“The letter spoke
of her coming death but I refused to believe it. It said that you,
the son of Agathe would have seen one of the many faces of evil. I
assumed that meant the war and perhaps a glimpse of Askemb. You speak
of this 'veiled one' with fear in your voice. Agathe's line is not
known for fearing shadows,” Abelard said slowly, “Does this
'veiled one' still walk among the living? What manner of man is he?”
Some of the knot
that coiled in Douglas's guts eased as he realized that Abelard
believed him. When Abelard posed his question regarding the Veiled
One, Douglas's guts knotted up again. He could nearly see the woman's
near perfect face and snow white skin. The mercenary shuddered
despite himself as he tried to put the memory of her cold, cold eyes
out of his mind.
“She is dead, at
least in body,” Douglas said quietly, reluctant to speak about her
for fear of that cold creature's specter drawing near to him, “When
Askemb put the head of Erian into her hands, she burst into flame. I
want to say that lightning struck her but it was so sudden that I can
not be sure. The woman was some kind of witch. Osric, Morguthu's
white priest, came out of the fens of the Darklands with her at his
side when he had gone into that cursed place alone except for his
guide. The guide did not come back.”
Douglas ran his
hands over his forearms, suddenly feeling chilled. “Many a man died
for her blood magic,” he said, “Others said they deserted but I
know differently. I saw one night when she took a man into her tent.
At dawn, he did not emerge. I had men keeping watch on that tent
through the night. That man vanished.”
As Douglas spoke,
Abelard's expression became less guarded and he began to nod
slightly. “You are truly the man that her Ladyship wrote of. You
marched with the enemy, but were not truly of his number,” Abelard
said after a few minutes of silence. Abelard leaned slightly to the
right and made a come hither gesture.
Douglas turned to
find Alcuin entering in the room. He had a small wrapped parcel in
his hand. “Queen Asriel sent this,” Abelard explained, “She
said that you would have need of it. It was a strange thing for her
to send. Before Alcuin gives it to you, though, tell me who sent you
and what became of the Little Queen? It has been long since I have
been at court. The last I saw the girl, she was but a babe in arms.”
“The Forest-father
sent us and she is under his care,” Cynehilde answered and Abelard
gave her a wry look. Something akin to distaste flickered over the
man's features before he sighed. Cynehilde felt her chest tighten and
then anger flooded through her veins at the thought that this
doddering old man would scorn the former prince of Tarsus and the
reason why Dragonwood was beginning to keep some measure of law. “The
High King thought him more then suitable,” Cynehilde started and
Abelard lifted a hand with another sigh.
“What is done is
done. I will trust that the High King and his Queen were wise in this
matter as they had been in others. The Usurper will not think to look
for the Little Queen in the wood. He will search all of Dakon-bar,
but the deep wood keeps her secrets,” Abelard said, sounding
exhausted. He gestured that Alcuin give Douglas the wrapped item.
The big man took it
in his hands and turned it over. The leather wrapping seemed hastily
done. For a moment, Douglas questioned if the object had been opened.
Abelard said, “If you would be so kind as to open it here. The
Queen's letter was specific and said that only you were to open it.”
Douglas unwrapped
the item and then dropped it to the ground with a gasp of surprise.
The broad steel arrowhead that he had affixed to his arrows clattered
at his feet. He stepped back, his eyes wide with horror. The startled
man dropped the bit of leather that had been wrapped about it and as
it fell a narrow ribbon of parchment fluttered free. His arrowheads
were unique for they all had a maker's mark upon them. It was
something that he insisted upon.
Winking up at him
from the ground was the arrow with the bindrune that served as the
maker's mark for the last blacksmith he saw. There was no way that
she could have sent him that or have known who had made his
arrowheads unless some form of magic was involved. Abelard and his
man looked at Douglas in confusion as Cynehilde stooped and picked up
the bit of parchment.
She looked at it and
recognized Asriel's hasty handwriting. Cynehilde gave a silent prayer
of gratitude that Asriel had insisted upon her learning to read with
her entry into her service. In a low voice, Cynehilde read the dead
woman's words. “Blood magic wrought my death. Blood magic shall
avenge it. Your arrows shall fly ever true, by my blood,” she said.
Abelard and Alcuin
looked at each other in askance. Douglas knelt and cautiously picked
up the arrowhead. As his fingertips touched the wedge shaped piece of
metal, an electric thrill ran up his arm. Douglas carefully turned it
over in his hand. He tried to figure out what was different about
this arrowhead compared to the others. Then he realized that the
maker's mark was filled in with something, not merely blackened with
grime. Asriel's words haunted him.
“Heart's blood,”
he murmured. Cynehilde looked at him with a look of compassion. He
looked over at Cynehilde. “What do I do with it?” he said,
confusion and discomfort plain on his face. Cynehilde sighed and
shrugged, at a loss for what to do as well.
“Wear it,”
Abelard said firmly, “It was not long ago that huntsmen wore
talismans. These tattoos are only half of what the huntsmen wore in
my day. Each huntsman also wore a talisman of his first kill.”
Douglas looked down at the arrowhead resting in the palm of his right
hand. He thought about his father and the bear claw that he wore on a
thong until his dying day. Douglas assumed that it was like the
scars, a token of a hunt that nearly killed the tough old man.
“This was not my
first kill,” Douglas said after an uncomfortable silence.
“It is in the
service of the Stag,” said Cynehilde and everyone in the room
looked at her. She set a hand on Douglas's arm. “You served as
Kaileth's hand,” she explained, “It was not the Stag you freed
but rather a hind. And in doing so, you allowed the fawn to reach
safety.” Douglas thought about arguing with Cynehilde's
interpretation of events but the weight of the arrowhead in his palm
made him reconsider.
“Wear it?”
Douglas mused. Abelard tapped his chin and made a thoughtful noise.
Douglas looked over. Abelard made his way up out of his seat and over
to Douglas. He looked down at the arrowhead in the man's hand.
“A man I know owes
me a favor. He can make you something to hold it. It will take a day
or two,” Abelard said, “When he is finished, I will send you into
Ranyth myself. As a messenger of mine to the High Priestess of Roen.
When you reach her, tell her everything that has happened. She was
her Ladyship's foster-mother many years ago. If any can give you
proper advice on how to proceed, it will be her.”
Douglas looked down
at the arrowhead in his hand. A part of him questioned the wisdom of
handing the artifact off. The old man patted the red haired one on
the shoulder with his free hand. “Listen to me, lad,” he said, “I
will see to it that this comes back to your hands. I swear it by the
Stag's blood and breath. When Alcuin comes for you again, it will be
ready. No mere pouch will be fitting for this relic.”
Reluctantly, Douglas
handed the arrowhead over. Abelard took it with a solemn expression.
“Lady Theodonia said that her husband's hand would bring something
from the dead but I never expected this,” he said quietly. At the
mention of the legendary High Priestess of Kaileth, Douglas looked to
Abelard in curiosity. “Lady Theodonia, on the day that Erian was
wedded to Asriel spoke a prophecy. It had three parts. The first was
that Evandar would fall when the Hero's star set. The second part was
that Kaileth would bring to the living the relic of the dead. The
third was that the first to die at the hands of the true enemy would
be the Lady and Lord of Forest Hold.”
“Forest Hold has
no lord,” Cynehilde said firmly, “We are a free people.”
Abelard nodded and tottered his way back to his chair. As he sat
down, he looked at Cynehilde. He thought about how young she and
Douglas seemed. Suddenly, Abelard felt his age and he couldn't help
but feel dread that the coming year was to be his last.
Bereft of heirs or
kinsmen, Abelard had only his household of servants. He looked at
Douglas and realized that if he had taken the prospect of his own
mortality more seriously when he was younger, he would have quite
likely had a son the same age as the man standing before him. Abelard
sighed heavily with regret.
