"Then that is settled. Did you ever see such a spectacle as that— that charlatan created? All the time, he was a woman, and pretending faithfulness when now it is quite obvious he—I mean, she—was working for the menace to the North."
That startled Marcala out of any diffidence. "Do you really think so?" She moved forward and held her hands out to the fire, rubbing some warmth back into them.
"It is the only explanation," Ysa said. She rubbed her own hands, feeling the
Great Rings of Power snugly in place under her fingers. They gave not the least hint that they were inclined to go to another, not even the wispy little King, so brave in knighting the young men that she had caused to be in Rendelsham in the first place! Peres would need her wisdom and counsel for many years to come, that much was certain.
She only wished that she didn't feel so much contempt for the lad. He took too much after his mother—though it was a blessing that his father was not stronger in him. Almost, Ysa wished that more of Boroth had managed to make it through the bloodlines. With her, Ysa, to guide him, a young version of her late husband would have made a King to reckon with!
Well, wishing would not affect reality in this, as in so many other matters.
"Yes, the only explanation," she repeated. "Think you. 'Flavielle,' wasn't that what Rohan called her? That snow she produced at will. Only somebody from the
North could do that sort of trick, or, for that.matter, would. Here in Rendel, we have no great reason to love the snow the year round. Now that I think on it,
I believe that Flavielle was taunting us with it, laughing at us for being too stupid to know what she was and who she was."
"I think that you are right, Madame," Marcala said. "It seems to me that the world grew colder the moment she appeared at Court, but I put it down to my own imagination playing tricks on me."
"Well, she is gone now, and gone for good, I'll warrant. But the next time I hire anyone to aid me in Rendel's defense, I'll make sure he—or she—is as reliable and loyal as you."
She smiled at Marcala, and Marcala returned it, visibly relaxing in the warmth of the Dowager's favor, even more welcome than the warmth of her fire.
Perhaps, Ysa thought, she would even reconsider the matter of Marcala's marriage to Count Harous. The Sorceress's appearance in the very center of the Court at
Rendelsham must have been a signal that the forces to the North were beginning to think themselves strong enough to march in earnest, rather than send entertainers and charlatans and thundersnows in their stead. Harous had, for all his own peculiarities and investigations into some of the areas of Power that intrigued Ysa, always been loyal to Rendel and to its rulers. If there was to be war, then Harous deserved the opportunity to leave a part of himself behind, in the form of a wife and, perhaps, children.
"I've missed you, Marcala," Ysa said. "Come, sit with me, and let us catch up on what has happened to us both."
One of Rendel's newest knights also had an errand as soon as he could extricate himself from the hubbub surrounding the day's events. When Rohan had made sure that the Sorceress was not in her usual haunts, he searched everywhere for
Anamara, wanting to share with her his excitement at being officially ennobled and, perhaps, even to ask her—
Too soon. There were many hurdles to cross, many areas of acceptance still to be gone through, before he could think of winning his fairest lady. First, though, he had to find her.
Not to his surprise, he discovered that most if not all of the late King
Florian's followers had vanished, along with Flavielle. Perhaps, he thought, remembering his abduction and near-murder, they had been working hand in glove all along. But more likely they were just followers who were willing to blindly follow their leaders into the unknown. And, obviously, they had picked the
Sorceress as a better leader than anybody in Rendel, even the Dowager.
That did not explain his difficulty in locating Anamara, however. Frustrated, he sought out the apartment where Ashen and Gaurin were staying, wanting to talk die matter over with his foster father. He would be back eventually, after he had disarmed and washed following the melee. Surely Gaurin would be able to advise him and, perhaps, even to help him puzzle out where Anamara had gotten herself off to.
Ayfare let him in. "My congratulations, young sir," she said, "if you don't mind my taking the liberty."
"How could I mind?" he replied, laughing. "As many times as you've swatted my bottom when I had gotten into mischief—Well, let's just say, I thank you."
She laughed in return. "Not that you didn't deserve it. But you didn't come here to talk about spankings."
"No, I didn't." He sobered. "I need to speak to Gaurin and, I hope, without
Ashen being present. Not just yet, at any rate."
Ayfare's eyebrows shot up. "Well, sir, you must know best. My lady Ashen is with the King's mother, and I don't look for her to be back anytime soon. I can send someone to hurry Lord Gaurin along, if you like."
"Yes, please."
Ayfare summoned one of the retainers they had brought with them from the
Oakenkeep, gave him instructions, and presently Gaurin let himself into the room where Rohan waited.
"How now, Sir Rohan!" the warrior exclaimed genially, obviously in a very good humor. He set a large standing cup, heavy with gold and gems, on a table. It was obviously a prize he had won. "I would have thought you would be out carousing with your fellow knights. Or is it a knave you've chosen to be, instead?"
"No, sir, if luck be with me. I've come to seek your help in working through a puzzle."
"If I can help, of course I will."
Rohan quickly related his growing infatuation with Anamara, his feeling that she reciprocated, the way she had given him the favor to wear in the tourney, and his lack of success in locating her. "I wanted to see her, to tell her—Well, to see her," he finished lamely.
"I understand, Rohan. I fell in love with Ashen the first moment I beheld her.
And she, I think, with me as well, though honor forbade that she should admit it."
"Really?" It was a story Rohan knew only second- or third-hand. "I would love to hear about it."
"I will tell you about it, sometime later. Now, let us try to decide where it is that your lady has gone."
"I have my fears—"
"Speak. If they are false, then they can be dispelled. If they are true, then we can deal with them."
"Flavielle spoke to me of having ample time to reflect upon what she called my
'folly,' and of what I had brought on those I hold dear. I thought it was a threat against you and Ashen. Now I wonder if it wasn't against Anamara instead."
"It is entirely possible." Gaurin sat thinking deeply for a moment. "I think you should go to the Bog," he said finally. "You owe Madame Zazar a report on what happened when the amulet she gave you issued the signal to unmask the Sorceress.
And, despite your confidence in me—for which I thank you—I think she might be better equipped to help you locate your ladylove than anyone else."
"I had considered doing this already, but wanted to talk over the matter with you first. I would be a knave indeed, if something had happened to her and I didn't go to remedy it."
"Provision yourself, and seek out Madame Zazar as soon as possible," Gaurin said. "I have a feeling that the less time you waste, the better."
"Thank you, sir." Rohan bowed to Gaurin, as one noble to another, and, for the first time in his life, knew the pleasure of having the salute returned.
Twenty-one
Anamara had never wanted to attend the Grand Tourney at all, and only the fact that Rohan would be participating and wearing the favor she had rashly agreed to give him prompted her to do so. She could not bring herself to occupy the place to which she was entitled, where the gentry took their ease, and thus be on display to all. Instead, she borrowed a plain cloak from a maidservant and took care to hide among the common people who crowded ag
ainst the fence separating the tourney grounds from the area nearby where vendors and entertainers, tinkers and weapons dealers, had set up their booths, eager to profit from the festival.
The smell of hot cider and smoking meats filled the air. Anamara's stomach growled; she had been unable to eat any breakfast that morning. Nor could she eat until she knew Rohan was safe.
Anxiously she craned her neck and stood on tiptoe, trying to see over the people who blocked her view. Then the crowd shifted a little as a group of friends decided that hot food on a cold day was preferable to standing and waiting for something to happen. She gained a vantage point from which she had as good a view as any not seated in the spectator stand.
Gidon and Nikolos were just entering the lists. She watched as
Gidon neatly unhorsed his opponent. Then her heart nearly stopped as she saw
Rohan on the horse he had been given, come trotting in to take his turn. There was no mistaking him—the strange tuft of herbs and grasses he wore in his helm would have identified him anywhere even if the blue silk of her favor were not floating in the breeze.
Oh, please, she said silently, let him not be harmed! To think of his wide, sea-green eyes filled with pain or his open and honest features contorted with agony filled her with such dread that she swayed on her feet. She forced herself to stay and watch, hating the spectacle, wishing it were over and done with and that she and Rohan—
She never finished the thought. Almost before the joust began, he had put Gidon in the dust and the crowd was roaring its approval. She gulped, hard, against something bitter that had unaccountably arisen in the back of her throat.
Then Rohan was trotting back to the starting-point and selecting another blunted lance. That meant that he was going to have to fight again, and once more, she would die a thousand times before all was done.
She didn't recognize his new opponent, but the murmurs of the crowd told her it was Jabez of Mimon. She heard bets offered and taken, that Rohan would have
Jabez unhorsed even before they properly met. It came as an unpleasant surprise to those betting on Rohan when he was the one who ended up on his backside.
Those who had bet against him roared with laughter at their unexpected win.
She lingered only long enough to make certain that he was unhurt. He doffed his helm and waved to the crowd, his red-gold hair shining in the sunlight. Then, knowing that he was safe, she began to make her way up the steep path, back to
Rendelsham and the seclusion of her rooms.
She heard voices. Someone was coming down the path she was climbing, and, not wanting to have to offer a possible explanation for her not attending the festivities, Anamara ducked behind a clump of bushes to hide. Presently two people came into view. One was a woman she did not know, and the other a man she had seen a few times before, someone she recognized as the Magician's personal attendant. Duig.
"So today's the day, eh?" he said.
"Yes. Everything begins with the senior nobles' exhibition. That is, if you've done your job properly."
"Oh, never fear, Lady Flavielle. The easiest part was with the young nobles.
I've got most of them practically at each other's throats. Many of the warriors are none too pleased with each other, either. But my best work was with the seniors. Old cocks, still thinking they're fit for warfare." The man laughed, an unpleasant sound. "The Florian faction helped, too, more than they knew."
"Then all that is left for me is to give just a small push and the war will begin. Not even the little boy who is King will be able to stop it." The woman laughed as well, and the sound put shivers down Anamara's back. Then she turned more serious. "Now, that one person I was concerned about…"
"Alas, lady, I could do nothing directly. He has countered every effort on my part. Maybe Sea-Rovers are more resistant, somehow, to anything but what they're set on."
They could only be speaking of Rohan. Anamara leaned closer, not wanting to miss hearing a word of what they were saying.
"Perhaps," Flavielle said. "Well, no matter. When the fighting begins he'll be caught in the middle of it like everyone else. Too bad he wouldn't listen to reason. Now he'll die."
"No?" Anamara couldn't bite back the exclamation. Both of the people on the path turned instantly, toward the sound of her voice.
"See who it is," Flavielle said.
Anamara leapt up and made a desperate dash for the path, hoping somehow that she could escape. She got tangled in the bushes and in her own skirts, and the man caught her in an iron grip.
"Leaving so soon?" he said. "The festivities are just getting started."
"Let me go!"
Flavielle waited on the path while the man dragged Anamara back to where she stood. "Who are you, to be spying on me?" she said.
Anamara stood silent, glaring at both of them. Her hands were already growing numb and useless, so tight was Duig gripping her arms.
"I think we've got ourselves a prize," Duig said. "This here's Lady Anamara, one of the Old Dowager's young ladies. A sort of ward, you might say. She and Rohan are sweet on each other, so the rumor goes."
Flavielle smiled grimly. "Yes. I knew her by name only. She was intended for—never mind. Well, then, it is a stroke of good fortune that put her in my care." She reached out, and despite Anamara's flinching away, stroked her on the cheek. Then she gripped the girl's chin so tightly Anamara thought the woman's sharp fingernails were going to pierce her flesh. "She'll come in handy, later—especially if Rohan lives through the next hour. Take her and put her somewhere for safekeeping. I'll deal with her later."
"So I will—sir."
Anamara watched, gape-mouthed, as the woman stepped back, pushing back the cloak that had covered her. She made a gesture, and right before Anamara's eyes transformed into a very familiar figure indeed—the Magician] "But—" Anamara began.
"Silence!" the Magician commanded. "Duig?"
"At once. All will be ready for your command."
Even if she had not been dazed at what she had just seen and heard, Anamara was unequal to the man's sheer strength. He clapped one hand over her mouth to stop any outcry, and began to drag her with him. Despite her struggles, she was forced to accompany him to one of the outbuildings of the city, outside the wall, where he shoved her into a cold, dank room, and locked the door behind her.
She scraped together some of the moldy straw that littered the floor and sat down on it. She had to think, had to work through
The Bog was, if anything, even more dank and dismal than Rohan remembered from the last time he had been in it, and that had been bad enough. Now a shadow darker and more impenetrable than any he had seen before seemed to lie over it.
He could scarcely penetrate the gloom.
Only his knowledge of the ways that Grandam Zaz had taken him, both in and out, kept him from getting hopelessly lost. He found renewed reason to be glad that the cold had sent most of them into permanent winter torpor, and that the human inhabitants were reluctant to be abroad except at need.
He located one of the small boats the Bog-people customarily hid along every waterway, and this made his journey somewhat easier, with his not having to beat his way through sodden underbrush. He put his pack into the boat, picked up the pole, and started poling himself along. To keep up his spirits, he began to whistle softly to himself.
Somewhere in the depths of the Bog, something answered.
Instantly alert, he set the pole into the bottom of the boat and the implications of what was even now happening—and find some way to escape, so that she could warn Rohan.
And she added to herself, the Dowager and the King and his royal mother and the rest of the Court. But most of all, Rohan.
Now it was clear to her that the man—no, the woman—who, rumor had it, was another of the Dowager's minions, was in fact a traitor whose scheming could very well bring down the nation.
There was no use in battering at the door. It was made of thick wood, strengthened with iron stra
ps. The one window was shuttered, barred from outside, and even if she had something with which to pry up the bar, there was no chink through which to push a tool. She could only wait, helpless and weeping, while worry and terror built up in her.
Even screaming would do no good. There was nobody to hear. let what sluggish current there was carry him at its own slow pace. As he drifted, he drew his sword and watched cautiously on both sides for any sign of whatever it was that had so responded.
As the minutes passed without a repeat of the signal, if signal it was, he took up the pole again. But he kept his pace slow. He might meet foe or he might meet friend, but whoever it might be, there was no gain in rushing forward headlong, even though he had taken boldness for his byword.