees diminished sharply, and Cicero murmured that these woods had been harvested within the past decade or two by the Forester's Guild—a sure sign that the two of them neared human habitation.

The night grew chill and damp, and were it not for Moto's sturdy cloak she would be shivering with cold. Her dainty slippers did nothing to protect her feet from the cold and the rough ground, though, and she was miserable even with the cloak.

Cicero followed game trails that, although meandering, made his and Raina's progress through the forest easier. Deep in the darkest hour of night, they ran across a road. It was barely more than parallel wheel tracks half-smothered in grass, but a road nonetheless. They trudged along side by side in the tracks until she thought she was going to fall over from exhaustion.

They were at the base of a long slope and she had just taken a deep breath to gird herself for the climb when Cicero abruptly grabbed her arm and dragged her off the road into a thick stand of brush. He pressed a finger over his lips and she nodded her understanding. That was when she heard what had sent Cicero diving for cover. Men. Talking.

Three silhouettes topped the hill. Similar in height and nearly identical in dress, they all wore tabards with vertically halved heraldry. Some light color lay over their hearts and a dark shade lay on the right. All three wore boiled-leather armor under the colors, long swords on their hips, and mailed coifs on their heads. Soldiers, then.

The patrol drew parallel to their hiding place and she made out their colors. A black griffin in gold on the left, and black on the right
.
Her jaw dropped.
The Haelan legion?
If she was not mistaken, the badges on the men's chests identified them as members of a Dupree regiment.

Were they close to Dupree?

The city lay on the northeast coast of the continent, capital of the colonized lands in this corner of Haelos. Tyrel lay south and west nearly as far inland as it was possible to go and still be in civilized lands.

She reviewed what little she knew of Dupree. It was named after Jobère Dupree, discoverer of this continent. As capital, the city was thick with Imperial presence. Apparently, colonized lands constituted only a tiny corner of the continent. The Emperor must be salivating at the notion of an entire, massive continent to settle and bring to heel. All those lovely resources to exploit for his own wealth and power …

She glanced at Cicero, and he looked nearly as thunderstruck as she. He must recognize the colors, too. The soldiers, jesting and laughing among themselves, passed out of sight over the next ridge.

Cicero gestured for her to follow him farther off the path. Crawling on their hands and knees for the last bit, he led her into the center of what appeared to be an impenetrable tangle of vines and brambles. He stomped the center flat, though, and cut out the worst of the thorny vines. “Rest, Raina. I shall stand watch through the night.”

Rest?
Surely he was not serious. But he eased his sword—which she noted was a finely made blade—free of its sheath and laid it across his lap. She drew Moto's cloak close as best she could and lay down, squirming until only a few thorns poked her.

What had she done by her rash decision to run? Just how much trouble were she and Cicero in? The specter of a disastrous ending to this misadventure loomed close, leering down at her in the night, coming for her.

Doubt began to set in. Was all of this worth it? Was she really so determined to avoid the fate of the women in her family? If it had been good enough for her ancestors for three hundred generations, why was it not all right for her? Was she merely being spoiled and rebellious? Was it so wrong to just do what her mother and the mages wanted and then get on with her life?

Arianna seemed pretty happy to go along with the program. Of course, she was young and beautiful and got treated like a princess, and when Raina's daughter grew up to take her place—

Raina sat bolt upright in the dark, scratching her face on a thorn painfully.

“Is aught amiss?” Cicero whispered sharply.

“No. Sorry.” She lay back down, appalled. When her daughter took Arianna's place, then what? What would happen to her sister? Raina's own sister had to have supplanted Charlotte's older sister as the resident bride-in-waiting … and then the full horror of the mages' scheme slammed into her.

Auntie Ari had left Tyrel a couple of years previously. There had been a big ceremony and feast to mark the occasion. It had taken place only days after Arianna turned sixteen. Raina remembered her aunt's departure vividly. It was the only time she'd ever seen her mother cry. She'd wondered at it at the time. But now it made perfect sense. Charlotte and Auntie Ari had known their farewells that day were forever.

Ironic how the locals had cheered at her aunt's departure. They'd all beamed with pride that yet another daughter of Tyrel was going forth into the world to find herself a rich and noble husband and spread the reputation of Tyrel as a cultured and civilized place far and wide.
Hah.

Where had Ari gone? For that matter, where did all the Ariannas go? If a new one was born and trained every sixteen to eighteen years, there might realistically be three or even four generations of brides-in-waiting alive somewhere. Surely such educated and accomplished women would go forth and make significant marks upon the world. Yet in all her studies, Raina had never run into any reference to such women. How was it they all faded into obscurity?

Were they allowed to have their own families after they were released from their obligation? The Ariannas were bred to be extremely gifted with magic. Surely their children would inherit some of that. If they were marrying and having children of their own, then after three hundred generations Tyrel should be crawling with extraordinarily talented magic users. And yet it was not. Which meant—

Her outrage was complete as the logical explanation smashed into her.

 … Which meant the Mages of Alchizzadon captured or killed the Ariannas. Prevented them from living out their lives as they wished.

Raina frowned. She'd never seen a Mage of Alchizzadon in Tyrel, never heard of one passing through except for the two at the manor house now. Auntie Ari had muttered something as she left about walking into the rising sun until the road ended. That must be where the mages did the deed.

Had she been obliquely referring to walking out into the arid Nomad plains to die? Raina had read a few references to ritual suicide in such a manner being an old tradition in Tyrel. Horror rolled through her. It was
barbaric
.

“What do you know of the plains that lie to the west beyond Tyrel?” she asked Cicero abruptly.

“The Arianna Plains?” he asked, surprised.

“Is that what you call them?”

His voice held a frown as it floated out of the dark. “That appellation would be how they are known to everyone with whom I am acquainted.”

Shocked, she demanded, “Why is that?”

“An old hearth tale speaks of a girl by that name being jilted by her lover and, in her grief, walking out into those plains to die.”

Raina snorted. The hearth tale was not so far from true. Funny thing. She'd never heard the name Arianna Plains or seen the area marked thus on a map. But then, it would not do to let the current bride-in-waiting know what fate awaited her, now would it?

There was no way her sister knew she would be sent away to die when she was barely into her thirties. Arianna would not be so smug did she have any inkling of the brutal end awaiting her.

She and her sister had had their disagreements over the years, but Raina wished no ill upon Arianna. And Raina certainly had no wish to see her sister die. She bloody well wasn't passing on this cruel tradition to her own daughters, either!

A startling thought occurred to her. If she never had daughters, it would buy her sister more time to live. She would have to be kept around until her replacements could be bred, would she not? Charlotte and the Mages of Alchizzadon would have to come up with a replacement broodmare. Maybe wait for one of her younger brothers—the oldest one was barely twelve—to grow up, marry, and have daughters of his own before the family tradition could resume. The introduction of her father's blood into the line of daughters of Tyrel would likely be a major setback for the mages, but that was the price they paid for playing fast and loose with other people's lives.

She
had
to find a way to break the tradition once and for all. Not only for her own sake, but also for her sister's.

Curse the Great Mage anyway. Who cared about some old legend—

Her thoughts derailed abruptly. That was it. The Great Mage. If she found a way to gather the magics to restore him, her sister could marry the man and the House of Tyrel would no longer have to use its daughters so sorely.

“Cicero?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you know of any source of really old, really powerful magic?”

“For what purpose?”

“I need to … power up … something very old.”

“Like an artifact?”

It wasn't a bad analogy. Certain powerful, and typically old, magic items could retain long-term magical charges upon them. If their energy ran out, they could be recharged. Usually artifacts were named, which acted as a signal of what they were. “Yes, something like that,” she answered.