“What do you want with—?” Before I could finish my question, D’Natheil bellowed in frustration, waved his hand to the sky and the meadow and the wood, and then slapped his fists together ferociously. Danger. Even as I squinted at the darkening edge of the trees, trying to see what bothered him so, a gray haze shadowed the moonlight, and the cheerful nickering of candlelight faded, though the moon was unclouded and the candleflame yet burned. An alien wind swept through the valley, leaching the warmth from the summer night, bearing on its back the scents of smoke, ash, and decay. “He’s with the horses.” I pointed to the copse.
With long, graceful strides D’Natheil dashed across the stretch of grass to the dark grove, and soon returned with a squirming Paulo over his shoulder. The young man pushed me farther into the house, dumped Paulo on the floor, and slammed and barred the door. Breathing hard, he leaned his back against the door, and his defiant chin challenged me to argue.
Baglos said, “What is it? Wild beas—? Holy Vasrin! The Zhid!” He cast his almond-shaped eyes to the roof and the walls, climbing onto my bed to close and bar the shutters.
Paulo picked himself off the floor, rubbing his arms.
“He’s balmy.”
“Never mind it, Paulo,” I said, urging the boy away from the Prince and toward the fire. “There’s danger about, and he wants you safe. It will pass.”
“What of the sailor?” said Baglos. “How far had he to travel? I pray Vasrin he is not out.”
My heart stopped for a moment in fear for Jaco, thinking of him on the exposed lower slopes of the Dunfarrie path, but then I considered the time and shook my head. “No, it’s only an hour’s walk to the village, and it’s been at least two—”
“—and he is not the one they seek,” said Baglos, patting my arm. “Build up the fire and do not think of what passes outside the door. In Avonar, we would tell stories when the Zhid were seeking, hoping to bar them from our thoughts.” The wind gusted and howled and pawed at the cottage, rattling the door and shutters, seeping through the log walls. Beneath its bluster was an undertone of uttermost desolation, a song worthy of a world mourning for a dead sun or a race lamenting its lost children. I needed no urging to build up the fire. “If there are to be stories, someone else will have to tell them,” I said, pulling a blanket about my shoulders. “I don’t think I can.”
D’Natheil sat on the floor beside the hearth, eyes narrowed and head cocked to one side, his senses fixed on something far beyond the fire. As the rising flames gnawed at the logs, his expression gradually lost its intensity, as if he were mesmerized by the play of light and colors.
“Mie giro.” Baglos sat down on the worn woven rug beside his master and plucked the Prince’s sleeve. “Mie giro, ne pell don …” D’Natheil ignored him. His narrow face tight, the earnest Dulcé persisted. He spoke softly to his master, shaking his head and pressing a fist to his heart, coaxing and cajoling until D’Natheil dragged his gaze from the fire, blinked, and nodded.
“The Prince has agreed that I may tell a story of his childhood to distract him from the Seeking. I hope it might make him remember.” Baglos spoke first to me and then to D’Natheil, as before.
“When my lord was six years old, he was a wild boy, who wished to do nothing but fight. He greatly admired his older brother, Prince D’Seto, a young man both honored for his courage and fighting skills and beloved for his great good humor. One day D’Natheil stole a sword from Prince D’Seto, not understanding that it was only a flimsy ceremonial sword that his brother had enchanted so as to make the one who carried it irresistible to the ladies and tireless in… ah… adventures of the heart. D’Natheil was so small that the strength of the enchantment acted on him like an excess of wine…”
Baglos proceeded to tell us a long series of D’Natheil’s embarrassing adventures among the warriors and ladies of Avonar. The Dulcé was a fine storyteller. I found myself shaking my head in amused disbelief, Paulo giggled, and even D’Natheil was flushed and smiling. And amid the humorous escapades, I caught vivid glimpses of a cultured city and a courtly people bitterly scarred by war.
After a while, however, Baglos’s tale flagged. He struggled to continue as if a lead weight were attached to his tongue, and as his voice faded, so did our laughter. I huddled deeper in my blanket, cursing my foolish imagining that I might be able to help anyone avoid horror. I hadn’t even been able to keep my own child alive. D’Natheil took up his listening posture again. He watched the fire, and Baglos watched him, gingerly touching his sleeve or his knee, whispering in his ear, but unable to distract him. Only Paulo remained serene. He fell asleep, curled up on the wood floor.
After perhaps half an hour more, the Prince startled me by leaping to his feet and yanking open the door. The moon was bright, casting silver-edged shadows over the meadow. The wind was gone along with the morbid chill. Evidently, the Seeking had passed.
The past two days had been exhausting. I had been awake since well before dawn, and I managed to keep my eyes open only long enough to tell the others that they should remain in the house. “This won’t hurt my reputation,” I said, when Baglos expressed concern at three men sleeping in the house with an unmarried woman. “I’ve none to worry about.” It would be crowded, but only for a night. “Tomorrow we leave for Valleor. I know someone who may be able to help you.” Then I curled up on my bed and knew nothing until dawn.
Paulo was off to Grenatte with the sunrise. As he proudly mounted Rowan’s black horse, I loaded him up with jack and hearthbread. “Whatever the sheriff asks you, tell him only the truth. But carefully, Paulo. You’ve heard some strange talk here, and you must be cautious about what you repeat of it… lest someone get wrong ideas.”
“I mostly hear more’n people think,” he said, “but my head’s too thick to keep hold of much.” The boy gave me a sideways grin, and then he and the horse were racing down the trail to the south.
I set off for the village shortly after, trying to decide how to broach to Jaco the news that I was leaving Dunfarrie. He was limping about the shop and grumbling about the mess Lucy had left him. “Busybody,” he said, before I’d even had time to wish him a good morning. “Don’t have nothing better to do than try to set everything to rights. Junk shops aren’t supposed to be set to rights. Who’ll ever think they’ve found a treasure if it’s all laid out in front of them like I’ve looked at it careful? She even cleaned the window. Fool woman. If I wanted more light in here, I’d of lit me a lantern. Blasted leg is seized up good this time or I’d be up there smoking up the glass again.” He pointed at the clean window with his walking stick.
“Jaco, stop this. Listen to me. Did you see anything strange on the way down last night?”
He wouldn’t stop fussing about. “Nope.” He limped slowly to the back room and returned with a roll of chain.
“The shadow came again after you left. Like we saw on the ridge, only worse. Closer. The night went dark even though the moon was up. The wind was cold and smelled like death.”
“I saw nothing like that. It was a fine night. I walked down, sat and smoked a pipe for a while, stopped in at the Wild Heron. It’s your imagination all roused up by these two strangers. I’ve a hard time even remembering what it was like that day on the ridge. The more I think on it, the more I believe all this magical business is just foolery, and we really didn’t see nothing at all. This Aeren—or whatever his name—is addled from his fever. And there must’ve been a crack in the rock.” He dumped a barrel of neatly folded clothes on the floor, kicked them into a muddle, and then stuffed them back in the barrel.