The river ran wide and slow from Kopeth south into Chelle Lake, then split, one small arm flowing inland while its main arm continued south and west to its mouth at Kamrit and the sea. The journey took three to four days most of the year, but the waters north of Chelle were high and muddy from the spring rains, and unusually swift. The boat arrived at the lake's northern tip by the end of the second day, and with morning, they set out again across the wide waters.
Frost sat back near the boatman and watched the others, all gathered nearer the open bow, and tried not to think about the situation. The river was not wide and no deeper than a man was tall in most places.
But the lake was more menacing; water was a barrier to most magic, a thing not easily controlled or understood, a void that could swallow even a great wizard in a single, unremorseful gulp. There were far too many omens and practices for good and bad luck to do with the sea, most of which he was not familiar with.
Such voyages were a thing Frost had always sought to avoid. Yet at times, there was no reasonable choice.
He watched the shore pass by as the long, deep lake gathered all around them. Then he noticed Madia turned around, staring at him as he looked back. She got up and made her way toward him, climbing over piles of raw wool covered with burlap, the boatman's bonus cargo. She crouched beside him in silence at first, watching the shore with him now. A group of villagers were gathered on their knees at the water's edge, sinking pails to gather water.
"I have done that with buckets," she said, "and worse, living in the villages just west of here, before I found Hoke."
"Few nobility ever know what life is like for most of their people," Frost told her. "You are fortunate."
"It didn't seem that way at the time."
"Yet you survived."
"Hoke helped me, and so did Keara. They expected me to act like 'Princess Madia,' just like everybody else, but with them, I began to want to."
"So many things make us what we are, like the many things that affect a realm."
"I never wanted to be queen."
Frost could not help a smile. "Nor do I."
Madia smiled back, then her expression grew more serious.
"So tell me," she said, "what does Frost want?"
He said, "That has a tendency to change from one day to another."
Madia leaned closer, her eyes fixed on his. "I know. So just today, then?"
"Soon enough, I will let you know."
"But it is soon enough. I keep insisting you will help me, and you don't argue, but that does not mean you will. I stand little chance against Ferris without your magic and experience, but I can't make plans when all I know for sure is that you may not always be counted on."
Frost considered his reply. He was still too busy eyeing the waters and reading the signs and thinking over all that Aphan had said to him, but a number of possibly unpleasant decisions were growing ever more imminent. He was impressed with Madia, more so all the time, and he held no doubt that she was the true heir to the throne at Kamrit—and that if she were somehow successful in displacing the grand chamberlain, she would pay him well enough. Money was not a concern. But the issue was more complex.
He had helped her grandfather create this realm, and Madia's blood alone did not entitle her to control its destiny. He had already learned enough about the grand chamberlain to convince him that Lord Ferris must ultimately be removed, and that he might well need to lend a hand to the task, but that did not require that Madia be made queen. She held great promise, but she had not proven herself as yet.
We will find ourselves opposed by very powerful enemies indeed, he thought, looking at her. But she needn't know that now.
"I have kept away from feudal squabbles these many years," he said in answer, "because they tend to grow much too messy, just as this entire affair seems to be. Politics do not suit me. Now, an evil curse, natural catastrophes, rogue creatures conjured or natural, out wreaking havoc: these are far more palatable challenges."
"You know," Madia said, "even among the most pitiful villages, a man with a well cow will share milk with a poorer man's children; the strongest men will help a weakened neighbor with the gardens; the best weavers loan their hands to the worst."
"So we have a responsibility to others, because of the blood we were born with, is that what you're saying?"
Madia looked away. "Yes."
"How completely charming," Frost replied, "to hear these sentiments coming from your own lips. You have made your point, but my abilities are of consequence to no one, and my first duty is to myself. You felt as I do until quite lately, I understand, or have you forgotten already?"
"What if I was but a fool?"
"Suit yourself."
She was quiet for a moment, pursing her lips, eyes darting with the energy of her thoughts as Frost considered her, readying a parry for her next counter-thrust. She was not easily shaken, nor easily refused, this girl. And not easily fooled, either. An impressive combination, in fact.
"Most men of magic align themselves with a crown," she said.
"In order to surround themselves with the protection afforded by the crown's armies. But I have never felt the need." Frost glanced toward Rosivok and Sharryl. "I have always kept my own personal guard. I consider them more trustworthy than noblemen and mercenaries retained by others, men who truly owe me nothing." Though there was something to be said for nameless castle regulars, he thought; in return for their pledge to him he had always pledged his protection to his Subartans, and Jaffic had died.
Madia let the matter rest. The day passed slowly, and silently, while both pondered the deep waters the barge passed through. As early evening arrived, Madia was watching the village of Chelle pass by as the boat reached the far end of the lake, and again entered river waters. A relief, Frost thought.
"Do you see them?" Madia asked him, breaking her long silence, pointing toward the shore. The boat was just rounding a small pine-covered isle set in the middle of the stream. The boatman stayed to the right side, avoiding the rocks that seemed to be everywhere on the left. A small group of men and horses stood on the river's right-hand shore, waiting just at the water's edge.
"Better sit down," the boatman said, guiding the boat steadily right of the island, directly toward the men. "River's shallow on this side, too. We'll likely hit bottom a time or two."
"What of them?" Frost asked, waving toward shore. The boat drew close to them now, six men in all, unfamiliar, wearing light, mostly leather armor and carrying swords and crossbows. Soldiers from some distant land, Frost decided. Mercenaries, perhaps.
"I think I saw them in Kopeth, at a stables near the river," Madia said, pointing to a man who seemed to stand at the head of the bunch.
"You're certain?" Frost asked.
Madia nodded. "That one, the short one wearing the double-handed sword, he watched us go by, like he knew us . . . or knew me."
"Rosivok!" Frost shouted. The boat jounced once off the river bottom, rocking its passengers. Rosivok waited an instant then got up, followed by Sharryl, and tried to step to the back of the boat. They hit bottom again, and the boat rolled hard to one side as the two Subartans stumbled over wool and burlap.
"Stay still, the lot of you!" the boatman shouted, fighting the rudder to keep the boat straight in the mixing currents. Frost held his hand up to Rosivok, staying him. He pointed toward shore. Rosivok and Sharryl turned toward the men.
"They seek us out," Frost told the two. The Subartans nodded, then slowly settled into ready positions.
"They have a rope across," Sharryl called back, pointing just beyond the bow into the water. Frost saw it then, one end of the line tied to an island pine, the other to the saddle of one of the horses just behind the waiting men.
"When the boat stops, talk to them," Frost told Madia, his voice near a whisper. "See what they want."
Madia looked a question at him.
"I will need a moment," he said.
Madia nodded, then turned and got forward just a bit, putting herself between Frost and the shoreline as the bow contacted the rising rope. Olan and Delyav were both on their feet, knees bent for balance, swords drawn, following the lead of the two Subartans. Frost breathed deeply and closed his eyes, drawing on his ample reserves, then set about assembling the two spells he thought would do the most good. When he looked again, he saw the lead fellow on shore, his boots just touching water, press the heel of one hand to the hilt of his two-handed sword. Another man, taller, just as lean, held the line of horses while their four remaining companions drew crossbows from behind their backs.
"We'll have a word with you!" the leader shouted. Frost glanced up and examined the look in the other man's eyes—tense but focused, cold. The face was older and more keen than Frost had thought.
"Who are you?" Madia asked, leaving her own blade in its scabbard, planting her hands on her hips. Frost couldn't help but notice the defiance her manner implied, the courage, warranted or not.
"Name's Grear," the man answered, grinning now precisely like a trapper observing his catch. "Now who are you?"
"We are citizens of Kamrit, on our way home until a bandit's rope stopped us."
Grear didn't smile. "Those all citizens behind you there?"
"They are."
"What's the big, fat fellow's name?"
"My name would mean little to you," Frost said in a quiet voice, remaining seated. He glanced at the boatman, who had a most troubled look on his face and who seemed to be squatting as low as possible. With the current, the stern was drifting around to the right away from the men on shore; nothing to be done about it. Frost reached back with one hand and touched the boatman's leg, trying to comfort him, then he turned again toward shore.
"Just answer," Grear replied. "I'll be the judge."
"This boat and its cargo mean nothing as well," Frost said, louder now. "We have little money and only some spring wool. Hardly worth the wear on your rope. Let us pass."
"Your name is Frost!" Grear came back, shouting it, obviously aggravated now, the grin suddenly gone. "You hailed from Achien once, some years ago. You were a well-known sorcerer there, and all for hire."
"Do you wish to hire me, then?"
"I would know who has."
Frost saw him repeatedly glancing from Olan and Delyav to the Subartans and back. The four bowmen behind Grear kept their weapons up, held at ready. Frost concentrated on the wood, completing the first spell he had begun, speaking under his breath.
"We have simple business in Neleva," Madia said. "Nothing so exciting as you would imagine."
"All of you have yet to introduce yourselves!" Grear insisted.
"The Subartans are my personal companions," Frost said, ready now. "These others are simply fortunate enough to share a part of my journey with me. Where they go is not my concern. And none of yours."
"You're lying!" Grear snapped. "I say you're the ones who did in two full squads in Kern. You and the girl. And Lord Ferris wants to know why you did it. If you won't tell me, he wants your heads! You'll fetch a fine price, either way. All of you," he added, slowly drawing the big sword out, wrapping his other hand around it. Frost saw the Subartans turn the straight-edge of their blades to face the shore. He had seen them deflect arrows in the past, moving faster than conscious thought. But at such close range, and with no way to get to the bowmen quickly enough to prevent them from reloading . . .
He didn't want to be hauled into Kamrit under guard and thrown in a dungeon, forced to strain his wits and palate under the those awful conditions, any more than he wanted to lose another Subartan.
"Lord Ferris has already cost myself and others far too much, my friend," Frost told the soldier. "Far more than I am likely to forgive, though now, there is at least a chance. Unless you insist on doing everyone a disservice."
"You are a bigger fool than I imagined," Grear replied.
"Very well," Frost said, bowing from the neck to Grear and his men, then he turned one hand palm-out, concentrating again on the wood in the bandit's hands. All four crossbows turned black, then burst into flames.
The men tossed the bows from hand to hand for an instant, then let them drop to the ground, wringing their scorched fingers. Madia was the last one out of the boat, close behind Olan and Delyav and the two Subartans. Frost turned to the boatman, who was crouched, clutching the rudder, his face paralyzed in a wide-eyed gape. "Prepare to continue," he said, then he seated himself again and looked back to the soldiers.
Grear was dead already, struck down before he could swing the big sword twice, padded leather armor torn apart by the Subarta's serrated blade where Sharryl had laid his breast open. Now another man lay dead and bleeding just beyond Grear's body. Frost watched as Olan and Delyav picked one man each, showing the prowess of their years of service, dodging then striking, forcing their opponents back until they could take advantage of their momentum in a brief flurry of successful thrusts.
Rosivok toyed with another man momentarily, advancing with erratic motions while Sharryl went after the soldier who had been keeping the rope taut. But as she approached him, circling the horses to get at him, he made the animal bolt, then clung to it somehow as it disappeared into the bright green trees and shrubs. Far too fast for anyone on foot to follow.
Rosivok seemed to suddenly tire of the fight. He sprang, a direct attack to his opponent, followed by a thrust that left the man nearly torn in half. Only one stood against them now, locking swords with Delyav. Madia joined that fight, and in a moment it was ended.
Sharryl had already collected one of the other horses to pursue the escaped bandit. Frost shouted ashore: "Leave him!" They might wait half the day for her to return, he thought, and he had no desire to do that.
Those on shore set about dragging bodies into the brush.
The boatman, shaking noticeably, wrestled his craft ashore thirty yards upriver, where the others pulled it up far enough to allow Frost to get ashore without wading.
"I have no wish to be wanted by the crown," the boatman said, apparently expanding on something he and Frost had already begun to discuss. "My family—"
"We will part company here," Frost said to the others, by way of explanation. "I cannot ask this man to throw his life away. He will say that we forced him to carry us, and that he let us off at the head of the lake. We will go ahead on foot. I am sure we would find the river ports of Kamrit much too crowded with waiting soldiers, in any case."
He turned to the boatman, then reached into his bag and produced a few gold coins. As he handed them over, he placed his other hand on the man's shoulder. "Keep our full payment," he said, "and something extra."
"Thank you," the boatman began. "I—"
Frost cut him off. "Go," he said. "And the Greater Gods be with you."
They waited until he got back aboard, then everyone helped push the heavy craft off the soft muddy bottom. Dark clouds drifted away in the waters around their feet.
"Your reputation is more widespread than I was aware," Madia said, approaching Frost.
"I seldom mention it," Frost replied. "It is a burden I must carry."
"We must carry," Madia corrected.
"Perhaps."
"No matter," Delyav noted. "Lord Ferris seems to be expecting us and is seeking compensation for the loss of his men in Kern."
"I expect compensation for the loss of my father and my cousin, for the dishonor he has brought to the throne of Kamrit," Madia corrected.
"Interesting," Frost said, "that you should speak so of dishonoring your father's throne."
"Or that you should speak of honor at all, since you say you honor only yourself," Madia snapped back.
"As you wish," Frost taunted, grinning at her, savoring the sour expression he drew in return.
"They were but killers," Rosivok said, looking upstream, ignoring the conversation. "They would have taken us nowhere."
"I agree," Frost said. "Mercenaries. And expected to succeed, I'm sure, so we might hope to meet with very few others like them for a time."
"You sound so intent. So . . . committed, perhaps?" Madia said, looking at him.
Astute, Frost thought again. She was a worthy ally; the time had come to seek a common ground. "These men were hired to learn what they could, then kill us all," he told Madia. "I take a dim view of such behavior in a monarch—and I already had a dim view of Lord Ferris, I assure you. Come, and we will talk as we travel the road. By the time we reach Kamrit, we must be ready.
"Rosivok," he instructed, "gather one of their horses to serve as pack." Then he turned back to Madia and wondered when she would see fit to ease that foolish grin of hers.
Tyrr lent an ear to Kaafk as the other man leaned close. One of Grear's soldiers stood below, several paces behind Kaafk, the same man who had come before, Tyrr thought. He listened as Kaafk explained what the man had to say about the incident at Chelle, especially the flaming bows. Tyrr found the account most intriguing.
"And do they know that you lived?" Tyrr asked the soldier, who seemed reluctant to look at Tyrr directly.
"They must," Kaafk replied. The soldier nodded.
"I wish to take them prisoner, at least the wizard. They will leave the boat, since they must assume we are expecting them and since a boat is a poorly defensible place to be. We will put patrols on all the roads until they are located, then reduce the guard on all the main gates to the city, so we do not scare them off. We'll let them come. I still want to know their plans, and who their friends in Kamrit might be.
"Once they have been found, I can follow their progress, then destroy them as I choose." And Frost, Tyrr mused, if he was truly as talented as he appeared, would provide a rare amusement, a chance to exercise his true prowess, which was something Tyrr had lately developed a dire craving for. One of many things. . . .
"I will help in any way I can, my liege," Kaafk said, though of course, Tyrr observed, reading the expression on the merchant's face, there was obviously nothing for him to do.
"Very well," Tyrr made the mouth say summarily. He dismissed Kaafk and the entire court for the day, thinking of his needs, his plans. . . .
He left the hall and made his way through the castle to the kitchens. He chose a small piglet, only four hands tall, from the kitchen yard and instructed one of the cooks to slaughter the animal. Then he sent the cook away and drew a black velvet sack from beneath his cloak. He put the piglet in the sack and tied it shut, then carefully worked the spell he had constructed. The bag lay suddenly flat and empty. Tyrr put it back under his cloak and left.
He descended two levels, past the guards—men chosen and prepared especially for the job—and continued down into the subterranean chambers that were part of the old dungeons, rooms that had not been used since the time of the first kin. In the largest of the ancient cells, the imps waited for him, still in their demon forms, held there where he had bound them. They were each identical, each perfect, the only two lesser demons Tyrr had been able to summon out of the dark realm before the gate he had fashioned collapsed.
Already, though, they had grown weak, kept here away from all sources of energy, from even a meal of animal flesh, since none could be trusted to feed them and Tyrr had not taken the time. He fed them now, siphoning power from the friction between the worlds of darkness and light, then giving it to the creatures using a spell he had taken great care to perfect. The imps grew more substantial, more energetic, then they began to drool as Tyrr drew the velvet sack from under his cloak and concentrated on his spells again. The sack grew suddenly full, and he reached inside to withdraw the piglet.
When the imps had devoured the animal fully, Tyrr told them exactly what he wanted them to do, then set them free.