Theron felt a presence at his shoulder and looked up. It was the Master Templar. Theron wondered at this, since it was not the older man’s habit to come down to the common room after evening prayers. “You do me an honor, Master,” he said. “Will you share a glass of wine with me?”
The master nodded. “I will. I wanted to ask you a question and you said you had to leave early in the morning.”
Theron was a little ashamed to be reminded of this, since he had said it in anger. He poured wine from his own jar into a cup and passed it to his friend. “Of course, Master. What can I tell you?”
“One of your travelers told me that King Olin’s daughter is in Tessis—that she has been found alive. Is it true?”
“It is, as far as I can say—she appeared just before we left, or so everyone said. It was the talk of Syan in our last days there.”
“And does anyone know what brings… what is her name? Buttercup? ”
“Briony. Princess Briony.”
“Of course—I shame myself. We do not hear much of doings at the court here and I grow forgetful in my age. Briony. Does anyone know why she is in Syan and what it means?”
Theron noticed that the hooded beggar near the fire had raised his head as if listening. He wondered if he should lower his voice, but then decided that was foolish: what he was saying was no secret, but news that would soon be on everyone’s lips. Still, it would not be a wise idea to name the Tollys here in their own dukedom. “Some claim she escaped from… her enemies… and fled Southmarch. Others say no, that she fled after she was thwarted in her own attempt to take the throne with the help of a southerner—a black soldier who was once Olin’s friend.”
The Master Templar shook his head in wonder. “It is like the old days—the bad days of the second Kellick, when there were spies and plots everywhere.”
“Do you remember that?” asked Theron, mildly surprised.
“Fool!” The Templar laughed. “A century and a half? Do I look so old?”
Theron laughed too, shamed by his own bad memory. The doings of kings and history had never been his strength. “My book learning is mostly forgotten…”
He was started by a figure at his shoulder and turned to find the hooded beggar looming there like the shadow of Death itself. For all that his back and legs seemed bent, he still stood as tall as Theron and must have been a powerful man once. The bandaged hands came up and a dry, scraping rustle issued from the darkness of the hood. Theron recoiled in fear, but for long moments the hooded man only stood silently.
“Where is the boy? ” asked the Templar irritably. “Ah, there. Boy, come here and tell us what your master wants.”
The boy, who had apparently been cadging food in the temple kitchen, duly appeared, still chewing on a lump of dough. Now that Theron looked at the child with more attention he noticed that not all the darkness of the black-haired boy’s face was because of dirt or sun, that he had somewhat the look of a southerner himself, a color of skin usually only seen on the waterfronts of Oscastle or Landers Port. Yes, Theron thought, that was it: he had the look of one of those street urchins who lived like a harbor rat, by his wits and quickness.
“What is the cripple saying?” the Master Templar demanded.
The boy put his head close to the hood. It was impossible to hear any of the beggar’s words above the crackling of the fire, but the boy stood up at last.
“He says that Death has turned loose of her for now.”
The master shook his head in irritation. “Loose of whom? The princess? Tell him to go and find his bed and not disturb the talk of his betters.” A moment later his expression changed. “No, that is unkind of me. The gods and oniri would not have us treat the afflicted so.”
The boy was leaning close to the dark hood again. “He says that he knows death—that he dwelt for a while in Death’s own house. But then he was let go again.”
“What? He is saying that he lived in the house of Kernios?” The Master Templar clearly did not like this blasphemous turn the conversation had taken.
The boy leaned close to the hooded figure again. “And he says that since Briony has escaped he must find her.”
“What nonsense!” said the house’s master. “Take this beggar out to the stable, boy. I will not send the poor fool out into the cold but he must find someplace else to sleep tonight where he will not plague our guests.” The priest waited, but although the boy apparently whispered these words to him the beggar did not respond. Theron was both interested and disturbed. “You are taking advantage of our charity,” the Templar chief warned. This still produced no movement. “Very well, I will get some of the brothers to help me escort him to sleep with the horses and donkeys,” he said, and strode briskly off across the common room.
The beggar was whispering to his young helper again.
“He wants to know if you are going north,” the boy said to Theron.
The leader of the pilgrimage was confused: why should the old cripple want to know such a thing? “We go north through Marrinswalk, yes. This pilgrimage began in Blueshore and that is where we are returning.”
The beggar pulled the boy toward him as if his next words could not wait.
“He wishes to go with you,” the child said when the murmuring had finished.
Theron rolled his eyes. “I mean no disrepect to one whom the gods have already burdened,” he said, “but the only members of our pilgrimage who walk are those who are young and fit—we travel fast. I have seen this man move. He could not keep up and we could not afford to wait for him.”
The boy looked at him in puzzlement, although Theron thought what he’d said made perfect sense. Then the young beggar turned to look at his hooded master, who suddenly reached out toward Theron with his bandaged hand. Theron started back, unnerved, then saw something glinting there on the dirty linen. A gold coin.
“He will pay you for a place on one of the horses,” the boy said after the hooded beggar had whispered to him.
“That… that is a dolphin!” said Theron, astonished. “An entire dolphin!” It was ten times as much as he had earned in fees from the whole of his caravan of pilgrims. The boy turned as the hooded one plucked at his sleeve, whispered to him again.
“He says to take it. The dead have no need of gold.”
She was lost in the forest, but not frightened—not too frightened, anyway. The trees swayed but she felt no wind. As she passed they bent toward her, reaching with brushy fingers, but never touched her. The world was night-dark but she could see: a light moved with her, illuminating her path and surroundings.
Something scuttled across the track ahead of her, something silvery and swift, moving close to the ground. She changed direction, following it, and the path moved with her.
I’m dreaming, Briony realized.
The swift thing flickered before her again. It was both real and a shadow—she could feel it somehow watching her even as it ran before her. She knew it was trying to lead her somewhere important, that she needed to keep it in sight, but already she was falling behind. The trees grew thicker around her, the path harder to see. The silvery shape shimmered one last time, distant now, and then it was gone.
Briony woke with a sense of failure and loss far beyond the usual residue of dreams, but she could not stop to fret because she had missed something important. Her ladies were already bustling around her, urging her to hurry and get out of bed. Briony had an assignation to keep.