Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“Ah, my sorrowing land…” Tears filled the almond eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He dashed them aside unashamedly. “The foul Zhid have done this!”

“Tell me who you are,” I said, more gently this time, hoping not to fluster him into complete incoherence. “And who is your friend? Truly, I wish him no harm.”

“My name is Baglos. And you are correct. I was never meant to wear the dress of nobles.” He wrestled off his brocade vest and threw it into the dirt. “And I was never meant to be the Guide. I was meant to cook: to braise succulent fish, to baste roasting quail, to mix and blend and season. But the one who was designated as his madrisse was wounded. When it was decided that D’Natheil must make the crossing immediately, the Zhid attacked, and all was chaos. It’s why we became separated, not just that I am inept, though that is true. I thought my duties were ended before they had begun, and that our last hope was dead because only Baglos was available to guide.” He sank into a melancholy silence, leaving me at a loss.

“Please. You must explain a little more. I’ve understood none of this except that your name is Baglos and that you’re a cook. Is that right?”

“Unfortunately true.”

“And you have been made Aeren’s ”guide“… because someone else was wounded?”

“Aeren?” His head popped up from where it rested heavily on his fist. “Who is Aeren?”

“Your friend. He heard the cry of the gray falcon that we call an aeren, and he indicated to me that such was his name. Is that not true?”

For the first time, Baglos smiled. “D’Natheil means falcon. D’Natheil is his name. The Zhid have not taken his name. That is good, very good. Thank you for telling me.”

I was glad to hear there was something good about the confusing mess. But the fellow’s enemies had me worried; I’d never heard of “Zhid.” And there was the matter of his talent…

“There was an afternoon when Aeren—D’Natheil— became quite afraid, but he couldn’t tell me why.” I hesitated, then forged ahead. “The light was… very odd… that day. It smelled wrong. Felt wrong.”

I expected ridicule at this or at least puzzled curiosity. But Baglos jumped to his feet as if stung by a scorpion. “We must go to him. Please. The Seeking of the cursed Zhid is already touching him. And they are here, so close.”

“The three priests—the men you ran away from—are they these Zhid? Your enemies?”

“Zhid are the warriors of Zhev’Na, the enemies of all who breathe, of all who live unfettered. They’ll find him if we don’t hurry. Such danger stalking him, more than you know if they find him too soon. Please, woman. He is our last hope.”

Though I was no closer to understanding his words, I believed Baglos. There was no pretense in his quivering anxiety, no deception in his concern for the young man. And he didn’t seem very threatening, though the memory of the silver dagger embedded in solid rock could not but leave me wary of both Aeren and his friends.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Baglos was not happy at the idea of my returning to the inn before leaving Grenatte, and I myself had more than a few sharp words ready for Graeme Rowan and his self-righteous snooping. But if I failed to meet the sheriff, I had no doubt the man would be sitting on my doorstep with Aeren under arrest by the time I could walk back to Dunfarrie.

The fading moon was setting and the sky was gray with approaching dawn when I left Baglos and Paulo at the edge of town. The streets near the marketplace were already busy, and the smells of hot bread and sizzling bacon from Bartolome’s kitchen reminded me that I was ravenous. I was crossing the innyard, ready to wheedle an early breakfast from the good innkeeper, when I spied two men shaking hands close by the entrance to the stable—two men who should be in no wise so friendly. Dismayed, I slipped around the outside of the innyard into an alleyway separated from the stable only by a wooden wall. Though I could no longer see the two, I could hear very well.

“You’ll not forget our agreement,” said one. “We’re relying on your utmost discretion. It has come highly recommended.”

“I am a servant of the law and take my duties seriously. I was surprised to see you here. You told me yesterday that you knew where to find him.”

My eyes had not lied to me. One voice was Rowan’s, and the other belonged to Giano, the pale-eyed priest of Annadis.

Giano laughed. “We expect to have the business done within the day. You’ll be rewarded handsomely.”

“My reward will be in seeing a scoundrel brought to justice.”

“One item of information we yet require…” The voices faded away. The two men must have stepped inside the stables.

I was furious, more at myself than Rowan. Trusting one who wore Evard’s badge, giving credence, even for a moment, to his words of higher motives, justice, unclean murder—I should have known better. He’d been working with the priests all the time. Were these Zhid naught but sheriffs, wearing a holy disguise as they went about their despicable work? They must have had a good laugh at my performance, thought themselves quite clever. Well, I would provide no more entertainments.

My appetite soured, I sat in the common room brooding until a grim Rowan burst through the door. “There you are!”

Tempting to spit at the devil’s lackey. “Did you think I’d left Grenatte without you, Cousin?” I said.

“The thought occurred to me. I think we should take some air this morning. A walk would be ideal.” He took me firmly by the elbow and escorted me into the lane without so much as asking me if I was willing. He propelled me between a wagon load of squawking chickens and a knot of people gawking at a merchant beating his bondsman, and into a narrow alley well away from the door of the Green Lion. “And so, my lady, do you know where they are?”

I wrenched my arm away. “Do sheriffs not breakfast before interrogations? Bartolome can take rightful pride in his fare, and it is always such a pleasure to spend time with you.”

Though he didn’t touch me, the sheriff backed me into the soot-stained wall, propping one hand against the wall on either side of my head. “I ask you again. Do you know where they are?”

“They?”

“Either of them. The one you came here to find or the one that seems to have the whole countryside in pursuit of him—the weak-minded servant.”

“A servant? How could I know anything of servants? And why would I care? I despise weak-minded people… and devious ones.” I ducked under Rowan’s arm and proceeded down the alley at a brisk pace until I emerged in another busy street.

The sheriff was close at my shoulder. “What of the other one, the small, dark, odd-looking man? You remember, the one who’s looking for his prized horse, but can tell me nothing but that the horse is white; he’s also disappeared. But then you know that already. Bartolome says he was in his common room last night and rushed out shortly before I arrived, only moments before I met you hurrying out the same door. You told me it was the priests that frightened you. Did they frighten him also?”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

Rowan was forced to let a well-guarded flock of geese pass by and then shove his way through its trailing mob of anxious buyers to catch up with me again. “This has everything to do with you,” he said, anger snapping like sparks on a frosty night. I had never seen him display such intensity of feeling. “I learned also of the messenger that came here yesterday, asking after the man who sought his stolen horse. The messenger was a freckled boy who limped. I’m no idiot, madam, despite what you think, and I don’t forget that Jacopo would be the only person in Dunfarrie I told of the strange little man who didn’t fit his impersonation.”