Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

As well he turned a corner just then and that my knife was tucked away under my skirt.

Rowan would have been well satisfied had he been able to read my thoughts in the next hour. As the exhilaration of the evening’s encounter wore away, I started shaking, almost sick as I thought of the slaughter I had witnessed and the empty eyes and pale hands of the one who had worked it. What was I doing? I had no business there. Only after I had made a vow to scoop up Paulo at first light and run as fast as I could back to Dunfarrie was my tired body able to sink into sleep.

Sometime in the hours after midnight, a scraping noise across the dark room brought me abruptly awake. I slipped my knife from the sheath under my pillow and held still until a freckled face rose above the windowsill like a grubby moon.

“Paulo!” I pulled him through the window, and he landed on the floor in a disheveled, ripe-smelling lump. “What are you doing here?”

“Found him!”

“Who?”

“The one we come here for.”

“Yes, I found him, too, but he ran away before I could speak to him.”

“Nope. He’s close. Got his horse from the stable and rode off, but didn’t go far.”

My feet were already in my boots. “Take me there.” All terrors were dismissed, all vows forsworn in the prospect of the chase.

The inn was dark and quiet, lying fallow like a well-managed field in the hours between closing and breakfast. We slipped down the stairs, then sped through deserted streets until we reached the southern outskirts of town. A jumble of squat, dark shanties crowded the dirt lane until it broke free into open country and wound up a shallow rise. Atop the rise, silhouetted against the moonlit sky, was a crumbling finger of stone, an abandoned watchtower once used for observing the road and the river.

Paulo pressed a finger to his mouth as we approached a gap in the curved wall. The wooden door had long since rotted away from its rusty hinges, allowing a narrow band of moonlight to penetrate the interior. We stepped inside. From across the circular darkness came the scent of a horse. I felt the soft solidity of its presence. Paulo tugged at my arm and pointed to a mound huddled against one of the curved walls. We tiptoed closer, but before we reached the dark form, Paulo lost his balance and fell against a pile of crates that clattered onto the stone floor.

“Who comes?” The voice from the direction of the dark mound quavered a bit.

“Friends,” I said.

“I have no friends here. Who are you? What do you want with me?”

“You ran away before we could be properly introduced.”

“I know nothing of mundane women.”

“Come, sir, let us speak in a civil manner.” Mundane was as good a description of me as I had heard in a while, but how would he know? “You’re searching for a missing horse, and I may know something of it.”

I pulled one of the fallen crates into the path of moonlight from the door and sat on it. After a moment the slight figure emerged from the shadows to stand in the moonlit rectangle a few paces from me. Straw clung to his flowing trousers and Kerotean vest, and his high-necked tunic was twisted awkwardly about his neck. He stood up very straight, narrowed his almond-shaped eyes, and stepped toward me.

“Not too close!” The man and I both nearly shed our skin when Paulo yelled and popped out from behind me with a good-sized stick of wood on his shoulder.

“The messenger boy!” cried the stranger, his eyes darting from Paulo back to me. “You are the one who summoned me… a woman, not a man. Why have you lied? The Count de Mangerit I am, and no one must lie to me.”

I had to smile at his posturing. “As I said, I have news of your horse.”

“Grasping mundane. Think you to extract some reward?”

“Not a reward, but information. If I learn what I want, I may be able to tell you what you want to know.”

“I don’t believe a mundane—a woman mundane—could know anything I want to hear.” Clearly mundane meant something particular to this man.

I had hoped to save my trump card for later. I sighed, pulled a twist of paper from my pocket, and showed the man its contents. While Aeren lay ill, I had trimmed the brambles from his matted blond hair. “Is this lock perhaps from your horse’s mane, ”Count“?”

The stranger sagged to his knees and covered his face with his fists, pretense shed like unwanted clothing. “All honor to you, Vasrin Shaper, Vasrin Creator,” he whispered, “he has been found.” After a moment he lowered his folded hands to his breast. “Please, woman, tell me that he lives.” He did not yet look up.

“He lives. And my name is Seri.”

I thought he was going to cry. Whether it was because Aeren was alive or because he’d had the audacity to do it with a “mundane” woman’s help—I wasn’t sure.

“I want to know who he is and who you are,” I said.

He straightened his head proudly. “I am not permitted to tell you those things. You must take me to him.”

“You’re quite mistaken. I’ll take you nowhere near him until you persuade me that you’re his friend. And if you are not his friend, you’ll not live to harm him.” Paulo blanched a little, but to the boy’s credit, his stick did not falter.

“You cannot understand, woman,” said the man. “You are a mundane. He is—This is impossible!” He was entirely flustered. “He is my servant, my groom. He has taken my prize stallion. White. You are required to give him to me, as he has stolen my possession.”

“You may leave off your playacting, sir. If you think to impersonate nobility, then you must learn more of their customs. Uncountable clues tell me you have never been to Kerotea, never laid eyes on a Kerotean, and most likely never had a groom. Now, answer my questions or I take my leave.”

“No, no. You must not go without telling me where he is. Let me think. I must think. Good Vasrin shape thoughts of sense in my head.” The man began pacing, fingering a tassel dangling from his belt as he mumbled to himself. “I will not say. I cannot say. I am sworn. But I must get to him. Why me? Yes, it happened fast, but Bendal was designated. So what he was wounded? Bendal wounded is worth ten of me. A mundane woman. I am cursed. But he lives, and the Zhid are close. The timing is all…” He stopped his pacing and sat himself cross-legged on the dirt in front of me. “You’ll not take me to him if I do not speak?”

“Correct.”

“And you will have this ferocious boy bash me senseless if I try to extract answers from you?”

“Absolutely correct.” I worked to keep my face sober.

“So you force me to tell you.”

“Prove to me that you are his friend.”

The small man cocked his head. “Why do you care for him? I can give you a reward, a substantial reward, if you take me to him and ask no questions.”

“It’s a long story. I care nothing for either of you, and even less for your reward.”

“He is well?” He hugged his knees and looked at the ground.

“He had a wicked knife-wound in one shoulder, but it’s healing well.”

“But he’s told you nothing? Perhaps you have harmed him.” He glanced up and, for just a moment, his dark eyes were daggers. “Perhaps you lie.” The moment’s ferocity vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “He would not trust you. He too has little experience of women or mundanes. Of anyone, if truth be told.” He shook his head in resignation. “He’s never been easy…”

“It’s not just that. For one thing, he is incapable of speech.”

“Incapable… ?

“And for another, I don’t believe he can remember anything to tell me. He doesn’t know who he is. He can’t remember his people, or where his home is, or why the king’s men were pursuing him through my valley. He needs a friend who knows him.”