Lord of the Rose

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

M y head hurts!” protested Carbo, as the four travelers trudged out of the forest and onto the familiar flat, brown plain. “Can’t we stop and camp for a day? In the mountains? By the stream?”

Sulfie, plodding behind her brother, nodded miserably in agreement. “Water and cool grass! Oh, the smells! I want to go to sleep!”

“Yeah. Can’t we stop?” asked the red-eyed Dram, stumbling over a root that curled across the trail. “Ouch. Damn. Slow down, will you?”

“We have to get some miles behind us,” Jaymes said, unsympathetically. If he was feeling any ill effects from the ale he had shared with them and the hill dwarves of Meadstone, the fact was not apparent to the others. “We have to cross the plains again, then return, in two months. Don’t have time to waste.”

He nodded at Sulfie, who had a bulging bag strapped to her backpack. “Have a care with that sulfir. It’s a valuable specimen.”

The little gnome woman sniffed but reached around to make sure the sack was secure. The hill dwarf had provided them with a generous sample, and Sulfie said she would embark on a study of its properties.

Jaymes turned to look at his dwarven companion, almost smiling. “Why didn’t you tell me you and Swig Frostmead had such a colorful history?”

Dram groaned. “I was hoping he wouldn’t remember me, to tell you the truth.”

“You should know better than that!” the warrior declared.

“Well, I’ve never had a daughter?” Dram snapped. “Have you?”

Jaymes’ expression guarded his emotions. “No. I’ve never had a daughter. There was a time when I learned something about the way a father can feel toward his own flesh, though.”

Dram blinked in surprise, and glanced up at his friend. When Jaymes seemed inclined to let the subject drop, the dwarf simply harrumphed and stomped along, until another question came to mind.

“Where are we going to camp, then?” he asked, pointing to the flatland sprawling before them. Blinking his bloodshot eyes, the dwarf looked around without enthusiasm. A low, mud-bottomed gulley snaked along to their right, dotted with a few thorn bushes. Other than that, they were confronted with a brown dirt and dead, brittle grass. “On the middle of the plain?”

“That’s why we need to make tracks today. Remember that grove we passed when we were heading into the mountains, about ten miles away? Where the stream out of the mountains formed the pond? There were apple trees there, some of them already bearing fruit.” The warrior glanced at the sun, halfway descended toward the horizon. “If we keep up the pace, we can be there before dark.”

“Ten miles?” squawked Carbo, pitiably.

The warrior only picked up the pace, and his three unhappy, hungover companions stumbled along, doing their best to keep up. It was a long, hot day later when they finally came into sight of the trees. The trunks were gnarled and weathered, but the limbs drooped with ripe fruit. They followed a shallow, meandering stream into the apple orchard, which was overgrown with tall grass and bushes. There was plenty of fruit within easy reach of even the diminutive gnomes, and the four weary travelers munched on sweet apples as they came to the pond in the center of the grove.

“I remember this little pool for some good fishing,” Jaymes remarked.

“Well, we should be able to make ourselves pretty comfortable here,” Dram allowed, his sour mood lifting.

“Yes,” the human agreed. “Why don’t you start making camp, then drop a hook in the water? I’m going to check out that old ruin of a house, make sure we don’t have any neighbors.”

“All right,” the dwarf said. Dram had already spotted a supple branch, which would make a perfect fishing pole, as Jaymes shrugged out of his pack and wandered off through the trees.

“I remember this place,” Princess Selinda said to Captain Powell. “My father brought me here when I was a girl-we used to watch the farmers harvest the apples from that grove in the fall.”

“It looks like it’s been abandoned for a long while,” the knight replied. “See how the weeds have taken over the yard? The brambles are growing right out through the walls of the house. The roof is caved in over there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if bats and rats have taken the place over.”

“We don’t need to go into the house-instead we can make our camp for tonight in the grove,” the lady said. “I remember fishing in the pond there-you could hardly throw a hook in without catching something. We can have fresh fish and apples.”

The captain nodded, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “It would make a nice change from all this trail fare,” he acknowledged. “I declare, it would be nice to be under the stars.”

Turning in the saddle, he waved to the file of knights, nearly a hundred strong, who made up the princess’s escort. “Make for the trees!” he called. “We’ll camp in the grove over there! Usual drill-scouts forward to reconnoiter, knights to follow in open line.”

With visible enthusiasm the weary riders turned their horses, several scouts dispersing as they approached the lush green trees. Already they could see the red apples beckoning here and there, growing wild and untended across the extensive grove.

During the last three weeks of riding, Selinda had grown accustomed to the smooth competency of all these knights. Captain Powell led the group with avuncular compassion, and his men responded with a loyalty and good humor that bespoke a volume of respect and affection for their leader and their own camaraderie.

Most of the knights, from the moment they rose in the morning until they went to bed at night, wore steel breastplates, helms, and other bits of armor. Indeed, when she reflected upon their seeming modesty-no doubt a reflection of their Oath and Measure-the princess wondered if some of them might not actually wear parts of their steel trappings in their bedrolls.

The scouts, who numbered only a score of knights, wore leather tunics and soft, moccasin-like boots. Shieldless, they were armed with light bows and slender swords. Mounted upon lean and leggy steeds in comparison to the broad-withered giant war-horses that carried their more heavily armored brethren, the scouts could move quickly through all kinds of terrain. Now they rode among the apple trees, making sure all was safe.

Abruptly one of the scouts held up his hand, and the rest came to an immediate halt. Several riders conferred with each other, and one of these came galloping back to the main body, reining in his horse before Captain Powell and Selinda.

“We’re going to have to go in carefully-Royster smelled smoke,” reported the scout. “Probably just the campfire of a few innocent travelers, but we’re not going to take any chances.”

“Good man,” said Powell, with a nod. The scout whirled his horse and rode back to join his comrades. A minute later, the twenty men dismounted. Leaving their well-trained mounts to wait for them, they drew their swords and slipped into the grove.

“Finally,” groaned Dram, leaning back on the soft grass, closing his eyes, and sighing. He had pulled off his boots, and as he let his bare feet dip into the water of the pond he began to let the weariness of the long day’s trek-not to mention the lingering effects of the hill dwarf ale-fall away. He picked up the makeshift pole he had formed from a small sapling, to which he had affixed a string and hook, and inspected the worm that still wriggled on the end.

“Carbo, throw another couple sticks on that fire, will you?” he called. “This little fellow is going to catch us a fat trout, or my name isn’t Dram Feldspar.”

“Dram Feldspar, eh? Never heard of you.”

The speaker was a stranger, and the sound of the man’s voice yanked the dwarf’s head around so fast that he dropped his pole into the pond. Several men emerged from the surrounding trees. They wore leather armor, and all were armed.

He noticed the emblem, the outline of a red rose, on the chest of each man’s tunic. The dwarf looked around. He counted about a dozen, knew there could be more out of the sight in the surrounding trees. Carbo and Sulfie, sitting at the fire, were gaping in astonishment as the newcomers approached.

“Sorry, dwarf. Didn’t mean to startle you,” said one of the archers, with a nod at the ripples where Dram had dropped his fishing pole. “We smelled your smoke and just wanted to make sure who was here before we set up camp.”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Dram said.

It had been about an hour since Jaymes went off to inspect the ruined old house. Dram could only hope he’d notice the strangers before he blundered into their midst. As to himself and the gnomes, they had nothing to fear from a band of knights. Indeed, he reminded himself, most travelers would be delighted to have the protection of a well-armed group of honorable men. He forced himself to act gracious.

“There’s plenty of room here,” the dwarf said, indicating the meadow that surrounded the fishpond. “Lots of firewood and more apples than a hundred men could eat in a month!”

“That’s good,” said the scout. He put up his weapon and waved. “That looks about right for the size of our company. Looks like we’ll be your neighbors tonight.”

“Well, sure,” Dram replied, smiling through clenched teeth. “Um, welcome to the neighborhood, neighbor.”

Jaymes crouched in the shrubbery outside the abandoned house, watching the file of horsemen make their way down from the low ridge and disappear into the apple grove. He had seen several scouts come out a few minutes earlier, reporting to their captain, then leading the rest of the party into the congenial shelter of the clustered trees.

He was certain the scouts had discovered Dram and the gnomes-even if his companions had tried to hide, the campfire would have given them away. Still he was confident that Dram would keep his mouth shut as to Jaymes’s whereabouts, and his companions would not come to any harm at the hands of a band of Rose knights. He was in no hurry to test the knights’ goodwill, and now their unwelcome presence would keep him from a dinner of fresh fish. Even the apples were out of reach, he realized, as his stomach rumbled. He dared not emerge from concealment, for the knight captain would have posted lookouts on the periphery.

Staying low, he made his way back through the thick bushes to the base of the old house. Evidently the former domicile of a minor Solamnic noble-one who had perished during the War of Souls-it was only about half the size of Lord Lorimar’s wrecked manor, but it had been a grand enough structure in its time. He had been inspecting it when the knights had arrived, making his way through the low outbuildings, which held several large presses as well as a variety of vats and bins. He assumed that the owners had made cider, or perhaps apple wine, there.

Now he would have to make himself comfortable somewhere. He found a storage shed attached to the rear of the house, a place where the roof had remained intact and where there didn’t seem to be any annoying vermin. He arranged some clean straw into an approximation of a bed and forced himself to ignore the pangs of hunger and thirst that were beginning to render him fidgety. He stretched out on the pad, watching through the crack of the door as the afternoon’s light faded toward dusk.

The whole area was very quiet, though he could hear skunks rustling around on the ground floor of the adjacent house. He willed himself to sleep, but his fatigue wasn’t enough to bring slumber. Sitting up, leaning against the wall, he resigned himself to boredom.

Abruptly he caught his breath-a shadow moved past the door’s edge! Slowly, he rose to a crouch. His eyes remained fixed on that doorway. Was this one of the knights, come to inspect the buildings with the same curiosity that had brought Jaymes here? The warrior remembered with chagrin that he had left his sword back at the camp-he was armed only with his short dagger and one small crossbow. He drew the knife and set the missile weapon to the side, hoping that the one who had cast the shadow would move on. He tried to ready himself for anything.

Even so, he was startled when the door suddenly opened, and he couldn’t help but blink at the sight of another person in the fading daylight. Equally startling was the gasp of the person standing there, an intake of breath that indicated that she had spotted his hiding place.

That gasp of surprise-feminine and a little breathless-proved that this person was, beyond a doubt, a woman.

Sir Powell strolled around the fringe of the pond. His men had made camp, and now some of them rested on the soft grass, while others explored the waters of the pond. A dozen small campfires flickered and crackled among the trees, and the weather was lovely-dry and cool, but not too cold.

Selinda’s memory of good fishing had been correct. Powell’s men had pulled out dozens of trout before the sun set, and the fish-wrapped in weeds and steaming in the coals of several large fires-now sent a tantalizing aroma through the evening air. The captain passed several of his men as they lounged easily with fishing poles, nodding genially in response to their greetings. These were good boys, his company, and every one was like a son to him.

He was happy that they had found such a pleasant place to camp, an oasis of water and fresh food amidst the generally barren expanse of the Solamnic Plain. Actually, this whole journey was turning out to be a rather enjoyable diversion. Lady Selinda was a pleasant companion, bright and good-humored and willing to share the discomforts of the saddle, the lash of the wind and chill of the rain, with a fortitude that would have made any knight proud. Indeed, she was probably the most uncomplaining woman it had ever been his pleasure to know. She certainly didn’t fit his impression of a pampered noblewoman-if anything, she seemed grateful for the chance to get away from the luxury that had cocooned so much of her life.

What a contrast to her father, the captain allowed himself to reflect. Lord Regent du Chagne was a dour and bookish man, squinty-eyed and meticulous in details, as physically unimpressive as his daughter was beautiful. Still, du Chagne was his lord, Powell reminded himself sternly and as such deserved the respect due to his station.

Of course, the knight captain had initially balked when the princess had insisted on an overland journey back to Palanthas, but in his secret heart he was glad to have the excuse to avoid the tedious sea voyage back to the north. Selinda had been right. The goblin menace was hundreds of miles away, in the shadow of the Garnet Range, and her suggestion that they follow the Vingaard Mountains back north had been a good one. While there might be an occasional bandit or gang of thieves lurking on the plains, the presence of a hundred armed knights was enough to keep even the most rapacious highwayman far, far away.

Still, she was a headstrong lass, stubborn as a mule and a little more feisty than Powell’s ideal female. Even tonight, she had insisted on going off by herself, visiting the old house that she remembered from childhood trips. Since his men had already had a good look around, the captain had sent her off with only a show of protest. In truth, he felt that she could take care of herself.

Powell came to the small camp of the dwarf and gnomes, nodding to his fellow wayfarers as they offered him wishes for a good evening. A strange lot, that trio, the captain reflected. He had never known dwarves and gnomes to have so much to do with each other. Ah well, each to his own, he told himself, strolling past their backpacks. It was a surprisingly large assortment of baggage, he noted idly, feeling a little sorry especially for the two diminutive gnomes at thought of them carrying all that stuff on some undoubtedly lengthy trek.

He stopped and looked back at the equipment. There were four backpacks there, you dolt, he realized. That wasn’t surprising in itself. Yet he had chatted with the dwarf earlier, and indeed they had been camped nearby for several hours now. Why hadn’t the fourth member of the party shown himself by now?

That fourth backpack was a large satchel suited more to a human-a tall human-than to any dwarf or gnome. The Captain of the Rose turned about and knelt beside the pack. Yes, indeed there was a long object there, something wrapped in a cloak.

“I say there, Cap’n? Is there something you want?” asked the dwarf, rising to his feet with hasty politeness.

Powell was already pulling aside the cloak. He saw the gilded hilt, the gold-engraved L as he revealed a weapon that he recognized instantly.

It was Giantsmiter, the sword of Lorimar. That meant the worst possible thing: the dread Assassin was nearby.

Probably hiding out in the ruin of the old house.

The old house where the Princess of Palanthas had just gone for a stroll.

Coryn’s left hand clenched the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned as white as her pristine robe. Angrily she exhaled, a snort of sound startlingly loud in the silent chamber, then shook her head, a toss of black hair momentarily obscuring her view of the bowl of sparkling wine.

She had to watch-she knew that much-even if she hated what she was now gazing upon. In her right hand, clutched so tightly that it was bending, was the miniature golden swordsman-the talisman of Jaymes Markham, the man most of Solamnia called Assassin. She could see certain events transpire in her bowl, but they were events beyond her influence, or her will. There was destiny at work here, a future affecting all the lands of the north.

It was more than luck that brought the Princess of Palanthas to this place, she thought with a pang. It was indeed destiny, a fate woven into the very tapestry of the world. Coryn had dreaded this moment, known it might come, had known this for a long time. It was a meeting that had been foretold in certain of her auguries, even abetted by her own plans and schemes.

If not her desires.

Of course Selinda herself had made the choice to go exploring among the buildings where Jaymes had secluded himself. Coryn knew her-she was proud and inquisitive, smart and confident, but also naive.

The wizard was startled by the flash of anger she felt. She recognized the emotion, in an intellectual sense, as jealousy even as she was startled by the flaming heat it raised in her breast.

“She is too damned beautiful!” snapped the wizard, shaking her head once again.

The image of Selinda du Chagne, lit from behind by the setting sun, glowed in her viewing bowl. Jaymes was dumbstruck and confused, staring at the gorgeous woman who had just discovered him, had him trapped like a cornered rat. He had a weapon, he had strength and speed. He could be past her, away from this place, in seconds.

Coryn remembered his roughness. She wanted him to use it now against Selinda, but Jaymes wouldn’t, didn’t. He stood there, stock-still.

In disgust Coryn waved a hand, and the image faded from the mirror, leaving the Scrying Room in darkness. The white wizard stood and paced through the chamber, knowing the exact dimensions even though she could not see the walls, the table, or her chair in the lightless confines. With a single word she could have illuminated the place as bright as daylight, but she was unwilling to utter that word.

She would have to let things happen, she knew, let destiny take its course, but she didn’t have to suffer the watching.

“You bastard,” she murmured, before composing herself and slowly, carefully, opening the door.