They had ridden hard, covering the entire distance from Seaharrow to Anuire, about two hundred and fifty miles, in a mere three days. It must have been a brutal pace, thought Baladore, for he had heard that when they finally arrived at the Imperial Cairn, the empress and her daughters had to be lifted from their mounts and carried inside. It was a miracle they hadn’t killed the horses.
Lord Tieran had set a fast pace during the day, and then a walking pace during most of each night to allow the horses to recover. They took only short rest periods, sleeping for only a few hours at a time while the guards took turns standing watch. More than anything, Lord Tieran had been afraid of being overtaken on the road by Lord Arwyn and his knights. They had to reach the capital at all costs, even though Lord Tieran knew absolutely nothing of what had become of his own son.
As the sea breeze ruffled Baladore’s cloak, he bit his lower lip and tried not to think about the pitching of the boat in the choppy waters of the bay. Instead, he thought of how Lord Tieran had looked when he had seen him last—tired, drawn and haggard, pale, with a haunted, tortured look about him. To have left Seaharrow as he did, with his own son’s fate uncertain, must have taken a supreme act of will and self-sacrifice. As a father, he must have wanted desperately to set out on Aedan’s trail. As lord high chamberlain, however, his first duty was to the empress and the empire, and he had to act quickly to safeguard both.
As the boat drew up to the jetty at Cairn Rock, the windswept island from which the imperial palace rose almost like a natural extension of the rock formations, Baladore stepped onto the dock, assisted by the boat captain. He swallowed hard, thanked the man, paid him a bonus for making the journey under full sail, then hurried up the jetty toward the palace gates, grateful to be on dry land once again. Well, relatively dry, at any rate, he thought. He squinted at the sea spray coming off the rocks as the waves crashed against the island. The wind had picked up, and the swells were coming in harder and faster.
Why Haelyn, in his mortal days, had ever wanted to build the palace on this rock out in the middle of the bay was something Baladore had never been able to discern. Its natural defensive position was the only thing that argued for the site. It was as safe from any attack as possible, except a protracted siege by sea, and an enemy’s ships would have had a hard time maintaining a blockade, given the unpredictable swells and currents of the bay in the Straits of Aerele. Unless a captain really knew these waters, he could easily wind up on the jagged rocks that ringed the island like a deadly necklace.
Admitted through the gates, Baladore hurried to find Lord Tieran. The lord high chamberlain was in his private quarters in the tower, standing at the window and staring out across the bay at the city of Anuire. He turned as Baladore came in. Lord Tieran appeared to have aged at least ten years since he had returned from Seaharrow. The strain of worrying about the empress, who had sunk into despair at the loss of her son and husband, and the stress of losing—or so he thought—his own son, added to his concerns about the fate of the empire now that the succession was in doubt. It all had turned his hair completely white, and there were new lines etched into his face. His eyes looked dark and sunken from lack of sleep, and he had lost weight, as well.
“Baladore,” he said, greeting him in a weary voice. He frowned. “By the gods, you look red as beet, and you are all out of breath. Please, sit down, old friend. Here, have some wine and tell me what brings you out to the Cairn in such a state.”
“Great news, milord,” said Baladore, sinking down gratefully into a chair. “Wonderful news! Miraculous news! Prince Michael is alive and well, as is your son!”
Lord Tieran stared at him with disbelief, as if he weren’t sure he’d heard correctly. “By Haelyn! Can it be true?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Baladore took a quick gulp of wine before replying. “I have just this morning received a message from your son,” he said, “written in his own hand, which your lordship is aware I know as well as I do my own. And there is an added postscript from the prince, with his signature appended. Here, see for yourself.”
“A message?” said Lord Tieran, his eyes lighting up as Baladore passed him the scroll. “But how? By what means?”
“Delivered by a halfling, milord, sent from Tuarhievel by Prince Fhileraene himself,” Baladore replied. “What transpired is all contained therein, in your son’s own hand.” And he waited, slaking his thirst with wine while Lord Tieran read the message, which was an account of how the boys had been captured by the goblins and then rescued by the elves, led by the mage, Gylvain Aurealis, and how they had been received by Prince Fhileraene.
“Bless you, Baladore, for bringing me this news!” Lord Tieran said. “I must bring this to the empress at once! She was convinced that Prince Michael had died, as I fear I was as well. I had dared hope they still lived, but I did not really think we would ever see them again. This message will restore her spirits.” He paused as something else occurred to him. “Baladore, this note makes no mention of any ransom,” he said, uncertainly. “Surely, Prince Fhileraene must want something for their safe return?”
Baladore shook his head. “If he does, milord, neither the message nor the messenger made mention of it.”
“Hmm. Does this halfling messenger wait for word to be sent back?”
“He awaits back at the college, milord, where I have seen to it he shall be fed and rested well.”
“It is good,” Lord Tieran said. “Oh, it is so very good, indeed. I feel, good Baladore, a tremendous weight has been lifted from my chest, a weight that had been crushing me. Come, come with me. We must go tell the empress together. I am certain she will want to see the message and read it for herself. Then we must compose a reply and send it back to Tuarhievel with this halfling. Prince Fhileraene must know the empire will be grateful for the safety of Prince Michael….” He paused. “No, by Haelyn, Emperor Michael! The succession is no longer in doubt.”
He clenched his fist around the scroll. “Arwyn of Boeruine will find he has gravely overreached himself. Claim regency, will he? Well, he shall have a hard time justifying his claim to power now. And if he persists, all will see his bold ambition for what it truly is. Come, Baladore, let us go tell the empress the great news. And my wife, of course. She has cried tears of grief for long enough. She will now cry tears of joy, and it will do my heart no end of good to see it.”
* * * * *
“Is that the best you can do?” the elf girl said as she easily parried Aedan’s attack. “You will surely never slay your enemy if you come at him so gingerly.”
“I did not wish to hurt you,” Aedan replied.
Sylvanna raised her thin and gracefully arched eyebrows. “Indeed? And what makes you think you could?”
“The fact that I might, even though unintentionally, is enough to give me pause,” said Aedan. “I owe my life to Gylvain Aurealis, and it would be a poor show of gratitude if I were to injure his own sister.”
“Ah, I see,” Sylvanna replied. “So a sense of obligation to my brother makes you exercise caution and hold back, is that it? Well, in that case, perhaps I should seek another opponent to help me in my practice, for you are not providing any challenge.”