To the east of the gate there stretched a vast encampment where the muster of the westlands had already assembled: riders, archers, foot soldiers, armorers; men who drilled with spears, pikes, axes, and short swords. On the opposite side was another camp of lesser size, where men of Arkenfell and Mistlewald had pitched their tents and affixed their woven banners to long, sturdy poles. It seemed that Skyrra did not stand alone after all—though help had not come in quite the numbers that must have been hoped for.
Down through the centuries, the city of Lückenbörg has always resembled a market town far more than the capital of an ancient kingdom, its unpaved streets crowded three seasons out of the year with traders, trappers, dogs, donkeys, and towheaded children. They build the houses there with steeply pitched roofs and stout wooden shutters to shed the snow and keep out icy winds during the bitter northern winters, but to visit the city in summer, as Sindérian and her fellow travellers did, was to see it colorful with many small gardens. She could glimpse fruit trees and wicker beehives behind or between many of the houses, and wherever she looked, window boxes seemed to be overflowing with the hardy northern flowers that grow so swiftly while the sun still shines.
Yet she felt her heart sink at the sight of so many groups of somber-looking people living in tents, frail little shacks, or overturned wagons on every open patch of ground. The first outriders, she feared they might be, of a great army of the dispossessed gradually moving toward Lückenbörg from the east.
Once she and the men had familiarized themselves with the plan of the town and its thirteen separate wards divided by high wooden walls, once they had learned the direction of the Heldenhof, their next task was to buy some clean, whole garments. There was no denying, Sindérian told herself ruefully, that her own appearance was by far the worst; linen, homespun, and wool never wear so well as steel and leather. However, the Prince and Aell were looking a little threadbare, too, and they meant to present themselves at the doors of the palace as persons of quality rather than beggars and vagabonds. They bought what they needed (somebody’s castoffs, but in good condition) from stalls in the marketplace, and then found an inn willing to provide rooms and baths for the afternoon.
Sindérian met the men in the innyard an hour later. Thanks to a bath and clean clothing she felt wonderfully refreshed. Unfortunately, her altered appearance brought on one of the Prince’s long, cool, assessing glances, as he took in the color of her linen gown, the dull green cloth of her cloak.
“You are in mourning again,” he said with a slight lift of his arched eyebrows.
“I never put it aside intentionally,” she retorted, blushing in spite of herself.
Nevertheless, said Faolein’s voice in her mind, six months is a long time to wear black when there was not even a formal betrothal. When was the last time you even thought of Cailltin of Aefri? Do you wear this now to remind yourself—or to remind Prince Ruan?
But to this she had no reply, being unsure of the answer.
Her companions also sported new cloaks and footgear—in Ruan’s case, a pair of high, mouse-colored boots and a long mantle of dull red velvet. While all this finery had exhausted the money from the brooch, he still had his costly golden torc, which he had resigned himself to sacrifice if the worst happened and they were forced to wait for days or even weeks before gaining an audience with the King.
Although that would be disastrous, Sindérian said to her father as they headed for the Heldenhof. If we are left waiting too long, our mission will fail. Ouriána’s priests could arrive at any time. Yet how different it all would have been if Faolein were there in his own body, and in his customary purple robes—for who would deny entrance to a Master Wizard of the Scholia on Leal?
You are our wizard now, he told her. It is for you to find a way.
The Heldenhof was less like a palace than a jumble of two-and three-story timber houses all joined together, a rambling yet somehow graceful structure, with wooden balconies, outside staircases, and deep projecting eaves. The doorposts and window frames were carved with a whole menagerie of fabulous beasts, and whenever a puff of wind gusted down the lane, what looked like at least a hundred fanciful weather vanes and lightning rods spun around and around.
But it was no small matter, as Sindérian and her friends soon learned, for visitors to enter the King’s house without a summons from the King himself. The builders who first raised that venerable old pile had diverted a stream to either side, effectively isolating the palace in the midst of running water, and the only way to cross it was by means of a wooden bridge, guarded by men in armor of silver mail who barred the way with long-handled axes.
Prince Ruan, however, was not intimidated. He approached the guards with his light, confident step. “Let King Ristil be told that Anerüian Pendawer of Thäerie and Sindérian Faellanëos of Leal bring greetings from the High King Réodan and the Nine Master Wizards,” he said, introducing Sindérian with a flick of his hand. “Let him be told, too, that we ask leave to enter and speak with him directly.”
But the guards, though visibly impressed by his lordly air, had not been instructed to receive unexpected visitors, no matter how exalted or how far they had traveled. Nor could even one of them leave his post to carry a message inside.
The Prince retreated, in a blazing state of frustration, his narrow jaw set and his lips compressed in a thin line, while Sindérian and Aell trailed soberly after him. It seemed they had no recourse but to wait at the far end of the bridge until someone who did have the right of entry happened to pass by and agreed to act as a messenger.
And so they waited, hot and prickly in the sunlight, as the day wore on. They waited so long that Sindérian finally left the bridge in disgust and retreated to the other side of the street, where she sat on the edge of a wooden porch, chin on fist, simmering with impatience.
A donkey cart went by, and a woman driving a flock of goats. Someone in an upper story opened a pair of brightly painted shutters. Weathercocks gyred in the wind. From across the lane, Prince Ruan glared at her, as if he would say as Faolein had, “You are our wizard now. It is for you to find a way.”
But truly, she thought, what way was there? She could hardly force an entrance by magic, or conjure up a messenger out of thin air to carry Prince Ruan’s greetings. She might cast a spell that would put the guards into a sound sleep, but even that relatively harmless procedure was unlikely to win them any friends once they were actually inside: embassies do not come in like invading forces.
She chewed on a ragged fingernail and glanced sideways at her father where he perched on the porch beside her. He might enter the palace easily enough, fly in through an open window with the guards none the wiser. And while he had not the power to speak with anyone once he arrived inside, he could carry a written message, supposing someone capable of reading it could be found….
She was just opening her mouth to suggest a trip to the marketplace, to sell the torc and buy paper and ink, when there was a little commotion on the street. A group of fine ladies in silks and velvets rode up on beautiful high-stepping horses, with a swarm of servants and attendants following immediately behind them.
With a glare and a shake of her head for the Prince, Sindérian waited for the riders to dismount, then stepped forward and made a deep obeisance before a severe-looking, fair-haired woman who appeared to be the highest in rank. “My companions and I are envoys from Thäerie and Leal. We have arrived here after a long, perilous journey, bringing messages of great urgency for the King. In truth, our errand here is so vital,” she added earnestly, “that even an hour’s delay in bringing these things to King Ristil’s attention might prove fatal. Will you help us?”