The Lioness

Chapter Six

Kerian’s eyes met the barmaid’s. She drew breath to speak, and felt Bueren Rose’s unspoken warning like the jump of lightning across a summer sky. She looked around and saw that but for Stanach, all in the tavern were elves. Except for her, all were Qualinesti, farmers, hunters or folk from the city.

As though the silence were nothing to concern him, Stanach crossed the common room without looking back, making for a table near the fire where two rustically dressed elves, a man and a woman, greeted him with scant nods. At first glance, they looked like hunters, dressed in leathers and boots, each with a quiver fat with arrows slung across the back of a chair, a strung bow near to hand. Draped across a chair beside each hung a cloak of thick green wool. Beneath each cloak lay something hunter’s don’t carry: a sheathed short sword.

The woman gestured Stanach to sit. Her companion filled a tankard with foaming ale and pushed it toward him. In the moment she did, her eyes met Kerian’s, and Kerian’s mouth dried up.

She and the woman had encountered each other more than once in the fine district that included the house where she lived as a senator’s servant and the king’s royal residence. She was Nayla Firethorn, and in the years before the coming of the dragon Beryl, her father and her brothers had been Forest Keepers, members of the king’s royal army. Her father and brothers had fought in the cause of Prince Porthios, and all had died during that short, bloody revolution. When Nayla’s companion turned to speak to one of the hounds, Kerian recognized this one as well. No matter the costume of the day, Haugh Daggerhart was a carter, a provisioner for one of the finer taverns in Qualinost whose routes ran on every road between the eastern border and the capital city.

Their eyes met. Haugh’s expression never changed, and when he looked away no one could imagine he had a thought for anything but what Nayla was saying to Stanach. Kerian took her cue and walked past the table without another glance.

These three knew her and pretended not to, while the rest of those in the tavern kept their sharp-eyed interest in her. It seemed that a mountain dwarf in the Hare and Hound was less remarkable than a Kagonesti woman. An elf by the far window stared at her narrowly. Two women at the next table put their heads together and whispered. In the center of the room a well-dressed elf, sitting at supper with his wife and two little girls glanced at her and then away.

One of the girls, her long golden braids hanging over her shoulders, pointed to Kerian. “Mama, what is a servant doing so far from home?”

Kerian flushed. By her imperious tone she knew the child to be the privileged daughter of a wealthy family of Qualinost. Stanach had his back to the room, but Kerian saw him lift his head to listen. So did others in the room, the old man, the village women, three elves at the bar.

The child’s mother shushed her. She glanced at Kerian, then away, pushing a plate of untouched food closer to the girl.

The child began a pouting protest, her sister kicked her under the table, and her father glared. Objections fell to grumbling, then silence, as the girl tucked into the plate of venison and steamed carrots and potatoes.

Kerian glanced warily at Bueren Rose. The barmaid gestured slightly, only the barest tilt of the head, then called an order into the kitchen. From within, someone shouted back something that she couldn’t hear; that was Jale, Bueren’s father. Bueren opened the door to shout her order again, and out from the kitchen came a steamy warmth rich with the fragrance of roasting venison and steaming vegetables, of soup and stew and newly baked bread. Kerian’s stomach clenched with hunger. That more than anything else propelled her forward.

One of the hounds at the hearth lifted its head and wagged a lazy greeting as she passed. Nayla and Haugh were careful to pay close attention to the food in front of them. Stanach had his nose in a mug of beer.

The three elves at the bar gave her sideways glances and edged away. These were, indeed, hunters with the spattered blood of recent kills on their leathers. One dropped some coins onto the bar and made a point of leaving. He headed for the side door that led to the privy. Kerian’s cheek flushed now with anger. These two at the bar also knew her! Not well, surely, but in times past they’d greeted her in this very room fairly and passed the time with news of weather, crops and hunting. Now they treated her coldly.

“Hello Bueren,” she said, low. “What’s going on? If I were a kender I couldn’t have gotten a less cheerful welcome here.”

Bueren nodded. “If you were the lightest of light-fingered kender, Keri, people might have been happier. Are you here looking for Iydahar?”

Kerian nodded.

“I figured.” She wiped her perspiring face with the back of her hand, pushing rosy gold hair back into the red kerchief meant to keep it from her face. She drew a mug of ale and put it on the bar. “Look,” she said, her voice dropping low. “People are getting strange around here lately. Things are getting strange. The forest is… unsettled. There’ve been Knights all over the road today. How have you managed to miss them?”

Ale froth on her lips, the rich taste warm in her mouth, Kerian chose her words carefully. “I saw some earlier, but it was only a patrol.”

“There’ve been others, riding up and down the Qualinost road.”

Near the hearth, the sleeping hound woke, sniffed his companion, and stood to stretch and bow. The second growled. Nayla Firethorn snapped her fingers. Instantly, the two settled. Bueren left the bar and came back with a laden tray, three plates piled high. Kerian’s stomach growled again, painfully, as Bueren passed her to set the plates before Nayla, Haugh Daggerhart and Stanach.

“What are you doing here anyway, alone and dressed like that?”

Ignoring her question, Kerian took from her pocket the polished bronze coin Stanach had given her. She set it on the bar and nodded toward the three just fallen silent over their meals. “I’ll have what they’re having, all right?”

Bueren winked. “Put it back in your pocket, Keri. I’ll fix you up.”

“But—”

“Never mind. Sit.” She ducked into the kitchen again and returned with another tray, this one host to a deep bowl of creamy dill and carrot soup, a plate of venison smothered in spicy gravy, a crock of butter and a fat hunk of brown oat bread. She unloaded the tray and whisked utensils from behind the bar. “Eat. We’ll talk later.”

Kerian ate. The bar was suddenly quiet, empty of few sounds other than the crackling fire in the hearth, the indistinguishable murmur of conversation between the dwarf and the two elves, the whisper of one of the little girls to her parents, and the small noises Kerian’s spoon, fork, and knife made against the plate and bowl. Kerian felt eyes upon her, the sense of being watched like a warning itch between the shoulder blades.

In the silence and firelight, surrounded by the good scents from the kitchen and the comfortable sounds of Bueren Rose going about her work, Kerian applied herself to Jale’s delicious soup and then to the venison. She enjoyed the ale; she layered the bread thickly with sweet cream butter. Hunger abated quickly, and with that satisfaction came a sudden realization of how very tired she was.

Her muscles ached, so did her head. She felt the bruise of every fall, the sting of scraped knees and palms. The muscles across her shoulders felt heavy and dull; those in the small of her back complained at the least motion. Kerian lifted her hands to brush away the tickling strands of her hair and caught the scent of herself, sour with the sweat of a day’s hard travel.

As hunger had gnawed her belly, the sudden understanding of how far she’d come from home now ached in Kerian’s heart. In miles, she had not come far. In hours, only a day’s distance, yet here she sat, treated like a stranger in a village she’d been used to entering freely, eyed with suspicion in a tavern to which she’d always been welcomed warmly.

Kerian looked around her with small careful glances, down the length of the oaken bar. For an instant her eyes met that of one of the hunters who had so pointedly moved away from her. From the shadows, he watched her. When their eyes met, he quickly looked away.

Bueren Rose went around the great room, igniting torches set in black iron brackets on the walls. Abuerenalanthaylagaranlindal, her parents had named the barmaid. Rose of Summer’s Passing. She was a pretty girl, linsome^[sic!] and smiling, locks of her rosy gold hair curling around her temples and cheeks. Since childhood, friends called her Bueren Rose, deeming it a far better name. Summer Rose. One of the elves at the bar murmured something to her; his companion reached out and pulled her close. Bueren laughed, leaned in close and whispered something. Startled, he let her go, and she went about her work with a toss of her head and a knowing laugh.

Orange light chased shadows up the walls, and outside the windows night’s darkness fell. The common room seemed to grow smaller.

In Qualinost Gilthas would be sitting at supper now, perhaps with the Queen Mother. Their table would be set with silver plate and golden candlesticks. They would be drinking delicate wines from crystal goblets, a new one for each course. In time, Gilthas would excuse himself and go to his chambers. He would sit in his library reading some ancient tome. He would take pen in hand, a fresh sheet of creamy white parchment from the stack always ready. All the questions, fears, hopes and challenges of his strange shadowy reign would change into poetry, sere sonnets, dark and sometimes bloody-minded. Were this another time—only the day before!—Gil would busily compose his sonnets until Kerian came slipping through the darkened passes of the secret ways.

Kerian steeled herself against regret and a sudden cold thread of fear. She had made her choice. She had come to find Iydahar, and she would do that. She would deal with after, after.

The kind of busy silence that attends those happy at their dining settled upon the tavern until, with a quiet word, the father of the two little girls let his family know the meal was finished. His wife wiped small chins and cheeks and told her children quietly to fold their napkins before they left the table. The father lifted one child from her seat, the mother took the hand of the other. Chattering like little squirrels, the children followed their parents to the staircase then went scampering up. When the father called one word in command, his daughters instantly regained their sense of decorum.

Bueren leaned her elbow on the bar, her chin on her hand. “Well?”

Kerian took a breath, dropped her voice. “Bueren, yesterday on the eastern bridge of Qualinost the Knights piked the heads of thirteen elves. Four were Qualinesti.”

Bueren, herself Qualinesti, paled.

“The rest were Kagonesti. Like me. Word is they are outlaws, that they have been disrupting the roads and the free flow of wagons with supplies to the Knights and tribute to the dragon. Word is, more heads will foul the bridge if things don’t get quiet here on the roads.”

Bueren’s eyes sparked with fear. “Merciful gods.”

“Bueren, did you know—?”

Bueren Rose snorted. “Any one of the outlaws?” She wiped the bar with wide swipes. “Anyone doesn’t stop in here to eat, I don’t know them. Outlaws, I imagine, aren’t much for socializing with village folk. No, but I don’t hold with such... punishment.” She pressed her lips together, considered and then decided. “Have you heard about the strange stories hunters are telling? You’ve been on the road today. Maybe you’ve noticed... what’s happening in the forest.”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Those two down at the end of the bar, they said they have felt something… not right in the forest. It’s a kind of—” She shook her head, at a loss for the right words.

“I know, Bueren. I’ve seen it or… felt it. No, it’s not like that. Thing is, when it happened, I didn’t see. I didn’t feel or hear.” She showed her friend the scraped and bruised flesh of her hands. “I fell—on hard rocks!—and never felt anything, yet look at my hands. While I was in the forest, Bueren, it was as if my senses were drained away. I couldn’t see clearly, or hear, or even smell anything. Whatever it was, it came and went, all of a sudden. It stopped.”

Almost she looked round at the dwarf Stanach to confirm her report.

“Bueren, I thought something had happened to me—that something dark had touched me in the forest. The more I think of it, though, the more I realize that something must be happening to the forest itself.”

Bueren nodded. “People around here have been saying that for some time now. They used to think the Knights were causing it—or at least that Lord Thagol was—but the Knights don’t know any more about it than we do or like it any better. Some people—” she lowered her eyes—“blame the Kagonesti.”

Out the corner of her eye, Kerian saw one of the elf hunters rise and put a coin on the bar.

“Bueren Rose,” he called, “I’ll see you next trip.”

Bueren called good night and wished the hunter luck. “Father’s got a sackful of walnuts for stuffing, so we’ll take all the grouse and pheasant you can bring us, Kaylt”

“Ay, well, it’s the season, so start shelling.” His glance fell on Kerian then slid away. “You take care while I’m gone, Rosie.”

Kaylt and his companion left, a cool breeze ghosting into the tavern before the door shut. Torches flared, the hounds rose to sniff the night, then sidled up to Stanach’s table where the dwarf put down plates for each. Tails wagging, they dropped muzzles to plate and lapped up gravy and bits of venison.

Bueren wiped crumbs from the bar and gathered up the supper plates. She looked past Kerian, to the windows and the darkness outside. “Keri, the Wilder Elves,” she resumed, speaking softly. “We haven’t seen your brother around here in nearly a year. We hardly see any Kagonesti these days. They aren’t welcome in Sliathnost, because the people around here blame what’s going on in the forest on the tribes.”

The tribes. The phrase had a strange and distant sound to it.

Kerian shook her head, frowning. “The Kagonesti? How—”

Outside the tavern, rough voices, one growling, another snarling. A sharp order crackled, then silence. A breath of air on a quickening breeze slipped beneath the door. Kerian smelled horses. Hollow in the belly, suddenly she thought she smelled blood.

At the hearth, the older hound lifted its head. Tail curled tight, hackles high, it looked from Nayla Firethorn to the door. Nayla made sure of her short sword, while her companion spoke sharply to the hound.

A thud boomed through the tavern, the sound of a booted foot slamming into wood. The door flung opened. The hounds never moved, the older growled low.

Three Knights came into the tavern on a chill gust of wind. Behind them tattered leaves and golden bits of straw whirled around the feet of three of Eamutt Thagol’s Knights. Armed, mailed in black, the Knights wore helms and kept the visors down. They drove a prisoner before them, a woman with hands bound in front, ankles hobbled. Her silvery hair hung in her face, matted with sweat and blood. She wore a hunter’s gear, leathers and a shirt of bleached cotton. Cut loosely, meant to lace in the front, the shirt hung on her torn, rent nearly in half. She held the pieces together across her breast with bound hands. Cuts and bruises marred her lovely face, dirt and tears smeared her cheeks. She’ d fought hard before her capture.

In the firelight and shadow, Kerian realized the woman was Kagonesti. Tattoos wound between the bruises and scratches on the sun-browned skin of her neck and throat, the creamier gold of shoulder and breast. The prisoner looked up, her glance skittering around the common room. Her eyes had a haunted, hunted look in them.

Bueren touched Kerian’s arm. “Hush,” she whispered. “If you do the wrong thing, or even say the wrong thing, you could get her killed. Her, yourself, or the rest of us.”

Eyes on the Knights, the two hounds held their posts. The elf at the window and the two villagers shot glances at each other, looked away, and then quickly abandoned their tables with a skitter of coins. Like shadows, they slipped behind the Knights and their prisoner and out into the chilling night.

Bueren looked up, keeping her expression neutral, her voice level. “Sirs, can I get you food and drink?”

The tallest Knight flung back his visor and removed his helm. His bald pate glistened with sweat, and his scarred face was hardened by the habits of cruelty, eyes cold as stone and narrow, lips twisted in a sneer. He shoved his prisoner forward, so hard she fell to her knees. On elbows and knees, she stayed there, head hung, catching her breath. In her ragged breathing, Kerian heard low groaning.

Bueren gripped her arm, held her back.

The other Knights removed their helms, a dark-haired youth and a red-beard in his middle years. They wore merciless expressions. In another time, in the days before the Chaos War, the Knights of Takhisis admitted only the sons and daughters of nobility to their ranks. Men such as these would not have been allowed to muck out the stables of a Knight’s castle, let alone take a Knight’s oath. The Dark Knights had been hard warriors in the cause of their Dark Queen, dauntless in pursuit of her Vision, but they were Knights, and they had prized honor and all the noble virtues. In these dragon days, these godless times, the Knights of Takhisis—now the Knights of Neraka—must fill their ranks however they could. It was rumored—though no one in Qualinesti could imagine the rumor true—that in some places even half-ogres wore the black armor.

“Sir Egil,” Bueren said, striving to sound casual as she acknowledged the bald one. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Won’t you and your men take that large table in the middle there? I’ll bring drinks—”

“Ale!” snapped the dark-haired one, his voice cracking.

“Dwarf spirit,” growled the red-beard.

In the corner by the hearth, Stanach Hammerfell never budged, not even a twitch of his hand, but Kerian thought she saw the faintest flicker of scorn in his blue-flecked dark eyes.

Bueren jerked her chin at the woman on her knees. “What about her? You’re not going to just leave her there, are you?”

Sir Egil shrugged. He strolled past the prisoner, kicking her absently. The dark-haired boy did the same, though kicking with more enthusiasm. Red-beard grabbed the woman by the rope binding her hands and dragged her to her feet. He shoved her ahead of him to a small table near the bar and tied her by the hobbles to the chair. His eyes were small and mean, like a pig’s, when he narrowed them meaningfully at Bueren Rose.

“She don’t get nothing, that Kagonesti bitch. No water, no food. I won her, and she bit and cut me in the fight, so now I get to say. Ain’t no one goes near her, hear?”

The younger Knight wiped his drooling mouth with the back of his hand. Kerian’s belly shivered in disgust as he turned his gaze upon her.

Bueren poked her sharply. “You. Didn’t you hear? They want food.”

Kerian stared, Bueren gave her an impatient shove toward the kitchen. “Go on. Tell my father we have customers out here. Three plates, piled high.”

Kerian nearly stumbled over Bueren’s father as she went through the swinging door into the kitchen. She knew Jale as well as his daughter—a little deaf Jale claimed to be, but he heard most of what went on in his tavern. His face slick with sweat from laboring over the steam pots, spits and baking ovens, he handed her a laden tray.

“Out with you. Go feed them before there’s trouble,” he said in a low voice.

Kerian balanced the tray on her hands and turned back to the door.

“Wait!” Jale slipped her knife out of her belt, and threw a food-stained white towel over her shoulder—in all lands, dragon-held or free, the badge of a tavern waitress.

As she had seen Bueren do many times, Kerian managed the door with her hip, kept the burdened tray level, and returned to serve in the tavern. She put a plate of food before each of the Knights. Already boisterous with drink, the Knights filled the tavern with their shouted oaths and rough curses. Kerian bore the jostling and lewd comments. She managed to keep her temper when the red-beard’s arms encircled her waist, his hands sliding swiftly up. Eyes low, she wrenched away, hoping he would think her cheeks colored with embarrassment rather than anger.

The one called Sir Egil rocked his chair back on two legs, picking his teeth with his dagger. The dark-haired young man licked his lips.

“Come here, girl.” Red-bearded Barg’s eyes grew colder.

The boy snickered, rattling dice in the pouch. Spittle glistened on his lips, and he licked it away. Sir Egil yawned.

“Don’t,” groaned the prisoner.

Kerian turned.

Barg shouted, “Shut up, you!” in the instant before an empty pewter wine pitcher hit the floor with a clanging thud.

Swift as a rabbit out of the snare, Kerian leaped to retrieve the pitcher. Her fingers closed round the handle, and Stanach held up his right hand, showing broken fingers in the firelight.

“Damn thing just fell out of my hand,” the dwarf said, snorting in disgust. He glanced at two gravy-stained napkins piled on the table. His voice louder, his tone suddenly irritated, he said, “Clear this mess off the table, will you, girl?”

Kerian picked up the napkins, nearly dropped the long-bladed knife tucked between them. With wide eyes she made what she hoped were convincing apologies for neglecting the dwarf and his companions. “If I can bring you anything else—”

Stanach just turned away as though she weren’t there. Haugh leaned across the table to say something to him about how he was tired and would be going upstairs.

Kerian didn’t hear the rest and didn’t try to. In her hands now she held a weapon, at the back of the kitchen, she knew, was a door that promised escape. In their furtive way, the dwarf and his companions had told her they were with her, whatever happened next. Pitcher in hand, knife hidden, she now passed the prisoner, the bruised Kagonesti woman. She glanced at Bueren Rose. Her friend’s eyes widened slightly.

Like petals falling from her hand, Kerian let one of the napkins drop. She bent to retrieve it, and her cheek was right beside the prisoner’s knee. “Be still. Follow.”

Kerian grabbed the prisoner by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.

“Hey!” shouted Barg.

The woman’s knees went out from under her. Kerian pulled her up again as Sir Egil cursed and the dark-haired boy howled high, like a wolf. “Hey! Barg! Get ’em!”

Steel flashed, silver glints and red, and chairs clattered, tumbling over as the Knights jumped to their feet.

Gripping the prisoner’s wrist, Kerian bolted for the side door. She sidestepped Nayla, a dog, and a startled Bueren Rose. A hand grabbed Kerian’s shoulder, hard enough to leave bruises. Barg pulled her back, a long knife in his hand. Flashing, his blade came up, ripping the sleeve of her blouse as she jerked away, scoring the flesh of her right arm.

The Knight growled low in his throat and grabbed at her again. Hard around the waist he held her, his mailed arm digging into her flesh. She smelled blood, her and his, and the crimsoned blade pressed against her throat.

Bueren screamed. Her father, entering the room, shouted, and the youngest of the Knights darted in close. “She’s mine! Give her over!”

Barg laughed. Kerian kept perfectly still. Against her throat pressed a blade with the taste of her blood still on it. In her hands, unseen and covered by gravy-stained napkins, she gripped another. Without moving, she tried to see the Kagonesti prisoner, spotted her sagging on the floor, looking worse than she had when she’d come in. Long elf eyes met, flashing. The woman had been beaten, surely worse, but she remained undaunted.

Kerian’s blood sparked. Swiftly she squirmed in the Knight’s grip, flung back and jammed her knee into his crotch.

Barg howled. In the same moment, Kerian pulled away. She grabbed the prisoner by the wrist, yanked her hard. The woman came up groaning, but she came up. On her feet, she stumbled, and Kerian pushed her toward the side door leading out to the privy.

A mailed hand dug into Kerian’s shoulder. She felt breath hot on her cheek as Barg dragged her back, a long knife in his hand.

“No!” the prisoner cried.

Kerian ducked and turned, trying to free herself. The Knight’s grip dug into her flesh.

Blood ran down her arm. Roaring her pain, Kerian leaped toward her captor, her knife suddenly alive and glinting bright sparks. She lifted, she plunged, and she saw shock turn Barg’s eyes glassy.

The steel slid softly into muscle, slipped between ribs. The blade scraped bone. Barg’s eyes went wide, and he dropped away. The tavern swelled with voices as Knights swore and cried murder.

Kerian shot for the door, hot blood on her hands, and grabbing the gaping prisoner.