Chapter 17

Crys admired the way the Briavellian Commander, despite his busy duties, offered his help. if Liryk minded, he did not show it.

“Forgive me for dragging you away from important affairs, Commander Liryk,” Crys said. “I’m just a little worried about Elspyth, as is your queen.”

“And rightly so, your grace,” Liryk said sharply. “She is a young woman abroad alone. No matter how I tighten the net around bandits and cutthroats, they still exist, and she makes the softest of targets.”

“Too true. Where should we start?”

“Let’s find out who was on duty first during our absence in Brackstead.”

“How many gates are there?”

“Five main ones, but as you rightly point out, she was leaving as anonymously as possible, so I imagine she would have used the busiest outlets—Werryl Bridge or the northern gate.” It took them an hour to find and question the relevant men, drawing a blank until one young man was hurried back from a meal. He wiped his mouth in haste, concern on his face. His superior introduced him.

“This is Peet. He was one of three guards on the northern gate for the morning watch.” Liryk and Crys had already questioned the other two from the morning and all from the afternoon rotation. Crys was sure this man would offer no further insight and had resigned himself to a fruitless search following a trail that was already stone cold.

“Sir,” Peet said to his commander, nervously nodding at Crys. “My lord.” Liryk cleared his throat. “Relax, man, you’re not in any trouble here. We’re seeking your help.”

“Oh?” the guard replied, none of the anxiety leaving his tone or expression.

“We’re hoping you might remember a young woman who left Werryl yesterday. We think she might have departed via the northern gate and we’re pretty certain it would have been on your watch, the early-morning guard.”

Peet nodded, relieved, looking between both men. “I’ll try, sir. Can you describe her?” Liryk looked at Crys, who obliged. “Well, she’s petite. She has dark hair and is comely. Very pretty, in fact.” He grinned at the young man. “She stands about yea high to me”—he measured a point halfway between his elbow and shoulder—“and I’m guessing now but I think she might have been wearing a soft brown skirt, pinkish sort of blouse, black boots. I really can’t be sure, but that was what she was wearing when she arrived in Werryl.” He knew Elspyth had not taken any of the items Valentyna had given her to wear.

Peet’s expression became forlorn and he sounded embarrassed. “Hundreds of people pass through that gate each day, my lord. That description could be any of a dozen women from yesterday.” He held his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. “So many people, you don’t really scrutinize anyone unless you’ve been ordered to.”

Crys nodded, understanding. “I know, it was a long shot.”

Liryk sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord.” He was genuine in his commiseration; he did not like the antagonism the woman of Yentro had stirred up, but he certainly was not happy at her going off alone into the mountains. He thought Crys had been far too flippant about her disappearance when it had been first discovered; obviously the Duke had had a change of heart, but a little too late, he thought privately.

“Thank you, Peet, you can return to your meal,” he told the guard.

“Oh,” Crys said suddenly, “she did have a cloak with her. The morning was cold, so presumably she had that on. It’s blue, if that helps.”

Peet, who had been turning away, swung around. “Blue cloak?” Crys nodded. “Does it jog anything?” he asked, noticing the man’s keen attention.

“Why yes, my lord, it does. I do remember a woman in a blue cloak. Her hair was dark, I think, though she had it covered though with the hood, so I can’t be sure.” Liryk stepped forward. “Well, tell us, man. Hurry now.”

The soldier bit his lip in thought. “I wished her Shar’s speed, my lord,” he said, looking toward Crys. “I added something along the lines that she should hurry back to Werryl because I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I saw her pretty face again.” He shrugged. “It was harmless really—I was just passing the time of day with a lovely girl.”

Crys smiled. “That’s all right, Peet. Was she alone?”

“No, as I recall she was with a family. I thought it was hers.”

“Come on now, son. What do you remember?” prompted Liryk. “Bring the scene back. Remember all those exercises we’ve been doing about how to recall a moment in detail?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Peet said. “I can remember it well now. She was traveling with a little girl and a man who was driving the cart they were in. They—the woman and the girl—were laughing. It was a cart with one horse.”

“Did she say anything?” Crys asked.

“No. Seemed happy, though.”

“The man—what do you remember about him?” Liryk added.

“Not much, sir. He said he was going to Coneham. His cart had brewery barrels on it, which, come to think of it, strikes me as a little odd.”

“Why is that odd?” Crys asked.

Liryk turned to him. “Because our brewery is situated northeast of the city. There would be no need to pass through Werryl itself, let alone the northern gate, for deliveries to Coneham. It does sound suspicious.” Liryk addressed the officer. “Find out whatever you can on this fellow—if there’s any information among the men. Get Peet here to give as detailed a description of him as possible. Anything at all he remembers, record.”

“Is the lady in trouble, sir?”

“No, lad. But we need to find her and your information can help us track her down.” Peet nodded and took his leave, following his superior officer.

“Not much to go on, I’m afraid,” Liryk admitted to Crys.

“It’s something, though. I’ll wait around a little longer—Peet’s information might jog someone else’s memory.”

“Let’s give it another hour.”

“And then I’m heading for Coneham, come what may,” Crys promised.

The cart slowed to a stop and Elspyth was roused from the snooze she had fallen into. She presumed they were breaking for something to eat and felt embarrassed that she had no food to share with her hosts. She did, however, have some coin Crys had insisted she keep during their journey to Werryl.

“You may need it if we get separated,” he had cautioned, and she was grateful now for his generosity. At least she could offer to pay for her keep while traveling with Ericson and his little girl.

Elspyth noted a hut not far away. She knew they had taken a route off the main road, which Ericson had said was a shorter route with less traffic. “How long have I been dozing?” she said, stretching. She didn’t recall feeling tired, or falling asleep, but apparently she had needed rest more than she thought.

“Oh, hours,” Jen said in a singsong voice. “The tea always makes the women drowsy.” Elspyth smiled at the youngster without understanding. They had shared some tea at the roadside not far out of Werryl. She had thought it odd, because they had only just left the city, but Jen had insisted she was thirsty and hungry and Ericson had said tea and a hunk of cheese would satisfy his daughter, who rarely ate breakfast. Elspyth had been happy to go along with them and had enjoyed the curious-tasting brew. “Where are we?” she asked, imagining they might be a couple of hours north of the city.

“Just outside Sharptyn,” Ericson replied, jumping down. Jen followed.

Elspyth was taken aback. “Sharptyn! No, wait,” she said, frowning. “That can’t be right.” Her mind raced across her imaginary map of Briavel. Sharptyn was to the west, almost into Morgravia, and many hours from Werryl. She shook her head free of the befuddlement of sleep. Perhaps she was mistaken in her mapping. “Are you sure?”

He grinned and there was something unpleasant in it. “Oh yes, very.”

“But Sharptyn is far west. You said you were heading north,” she said, a pang of fear tingling through her body.

His nasty smile remained. “Did I? Well, we’re here now, Elspyth.” Ericson no longer looked tired or kind. He looked predatory and smug. “Jen?” Elspyth looked toward the child, bewildered and frightened.

Again the singsong voice. “Sorry, Elspyth. So, so, sorry,” Jen chanted, not even looking at the woman.

“Ericson chose you. I didn’t want to. I liked you.”

“Ericson!” Elspyth shrieked as men appeared out of the hut. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s not personal.” he said, acknowledging the new arrivals with a nod. “Just business. Get her, lads,” he added.

Elspyth had no time to think; she lifted her skirt and ran. She forced her legs to move faster than they ever had before, and she screamed, unleashing every ounce of her strength and spirit. Even escaping from Cailech’s fortress had not been as terrifying as this. She could hear the shouts and taunts of the men chasing her. They were laughing at her.

She thought of Lothryn. Her pathetic attempt to rescue him had achieved nothing more than getting herself trapped, and probably killed. He would never know that she had tried to reach him. She screamed one last time as she sensed a man about to launch himself at her. He crashed from out of the bushes, knocking her sideways and crushing the breath out of her. The others arrived panting, some laughing still. And then Ericson forced her to swallow more of the tea she had drunk earlier. It all made sense now: She had been drugged. Elspyth tried to spit out the liquid, shaking her head from side to side, deliberately gagging. Ericson hit her, which shocked her into opening her mouth, giving her attacker the chance to pour the drug down her throat.

The men let her go. She just had time to count six of them, including Ericson, before the sky began to reel. She sensed something reaching toward her, something powerful trying to connect with her—or so she imagined—but it was too late. Elspyth lost consciousness again. There would be no more screaming now.

Fynch had felt Elspyth’s fear as she fled from the men, sensed it when she fell. He had never met this woman of Yentro, and yet somehow her terror and helplessness assaulted him. He reached toward her and could see her now: prone, presumably unconscious, with men standing around her.

Knave looked back to where Fynch stood rigid on the small ledge. The wind was whipping around them and Knave wondered whether he and the boy should be harnessed together somehow. Fynch was so slight. Knave feared that a stiff, rogue gust of wind would blow him off the ledge.

Bewildered by the boy’s closed eyes and fixed stance, the dog returned to him. Fynch! What happens now? he asked. When Fynch did not respond, he nudged the boy, suddenly disturbed that he could not lock on to whatever was troubling his companion.

Fynch staggered and finally opened his eyes. “It’s Wyl’s friend Elspyth. She’s in trouble,” he said, holding his head.

Knave knew it hurt to use the magic. Elysius had been very careful about the power. His channeling to Myrren had near enough killed him, for she had needed his company and strength for a sustained period.

But Fynch was so small and inexperienced and seemed to be opening himself fully to the magic. He did not know yet how to shield himself from it. He must have accidentally latched on to this woman’s plea for help. Well, she was not Fynch’s problem. He had a task to fulfill.

We must press on, Fynch, Knave began.

“No. She’s hurt, in trouble. Elspyth is the woman who escaped with Wyl from the Razors. She helped him. I cannot forsake her,” Fynch murmured through his pain.

Chew some sharvan, Knave suggested, determined not to show his annoyance at this new setback.

Fynch poked into his sack and retrieved a handful of the dried leaves he had taken from Elysius’s stock.

He sat down and quietly chewed as suggested.

How do you know this? Knave asked.

“I have seen her,” the boy answered.

I’m not sure I understand. Is Elspyth empowered? How can she reach you otherwise?

Fynch shook his aching head. “I don’t think she’s empowered. Wyl did not mention her having any sentient ability. I’m not sure, to tell the truth, whether she even knew I was there.” What do you mean?

“She did not call to me, exactly. I felt her fear and then I heard her scream. I followed her trace.” Fynch looked at Knave with large, serious eyes that were full of pain and the dog felt grief for the small boy. “I think it’s the Thicket.”

Sending you her message, you mean?

Fynch nodded once, carefully. With the pain slowly clearing, he did not want to reawaken it. “You said something earlier about Wyl being touched by the Thicket and therefore sensitive to magic, even though he cannot wield it?”

I remember.

“Well, Elspyth is the niece of the Widow Ilyk—the seer Elysius knew and used once. Do you recall that?”

Yes.

“So perhaps Elspyth, though not empowered herself, has a vague awareness of magic’s touch. Wyl mentioned that she once dreamed of Lothryn calling to her.” And?

Fynch shrugged. His head felt better, the dizziness gone, with just a reminder of the pain lurking. He spat out the pulp of the sharvan. “I’m guessing that she cast out her fears without realizing she could, and it just so happened that the Thicket was listening. The Thicket has connected us all, you might say.” It was plausible, Knave thought. So what are you thinking now, Faith Fynch?

“I have to find out more about what’s happening to her.”

We cannot be diverted from our journey, Knave warned gravely, hoping to impress on Fynch once again that nothing mattered but what the Dragon King had asked of them: to destroy Rashlyn and rid the world of his evil.

“I know. I’m going to send a spy,” Fynch said, and chanced a grin at his black friend.

Then use a fast one. We must get on.

Fynch looked out across the hazy landscape. He knew what he was searching for and sure enough he found the kestrel, high on the wing and hovering, staring down toward the ground. He closed his eyes and drew on his magic to summon the bird of prey.

Knave saw the bird tilt its wing and knew that was the moment Fynch had connected with it. The kestrel swooped and banked high again, turning in their direction, and then dived toward them fast, no doubt curious. When it arrived it perched itself on Fynch’s outstretched arm and even permitted the boy to stroke it, in thanks for answering the summoning. Knave was impressed. He had been told that Elysius had achieved something similar once before, but not as easily; according to the creatures of the Thicket, he had cajoled and beseeched them when he needed help. But the answer to Fynch’s call had been immediate.

Knave would not normally be privy to what passed between boy and bird, but Fynch generously opened his mind so the dog could listen in as well.

I need you to find someone for me, Fynch asked.

Who? the bird replied casually. Knave wondered if the kestrel knew who Fynch was.

It is a woman— this is what she looks like, and Knave saw the mental image Fynch gave to the kestrel.

Where?

Two miles east of Sharptyn. Another picture was given: an aerial map of Briavel. Knave was spellbound; was the Thicket supplying Fynch with this practical information?

And when I find her?

Let me know what you see. I will send help.

With your powers, can you not look for yourself? the bird asked cheekily.

I could, my friend, but I lose strength and a portion of my life each time I draw on my powers. You can save me some of this loss if you will make that journey and be my eyes.

I shall do what you ask if you will give me your name and tell me who you are.

Gladly. My name is Fynch. I am from Morgravia and was a cleaner at the castle of Stoneheart.

Oh, but you are much more than that, surely, the kestrel said, scorn lacing its voice at the boy’s humility. I must know the truth before I make this journey.

All that I have said is true, Fynch replied evenly.

But there is a secret, the bird encouraged. Its inquisitiveness was infectious and Knave realized he too was holding his breath. Fynch said nothing. The silence hung between the three of them, heavy with the knowledge that one of them was reluctant to share.

You must tell me, the kestrel urged. I am like you, Fynch. I need facts…and I need the truth.

The boy hesitated, and then, I am Fynch, he replied, his voice filled with a power Knave had never heard before. And I am the King of the Creatures.

At the last word, he passed out, crumpling to the ground. The kestrel lifted from the boy’s arm just in time to avoid falling with him and launched itself into the air and away from the mountains. Knave was too stunned by Fynch’s words to move. He gazed after the bird until it was no more than a tiny speck on the horizon. Then, as it disappeared from his far-reaching sight, he roused himself from his disquiet and lay down, curling around Fynch to keep his friend warm until he regained consciousness.