The journey would have been dismal even without the close pursuit and the rainy weather. The border villages had suffered the most in the years of the Vallorean War, and in few of the rotting settlements that were still occupied were there any men at all between the ages of thirty and sixty. Strangers, especially sturdy young men of military age, were regarded with scarcely controlled hostility, and only grudgingly were we allowed to avail ourselves of food supplies.
As stiffness and saddle sores took their toll alongside the discomforts of constant rain, cold food, and sleeping on hard ground, I thought regretfully of my childhood when Papa would take Tomas and me on three-day riding excursions to see the site of his grandfather’s victory over Vallorean raiders or the hill where legend said that Annadis spent his vigil night before being named Arot’s successor. Twelve hours a day in the saddle had seemed life’s ultimate delight. My brother and I would sleep with the horses and dogs while Papa’s soldiers cooked, told stories, and stood watch for wolves. Rain just made our treks more adventurous. What dreary tricks fate can play on us.
After Glyenna, D’Natheil refused to engage in any conversation. He rode, he ate, and he brooded, and when we stopped at night, he practiced his swordwork and took his share of the watch. The Dulcé was anxious to pursue his teaching further but had learned not to press. His master’s anger was quick and heavy, though, in truth, D’Natheil’s withdrawal seemed to restrain his intemperate hand along with everything else. After a few days, Baglos might have welcomed a blow just as evidence D’Natheil was listening to him at all.
“Was D’Natheil always so changeable?” I asked Baglos one night when the Prince had disappeared yet again as soon as he had eaten his share of the night’s meager fare. “On one day I’m sure he’s going to put a knife in me as I sleep. The next, I could be the muck on his horse’s shoe for all he cares. And then… well, before I yelled at him… he would surprise me with one of those smiles, and I’d think he was going to ask me to dance.”
Baglos was scraping the last of the boiled turnip from the bottom of our cooking pot. “In addition to physical strength, intelligence, and extraordinary power, the family of D’Arnath has always been blessed with those amiable qualities which allow men to lead others in difficult times. In the matter of aggressive temper”—he glanced over his shoulder at the empty clearing—“they have been variously gifted… or afflicted as one might view it. As you see, D’Natheil was born with a full measure. When he was eleven, D’Natheil had a swordmaster who was quite serious about his task and rigorous in his discipline. D’Natheil scorned him, complaining that his skills were inferior, and grew increasingly impatient that no better master was brought in. One day the master was found dead in the sparring arena from a sword wound in his belly. D’Natheil claimed it was an accident in their practice, simple proof of his contention that the man was unfit to be his tutor. No one witnessed the incident, and nothing more was said. But I’ve heard the man was hamstrung.”
On the afternoon of the seventh day we dropped down into the high plains of eastern Valleor. Southward, to our left, soared the peaks of the Dorian Wall, needle-sharp spires piercing the heavy clouds. To the far west a lesser range called the Vallorean Spine split Valleor down the middle, and before us and stretching far to our right lay the valley of the Uker River, endless vistas of gentle hills and lakes, dotted with the darker green of patchy forests, eventually rising into craggy highlands many leagues to the north. It was beautiful country, the fertile heart of gentle Valleor, on that day pooled with fogs and mists.
King Gevron had raped the fields of Valleor, stripping them bare to feed his armies and then slaughtering any who tried to work them. Now, anything grown in the Uker valley must be shipped instantly to Leire. Only then could it be purchased, properly taxed and at highly elevated prices, for distribution in the subjugated land. The starving Valloreans had to watch as heavily laden grain wagons rolled past their villages, and never did they see even one-tenth of their land’s bounty returned to them.
Three more days brought us to Yurevan, the oldest city in Valleor, and Ferrante’s house, Verdillon, some half a league outside the city walls. The professor was the second son of a Vallorean count. Though unable to inherit the title or lands, he’d had a decent enough portion to escape the poverty of most University dons. As it turned out, his had been the luckier inheritance, for his brother the count had been hanged and the family’s traditional holdings confiscated after Gevron’s victory.
I managed to find the proper road, and my heart thumped a bit when I caught sight of the stone walls, thickly covered with vines of lush green. The gate was standing open when we arrived, and the grounds were as I remembered from my single visit long ago: sprawling cherry orchards, roses of a hundred varieties, spreading carpets of green grass. The gravel carriage road wound through the lovely parkland to a classic beauty of a country house.
The day was inordinately quiet, no sound of groom or gardener, dog or bird. Perhaps the heavy mist rolling in from the forest had deadened the noise on what should be a normally active day about the property. When we reached the flagstone courtyard before the front door, I dismounted and rang the bell. Ferrante had to be there. To have come so far to find only strangers would be too cruel.
D’Natheil stepped past me and pushed on the massive doors. They swung open easily. Wariness and foreboding shadowed his face, quieting my protest. The foyer was just as I remembered: highly polished oak floor, graceful, curving staircase, the display case still holding Ferrante’s greatest treasure, a thousand-year-old brass bowl dug up from the tombs at Doria. The air smelled of the cut roses that stood in every nook and the cleaning oil used on the dark mahogany tables.
“Hello!” My greeting seemed muted by the richly colored tapestries hung on the dark wood paneling. No lamps were lit to chase away the gloom of the afternoon. Bustling servants should have been taking our sodden cloaks and wiping our damp footprints off the fine floor, but no one came.
“Professor Ferrante? Is anyone here?”
Baglos whispered anxiously, “Perhaps we should go, woman. Though your rank would permit it, we do not look like we belong here, coming in the front door.”
Something was certainly amiss. D’Natheil could sense it, too. I started up the stairs toward Ferrante’s study on the second floor. “Hello,” I called again. “Professor?”
When we reached the upper gallery, D’Natheil pointed inquiringly at a pair of satiny walnut doors. I nodded. Quietly and carefully, the young man pushed open the door and led the three of us into the professor’s study.
Tall, paned windows welcomed the gray afternoon into the book-lined room, revealing the comfortable furnishings of thick rugs, brass lamps, and deep chairs. Professor Ferrante sat at his wide desk, but the brilliant, gentlemanly scholar would never again answer anyone’s questions. The front of his gray morning gown was drenched in blood, and his eyes gazed out at us, fixed in a horrified stare.
My skin crept. “We need to leave,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said a man’s voice from behind me. I whirled about to see Baglos’s eyes bulging. A long, thin arm was wrapped about the Dulcé‘s throat, and the point of a knife was poised at his belly. The hand that held the knife was shaking, but there was no mistaking its intent. The owner of the arm and the voice was obscured by the shadows behind the door. “Have you come back to review your handiwork? Pull down your hoods. Let me see those who would so foully murder a man of peace and intellect in his own home.” Anger and grief left the man’s voice hoarse. “Do it now—before I skewer this one!”