"We're only another day or two away from the city," she said. "You're going to have to hit me."
Greyson looked up sharply. "What?"
"It has to look realistic," she explained. "If they can't tell we got in a fight, it won't work."
He shook his head. "I'm not going to hit you."
"You have to."
"No, I don't."
"Then cut me with something."
"Don't be absurd."
She stood up, exasperated. "How do you not understand the necessity of this?"
He shook his head again. "I'm a peaceful man. I don't like to fight."
She shoved him but got no reaction. She shoved a bit harder, knocking him slightly off balance.
"You're going to ruin my work," he said.
She shoved him again.
"Would you—" he said, pushing back against her.
It worked a little better than she had intended. As she'd suspected, he didn't know his own strength, and he'd pushed back much too hard, catching her off balance and sending her stumbling. But she tripped over a tree root, fell against the tree itself, and landed ungracefully in a thorny bush. Ungraceful landings were never part of the plan.
"Ayalah," he said, rushing over to her. "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"
She ignored his proffered hand and got to her feet without help, albeit a little clumsily. "It's Warrior Tarall. And yes, I'm fine."
He pursed his lips.
"One more thing, though," she said, and slammed her right fist into his cheek.
He reeled back, one hand covering the left side of his face. "What was that for?" Now he was actually angry.
She hobbled to the fire, inspecting the scratches all over her hands and wincing at the stings of the cuts on her face. Luckily, her leathers had protected the rest of her body. "I told you," she said, "it has to look realistic."
He clamped his mouth shut and didn't speak to her the rest of the night.
10
The smithy put his anger to good use, and by the time they spotted the gates of Miltinoth the king's staff had been completed. Ayalah held it before her as they approached the gates.
"Hail, Warrior Tarall," came the intonation. She couldn't see the face of the warrior who greeted her.
"Hail, Warrior," she responded. "I come bearing the king's commission, as well as a prisoner."
"The prisoner's name?"
"Retnik Greyson." It was protocol to find out a prisoner's full name when bringing him in for questioning; her misstep was no longer a concern.
"Proceed." The gates opened before her.
The city of Miltinoth was laid out in such a way that the palace sat at the center of the city, with four cobblestone roads leading straight away from it in different compass directions to the four city gates. The rest of the city, made up of predominantly dirt roads and narrow homes, connected to these main roads arbitrarily, and it was along this main road, leading directly to the palace, that Ayalah led Greyson.
The usual band of raggedy beggars lined the street, some of them still sleeping, others hurling insults at Ayalah as she passed. When she was still a new recruit, she had argued back with them, insisting that it wasn't the king she supported by becoming a warrior, but rather the people of the city: she was there to protect them. But, they would counter, if she was there to protect them, why didn't she stop the king from tearing down their homes to put up these new roads? She'd tried a variety of answers—she didn't have the authority, the roads were a necessary inconvenience, they'd been completed before she finished training—but none of them satisfied the beggars, whose protestations, though frequently nothing more than slurs and ignorance, sometimes pierced a place in her thoughts and stuck there permanently. Eventually she'd learned to tune them out; it was with a degree of stoicism, therefore, that she moved past them now, ignoring their pleas and shouts.
Greyson was taken from her at the palace gates by the pair of towering warriors with clean-shaven heads the king kept around to frighten away commoners, and she was instructed to return for the trial the following day. She was used to such proceedings; she nodded, thanked the guards, and went off in search of a bath and a bed for the night.
She was received at the palace gates early the next day, ushered in to the trial chamber, and instructed to wait for the king. Greyson was already in the room. She stood calmly, staff in hand, waiting for the king to appear; Greyson, however, was still sulking over his puffy cheek. He paced the small room, back and forth, forth and back, until Ayalah felt almost dizzy from watching him. Finally, after close to two hours, a murmur of voices from beyond the door alerted them that the king was coming. Greyson stopped his pacing and prostrated himself on the floor, as required of a commoner. Ayalah stood behind him.
"All hail the mighty King Mathais," announced a servant in a booming voice.
The king entered, looking bored. Two scribes scampered in after him, and the door closed with a click.
"Hum," the king said as he took his seat. "And what's all this about?"
"Your Majesty," said Ayalah, "I present to you the prisoner, Smithy Retnik Greyson, for your judgment and deliberation. As you know, Smithy Greyson was commissioned to make for you this staff that I hold here. However, the smithy refused to complete the staff in the time allotted for it, in direct violation of your policy—decree number fifty-two, I believe."
"Yes, yes," the king rolled his eyes. "I know my own laws. Continue, Warrior Tarall, but get to the point."
"Well, Majesty, as I said, the smithy refused to comply with the allotted deadline, and so I have brought him to you for judgment. He did, however, complete the staff along the road, for fear of harsher punishment."
The king beckoned her forward, and she placed the golden staff in his outstretched hands and bowed. "Hum hum," the king mused. "The smithy does good work, I see. The staff is exactly what I asked for." He admired it for a moment longer before looking up. "And what happened to your face, Warrior Tarall?"
"The smithy attacked me on the road," she said. She raised her face but kept her eyes on the ground, letting the king see the extent of the damage.
"Thank you, Warrior Tarall," the king said. It was a dismissal, and she retreated to the back of the small room. Was that a smirk she caught on his face?
"Rise, smithy," he said. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Greyson rose and bowed. "I do not agree with the charges, Your Majesty. I was given two weeks to make the staff, and Warrior Tarall returned before the two weeks had passed. Had I been given the correct amount of—"
"Do you call one of my warriors a liar, smithy?" the king interrupted.
"I—well, that is—no, of course not, Majesty."
The king laced his fingers together. "I see."
"But, Majesty, I believe Warrior Tarall was mistaken—it must have been an accident. If I—"
The king held up a hand for silence. "I've heard all I need to. You disobeyed a direct order to finish a royal commission in time. Is that correct, Warrior Tarall?"
The king may not have liked her, but Ayalah knew he had to take the side of one of his warriors, especially in front of witnesses. If his other warriors found out that their king didn't completely protect their interests, they would never pledge their allegiance to him. Her word here, therefore, was truth. "Yes, Majesty."
"But, Majesty—" Greyson began.
"And you attacked a warrior of the Crown. Is that correct, Warrior Tarall?"
"Yes, Majesty."
"Now, just a moment, Your Majesty—"
"Silence, smithy!" the king snapped. "Speak only when spoken to."
Greyson was silent.
"Better. These are serious accusations, Warrior Tarall."
"Yes, Your Majesty. This prisoner should be spared no punishment—he has purposely and willfully disobeyed you."
The king nodded thoughtfully. "And yet, he did complete the staff along the way."
"Yes, Majesty," Ayalah conceded, with an edge—she hoped
—of reluctance in her voice.
"Hum," mused the king aloud. "Well, we must pardon him the death sentence for finishing the staff—and it seems there would be no point in sentencing the smithy to the labor yards, for such a pair of strong arms would not be sorely taxed in such places."
"Majesty," Ayalah said, "surely the brute will be punished for attacking me?"
"Of course, Warrior Tarall. What would you suggest?"
"The dungeons, Majesty. A few months in the dark should sort out the smithy's priorities. Perhaps," she sniffed, "it will also turn him into a more tolerable traveling companion. I, in the meantime, will continue to serve the Crown."
The king looked at Greyson for a long moment. "Does your face hurt, smithy?" he inquired. It was obvious he was aiming for a sympathetic note to his voice, but all Ayalah could detect was scorn and boredom.
"It is bearable, Your Majesty."
"I have an idea," said the king. He twisted his moustache with a forefinger. "The smithy shall indeed be punished to the utmost of our ability. And it seems to me that far worse than the dungeons would be the wrath of your own hand, Warrior Tarall."
"Majesty?"
"It's settled, then." He cleared his throat and turned to his scribes. "Let it be known that the smithy Retnik Greyson will be punished by being placed in the service of Warrior Tarall for the next month. He will help her carry out my wishes and learn to respect and worship his king, the mighty King Mathais."
Ayalah gaped at him. "Your Majesty, you cannot really think—but he has already attacked me once—what if he should do so again? And suffering his presence was intolerable, truly, Majesty." The more she argued, she knew, the more the king would like this plan, especially the thought of the smithy attacking her again.
The king shrugged. "If the smithy does not obey your every wish, you are free to punish him however you see fit, so long as his arms and eyes are intact so he may continue his work as a smithy when the month is up. I intend to commission another item from him in the future." He paused. "In the meantime, your next assignment is to retrieve, by force if necessary, a large, valuable stone from a so-called wizard living in the woods to the north. I trust this assignment won't be too difficult for you?"
"Well, no, but Majesty, I really must insist that you rethink this punishment. The smithy will be a burden on me, and his—"
The king held up his hand for silence again. "I think the punishment a perfect one," he said softly, smirking. "You leave immediately."
With that, he rose from his chair and swept from the room, the scribes hurrying after him at his heels.
They were alone in the room for a moment. Greyson turned and regarded Ayalah in silence.
11
"Well, that was artfully done," Greyson commented as they made their way up the cobblestone road to the northern gate of the city.
Ayalah said nothing.
"And how do you plan to punish me if I disobey? Apparently my legs are fair game," Greyson continued bitterly. "Or my mouth, I suppose. Perhaps my back appeals to you. Really, any part of—"
"Keep quiet until we're out of the city," she snapped. His part of the prophecy had better be worth this hassle, she thought. He was turning out to be a bit of a whiner.
They reached the gate, saluted the guards, and continued along the road from the city until the cobblestones gave way to dirt and the path veered to the left, toward Bolladoth. Ayalah had never been to the woods north of the city before—she knew there was no road leading to them, but she didn't know how far off the road it would be or how long it would take to get there. The few warriors she knew who had ventured in had never come back; she gritted her teeth. "We continue this way," she said, pointing away from the path to the left and into the field of tall grass beside it, to the right. At least the sky was clear, a blank blue uninterrupted by clouds in pleasant contrast to the yellow grass stretching out before them.
Greyson sighed. The grass reached as high as his chest. "And I suppose I'm walking the whole way?"
She nodded. She wasn't thrilled with this assignment, either. "Oh, that reminds me." She pulled a new pair of hardy boots from one of her saddlebags. "These should be more comfortable."
He accepted them with a raised eyebrow. "Thank you."
"Don't look so surprised, smithy," she said. "Even a warrior is capable of kindness." Anyway, she didn't add, blisters and sore feet would only slow them down.
He didn't reply, but sat on the road and pulled on his new boots.
"Do they fit?" She'd purchased them the day before, guessing that his feet were as large as his arm muscles.
He nodded.
Perfect. "Then on we go."
It took eight days to reach the edge of the tall grass, where the trees began, and by then Greyson was surly and Ayalah was losing patience with him. He insisted he didn't know any part of the prophecy, and by the end of over a week's arguing she was beginning to believe him. If she was wrong about him... but she couldn't be. Not if she was interpreting her part of the prophecy correctly.
To you, the first, I give this verse; the clues will be within
The couplets that I have dispersed—and you'll know when to begin.
When the cov'nant fails and the mood turns sour, when the frost begins to tire,
Seek thee out a man of worth with eyes as bright as fire.
A seed you'll find within his mind that I have planted deep,
For plant I do, within you, too, a knowledge you must keep.
Do not forget, do not neglect, the task that lies before you,
Trust yourself, do not regret; guard the proph'cy in all you do.
Such were the words Ayalah had known her entire life, passed down to her from her parents, and passed down to one of them, she supposed, from their parents. It was said that a great wizard of ancient times, thousands of years ago, split the prophecy into five parts, and those parts, somehow, had been passed down through the ages. When her parents had died and Gavin took her in, Ayalah had chanted the lines to her guardian as something of a bedtime song, not quite understanding the gravity of the rhyming lines, although her parents had impressed upon her the importance of remembering them. It was the only real legacy of her parents she could remember. Gavin had helped her learn to keep her secrets close, to keep friends at a distance, and to never, ever discuss the prophecy with another living soul. Until now.
When the cov'nant fails and the mood turns sour—these lines, Gavin had guessed, referred to the pact between Miltinoth and Olekoth, in which the king of Olekoth would send one of his sisters to be wed to the king of Miltinoth at each new crowning. Until the current king, King Mathais, this tradition had been honored and upheld by all who ruled before him. But Mathais and Tazarah, the current High Princess of Olekoth, had been unable to conceive, and Mathais had taken a second wife in effort to produce an heir. And then a third. Relations between Miltinoth and Olekoth had grown steadily worse once King Tazer had learned of the disgrace his sister was living in; and it was at this time, around Ayalah's fifteenth year, that she had begun her search for the man with the bright eyes.
After all these years, Retnik Greyson was the first she'd found with eyes that matched the description. But could she have been mistaken? Should she keep looking?
12
She tied her horse to a tree at the edge of the woods. "It'll probably be faster to go on foot," she said when she caught Greyson's disapproving look. "The trees look dense here—the horse would just slow us down."
Greyson nodded. "Agreed. But you're just going to tie her up here?"
Ayalah frowned. The smithy had a point, though she hated to admit it. It had been so long since she'd needed to travel on foot, she hadn't thought twice about the horse's wellbeing. He didn't need to explain what he meant: they could be gone days or weeks, and her horse would need to be able to move freely to escape if any predators came along. She knew he was right. "But then when we're on our way back, we won't have a horse to ride," she lamented.
; Greyson stared at her, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, in silence.
"Oh, fine, untie the beast, then!" She rolled her eyes. This smithy was unlike anyone she had ever known: refusing to fight, looking his superiors in the eye, being excessively concerned about animals. He was going to get himself beaten or killed one day.
Greyson obeyed, muttering something under his breath—she caught the words beast and inconsiderate and felt her cheeks redden. She said nothing, however, and pretended not to have heard.
"Okay," he announced. "Ready." He gave the horse a friendly pat and hoisted the saddlebags onto his massive shoulders.
Ayalah was impressed; she would have offered to carry some of the baggage, but the smithy didn't seem to need any help. She turned and led the way into the trees, sword out just in case.
Summer was in full bloom this far north, and the forest was buzzing with the activity of the bees, the birds, and the smaller creatures, unused as they were to human predators in their forest. The animals grew less and less cautious as Ayalah and Greyson moved farther into the darkness of the deep forest, and a few squirrels and hares came right up to them to investigate before moving on. Ayalah grew irritated with their furry companions, but Greyson seemed charmed and amused.
The leaves on the trees were dark and thick, blotting out much of the sunlight and keeping the heat in. As they moved north, Ayalah found herself being forced to shed layers, even going so far, at the end of the fourth day in the forest, as to strip off her leather warrior's jacket and continue in only her undershirt. It was immodest, but the leather trapped too much heat otherwise—and besides, she'd never been one to care for social niceties. Indeed, by the end of the second week in the forest, Greyson, too, had stripped down to his undershirt.
They moved through the forest without any idea of where they were going or which way they needed to go. Ayalah tracked their progress with marks on the trees and cleverly placed bright fabric ties, and they moved without speaking much, listening to the creaks of the trees and the calls of the birds high above them. Every so often they came to a stream and were able to refill their canteens and bathe. The water was warm and didn't provide much relief from the heat, but at least it washed off some layers of old sweat. A handful of times it rained, but the warm droplets had a hard enough time getting through the leaves, and frequently didn't make it to Ayalah's outstretched arms or Greyson's upturned face. The going was hard; Ayalah was glad for all the water rations she'd taken before they left Miltinoth. Where in all this overgrown forest were they supposed to find this man with a stone, anyway? So far they'd seen no evidence of any human life in this wood. Her patience began to grow thin.