‘So what will the Malakasians do when they discover one of their soldiers has been killed?’ She avoided eye contact with Churn.
‘Close the roads, shut down the ports, round up anyone accused of separatist activities, tighten their stranglehold on the farmers and merchants who deal in critical goods and services and-’ Hoyt chose his words carefully, ‘-uh, maybe make a public example of a few of us.’
Hannah did not need help understanding the Pragan’s sugarcoated explanation. ‘So, there will be public hangings, beatings, grim retaliatory measures?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
Hannah sighed nervously. ‘All right then, let’s go.’
‘Um, first, I need you to put this on,’ he said and handed her what looked like an over-tunic. It was much too large, but it did cover her shirt and jacket. ‘And here, tie your hair up with this.’ Hoyt drew a section of brown homespun cloth from his belt. ‘I promise it’s clean… well, it was clean recently.’
Despite the tension threatening to close her throat, Hannah had to stifle a laugh as she gathered up her hair and tucked it beneath the makeshift scarf. ‘How’s that?’
Churn grunted his approval and Hoyt nodded. ‘Better… certainly a good deal uglier.’
Hannah pouted in mock dismay.
‘Oh, no, that’s what we want,’ he said, reaching out to offer his arm. ‘Shall we?’
Together, the unlikely trio began making their way quickly towards Southport.
GAREC’S FARM
The morning ride was hard on the Coloradoans, even though Steven considered himself a bit of a horseman. He was more tired than he remembered being since college and nodded off several times as they rode north through the forests and small towns that lined the Estrad River. The morning sun brought dappled colour to the forest floor and thick ferns shone bright green where sunlight reached them through the dense foliage. Cresting a hill, Steven caught a glimpse of Riverend Palace in the distance, an abandoned and ramshackle monument to Ronan history.
Versen led the group along paths he found easily, as if he had known them his whole life; Gilmour brought up the rear just behind Mark. Garec was riding in front of Steven, and when the path widened slightly, he pulled alongside.
‘You haven’t had much sleep in several days I’d guess.’
‘You’re right,’ Steven said as he fought off another yawn. ‘I’m not certain I’ll make a full day on this horse.’
‘We won’t ride a full day today,’ the young Ronan answered. ‘We all need rest, and I must warn my parents and sisters, so we’ll be stopping at my family’s farm. It’s not far now.’
‘Thank God. Maybe I can get some sleep then.’
‘That’ll be fine.’ Garec reached across and patted Steven’s horse gently along the neck. ‘What do you think of her?’
‘She’s wonderful,’ Steven said as he ran one hand up the horse’s mane and started patting her vigorously. The mare responded with a toss of her head and a pleasant whinny. ‘Did you choose her?’
‘I did,’ Garec answered proudly.
‘You’ve got a great eye for horses.’
‘I don’t know about that. She did take to you very quickly, though, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, she did,’ Steven said reflectively. He peered at his watch: it was already noon in Idaho Springs, but it had only been daylight here in Rona for four hours.
‘What is that thing?’ Garec asked, curiously eyeing Steven’s wrist.
‘It’s called a watch,’ Steven replied, and briefly explained the instrument and how it worked. ‘As far as I can tell, you have about four fewer “hours” in your day than we have in Colorado.’ He used the English term, because he still could not think of a Ronan equivalent. Unfastening the watch, he offered it to Garec.
‘ ‘‘Hours”?’ He turned the instrument over between his fingers and observed as the second hand made half a revolution.
‘Yes, hours. An hour is one of twenty-four equal portions of one Colorado day,’ Steven explained, then added, ‘and those figures listed around the outer edge represent our number system.’
Garec was fascinated; he endeavoured to find parallels in Ronan time. ‘Your hour is similar to our aven then. There are eight in each day, two from dawn to midday, two between midday and sundown, two from sundown to middlenight and two between middlenight and dawn.’
Steven did the calculations in his head. ‘So an aven is about two and a half hours, assuming there are twenty hours in a Ronan day.’ He showed Garec how to chart one aven on the face of his watch.
‘That’s very interesting, Steven Taylor.’ Garec handed back the timepiece.
‘Oh, that’s okay.’ He waved one hand dismissively at the bowman. ‘You keep it.’
Garec grinned like a schoolboy. ‘Thank you, Steven Taylor. Thank you very much.’ He attached the watch to his wrist before adding, ‘You keep the horse.’
Now it was Steven’s turn to grin. ‘Are you kidding?’ He ran his hand gently through the animal’s mane. ‘Garec, this is too much. I can’t take this horse.’
‘Well, I can’t keep her,’ Garec told him, motioning to his own mount. ‘Rennie would be jealous.’
‘What’s this one’s name?’
‘We’ll call her whatever you wish, Steven Taylor,’ Garec said, matter-of-factly.
‘It’s just Steven, Garec.’ He thought for a moment before asking, ‘Can we call her Howard?’
‘Howard it shall be, Steven Taylor. Sorry, “just Steven”.’ Garec laughed.
Mark, meanwhile, was having a less than easy time with his own mount, a strong-willed animal that would have baulked at commands from an experienced rider. Mark attempted to employ the simple rules Steven had taught him in the orchard, but by midday, when the horse yet again wandered from the path to crop the greenery, he realised the independent-minded beast wasn’t going to pay any attention to him no matter what he did. Finally, Sallax rode alongside and, with a withering look, took the reins from Mark and led the animal himself. Mark was left to balance in the horribly uncomfortable saddle, shattered from two nights without sleep, aching from the awkward motion of the horse’s unfamiliar gait and desperately embarrassed at his inability to control the wretched animal.
By now the only thing keeping Mark awake was the irregular rhythm of the animal’s tread and the throbbing pain in his thighs and lower back. He had tried resting his head on the horse’s neck, but whenever he started to drift off to sleep, the horse would jerk about or shake its head and Mark would nearly fall from the saddle. Eventually he decided to sit up straight and welcome the pain as his only distraction from the overwhelming fatigue.
Gilmour trotted forward and touched Mark gently on the forearm. ‘Excuse me, my friend,’ he whispered, waking Mark from his nearly delusional reverie. ‘If you lean forward slightly and use the stirrups to lift your weight just a fraction with each step, you’ll find the rhythm begins to make some sense. It will alleviate the strain on your back.’ He demonstrated what he meant, then fell back alongside.
‘Try it. I promise you it will help.’
Mark felt a fool, but at this stage he had nothing to lose. He was astounded to find Gilmour had not been exaggerating; the relief was almost immediate.
‘Thank you,’ he said, trying several positions before deciding on one that felt most comfortable, then asked, ‘What is Welstar Palace?’
‘It is Prince Malagon’s home in Malakasia, a particularly dangerous place for us to travel to. But it’s there we’ll find Lessek’s Key, and a passage for you and Steven to return home.’
‘We can get home through Malagon’s palace?’
‘Well, it isn’t really Malagon’s palace any more. Malagon Whitward is long dead. What was Malagon is being controlled, mind and body, by Nerak, an exceedingly evil force that has been plaguing Eldarn for nearly a thousand Twinmoons.’ Gilmour pulled two apples from his saddlebag and handed one to Mark.
‘How will we get in without him – it – knowing we’re there?’ Mark took a bite and waited for Gilmour’s reply.
‘I’m not certain yet, but I can tell you it will be very dangerous for all of us. Just being that close to Welstar Palace can be deadly.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Going inside verges on suicide. I hope to enter with you and Steven alone. If all goes well, we will send you home and I will search Malagon’s chambers for Lessek’s Key.’