“I would kiss the ground for a drink of anything,” I whispered, “and my cloak or blanket would not be unacceptable. One for him, too.”
“I’ve had to sit on the little fellow to keep him away. Should he come?”
“No. If you’ll—”
“I’ll take care of it.” The sheriff soon returned with two blankets and a wineskin. I had rarely tasted anything quite so delicious as Rowan’s sour wine.
“Thank you, Sheriff. Tell Baglos that the Prince sleeps and that I believe all will be well with him.”
“Done.”
When the morning sun penetrated the ruined keep, I woke hearing lingering echoes of Karon’s voice from my dreams. Seri love, he had called, let me in. My arm had burned, and I had felt his life flow through my veins as it had on the terrible day of his arrest, filling me, enriching me, forgiving me as I had at last forgiven him. My response to the dream had been quite vivid. When I realized I still clung to the Prince’s hand, my cheeks grew hot, as if, even in sleep, he might somehow have shared this most intimate of stories.
D’Natheil slept peacefully, sprawled under the blanket Graeme Rowan had thrown over him. I hated to wake him, but events could not wait. We could not know how long the road to the Bridge might remain open. And, of course, I had to see if what I’d done had been enough. I carefully extracted my hand and climbed to my feet. “Well, my lord prince, are you going to sleep all day? You’ve led us a merry chase.”
He stirred slowly, and after a few moments, mumbled, “What? I didn’t—” He sat up, rubbed his head, and peered about his desolate refuge. When his gaze came to me, it was filled with questions. “I don’t remember coming here.”
“What do you remember?”
“The rain. Fire. I don’t know. A jumble of things. Nothing clear.” His face was troubled.
“Come, let’s find the others.”
While we walked the length of the ancient hall, I told him briefly what had happened. “… and so you left us during the storm in an attempt to draw the danger of the Zhid away from us. You thought you couldn’t hold out against them, but you did.”
“Because of you, I think.”
“I’ve told you several times that such things are easier together. If your mentors taught you that in ail of history there has been any battle won by one man alone, then they know no more of history than does Paulo. I suppose they taught you, too, that women are weak and must be constantly coddled and protected. Perhaps you should have taken lessons from your friends, the soldiers on the walls of Avonar. My father always said that a soldier’s wife could make soup from sticks and swords from stones and could hold a citadel long after the warriors had given it up. Women make the…” But I never told him, because my voice trailed off into a prolonged coughing fit from the irritation of my throat.
“Perhaps you should give your voice a rest,” said the Prince, as he gave me a hand over the fallen roof beam. “Or you’ll find yourself being dragged about by argumentative, flame-haired women, unable to say a word to deter them from having their way with you.”
I stopped and stared at him as he continued across the littered ruin toward the sounds of our friends. After a few steps he looked back and smiled at me as he had not smiled for many days. The beauty of his face brought joy to my heart, though in the morning light I could not fail to notice that he’d aged a good five years in the past two days. Strands of gray threaded his fair hair. The stubble on his face could not hide the deepening lines. Baglos would not be able to deny the change this time. What did it mean? Shoving aside a sudden disquiet, I hurried after him.
The others were camped just beyond the fallen guard tower. Baglos caught sight of us first, raced to D’Natheil, and bent his knee. “Oh, my lord, forgive me for my absence from your side. My duty called me, but these… our friends… called upon the command that you laid upon me to be led by”—he took a deep and wounded breath— “this mundane woman. And I did follow it. But I respectfully ask if that was your intent?”
“I redouble my command, Dulcé, and I’ve placed it on myself as well. You are my madrisse, who can lead me on the proper road and answer whatever I ask of you. But the Lady Seriana is my counselor, who must tell me what road to take and what questions I must ask.”
By the time I dealt with two more bouts of coughing, D’Natheil was eating his second bowl of Baglos’s porridge. I wanted a drink of something hot to soothe my throat and was forced to resort to gestures to let the Dulcé know.
Graeme Rowan sat a short distance away on a remnant of a fallen wall, munching a hard biscuit. Kellea was sitting halfway down the hill with her back to the company. Gratefully, I took a cup of hot wine from Baglos and perched next to the sheriff.
“Good morning,” I said, croaking a bit.
“Good morning, madam.”
“Just Seri will do.”
“As you wish.” He cocked his head toward the Prince. “So, do I kneel to him?”
“He does not expect it.”
“It was awkward enough with you for so long. To know who you were and what you were accused of. And then Kellea, a sorcerer in the flesh. But she tells me that this one is a prince, and that he and his odd friend come from a land—a world—that is not this one we walk. Is it true?”
“Yes.”
“Hand of Annadis…” The hand that held his biscuit fell into his lap. For Rowan, I had learned, such a reaction was the equivalent of an earthquake.
“That realization was not much easier for me. Paulo is the only one who takes all of it in stride.”
The sheriff grimaced. “Paulo’s life is naught but irrational events. And he talks with horses. Why would anything amaze him? He tells me you chose to keep him, rather than shove him off to a magistrate. I thank you for that.”
“You know I could never—”
“I thank you anyway. Folk busy saving the world oft-times fail to note illiterate boys.” He lifted the biscuit to his mouth again, pausing only long enough to add, “May I ask what was last night?”
My throat soothed with Baglos’s wine, I told Rowan about the Seeking of the Zhid, and how D’Natheil thought he had to fight it alone so as not to endanger the rest of us. “What I did, just talking to him long enough, enabled him to grab an anchor in a world in which he was at sea. He used his own strength to deflect the attack. I thank you for your discretion.”
“I vow never to interfere where this sorcery business is involved.”
“You may find it less terrifying than you think.”
“Hmmph.” A skeptical grunt. “So, what now?”
“We must get him to the place they call the Gate, as Kellea told you, so he can do whatever he was sent here to do, avoiding the traps the Zhid and the traitors among his own people have set for him.”
“And do you know the way?”
“We have clues.” I told him of the journal, and the Writer, and the riddles.
“You’re wagering the future of two worlds on four-hundred-fifty-year-old riddles written by a ten-year-old girl?” Rowan’s sandy eyebrows looked to fly off his face.
“She only gave her father the idea. He wrote his clues interspersed with her riddles, then left the key to them in the form of a children’s game.”
“Still sounds like hunting a bear with a stick.”
Rowan finished his biscuit and I my wine, watching Baglos bustling happily about with food and fire and pots. After a while Rowan said. “So the little one is his servant. He seems very devoted. Obedient… trustworthy.”
“Their relationship is much deeper than master and servant—a magical link of the mind. Baglos would have difficulty disobeying his commands, even if he wanted to. What about it?”
“Mmm… no matter. I just wasn’t sure. Back in Yurevan—” He waved his last bite of biscuit in dismissal. “Naught, then.”
My cup empty, I was anxious to get on with the day. “Then let me introduce you, and we’ll be off.”