FOG

An unnatural fog crept through the woods, tumbled across the trail, obscured everything farther than a few feet ahead. Panicked whinnies and shouts echoed through the woods. A riderless horse galloped back down the trail, dragging its reins. Then silence.

Goss seemed to run in place even as Amberhill laid his whip into him. “Damnation,” he muttered. The fog must be some trick of the plainshield’s. At its edge, he pulled Goss to a halt. He could not gallop heedlessly where he could not see. Goss pranced and snorted, but Amberhill held him in, trying to decide what to do.

A voice rang out somewhere ahead. “My lady, you will come with me.”

It was Morry. Amberhill imagined him sitting tall upon his sleek horse attired as the Raven Mask, the silk obscuring his features. The plan was going ahead even without Amberhill in his place.

Morry, as the Raven Mask, was supposed to present Lady Estora to the mysterious noble who was behind the abduction. Amberhill was then to pretend to be held at bay by the Raven Mask while the noble made his terms for Lady Estora’s release known. Then they’d go their separate ways, the noble with Lady Estora to whatever estate he held, Morry into the woods with his payment, and Amberhill back to the city to report the honor abduction and pass on the noble’s demands.

In an honor abduction, the captive wasn’t supposed to be placed in danger, and was required to be treated well by her captors. Nobles understood what was expected, for this code of honorable conduct had ancient and revered roots among the Sacor Clans. The demands would be met, maybe a grievance aired, and the captive returned unharmed, and the realm could go about its business.

The unnatural fog, however, heightened Amberhill’s sense of foreboding. Anxiety knotted in his gut. Morry had warned him that the best of plans could go awry. Morry hadn’t liked this plan from the beginning…

Amberhill urged Goss into the wall of fog. It was like entering another world, or maybe one of the five hells. Horses thrashed this way and that, limbs of trees reached out of nowhere to grab at him. Goss leaped over an unhorsed servant cowering beside a rock. He glimpsed Estora’s youngest sister clinging to her horse’s mane as it bucked in fright.

He heard swords slide from sheaths. The Weapons would be moving forward to protect Lady Estora. His gut clenched at the whine of a crossbow bolt and the scream of a horse as it crashed to the ground. Goss reared and Amberhill fought him down.

“No!” he cried.

More bolts whined through the fog. Now there were human cries among the trampling hooves and the squeals of terrified horses.

“No.” This time it came as a whisper.

Goss planted his hooves, sweat foaming on his neck. Amberhill dug his spurs into the horse’s sides and Goss leaped forward. Deeper into the fog he found the dead horse lying on a dead or unconscious Weapon. He found a cavalry officer with a crossbow bolt through his neck, his eyes wide open.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” Amberhill said.

Lord Henley was draped across a log, his body twisted at an impossible angle. Another Weapon with a bolt in his stomach writhed on the ground, blood bubbling from his mouth.

A third Weapon appeared out of the mist beside him like a ghost. “Sir, you are all right?”

Amberhill nodded. “Yes, yes.”

He worked Goss along the trail, the fog wisping before him like layers of veils, revealing in only small increments the scene around him. Lady Miranda knelt on the side of the trail weeping, another dead cavalryman sprawled across a boulder.

Goss’ nostrils flared and he champed on his bit as they picked their way down the trail. Lady Estora’s other sister helped a Weapon with a bolt in his leg. The Weapon struggled to rise, holding onto a tree. With a scream of pain and frustration he fell back to the ground.

The sister looked up at him then, her face pale. “Someone has taken Estora.”

He did not answer, but nudged Goss forward and forward until the fog revealed a man lying prone on the ground on a bed of moss, a bolt in his back. A mask concealed his face.

“Morry!” Amberhill dismounted and knelt beside him. “Morry…” Gently he peeled away the mask, revealing the older man’s gray face.

Morry’s body quivered. “Betrayed,” he whispered. “Bad business, my boy. Bad men. Betrayed us. Not…not an honor abduction.”

“Morry?” A sob caught in Amberhill’s throat.

Morry’s mouth opened and at first nothing came out, then he whispered, “Remember honor, Xandis. Remember true honor.” He did not speak again.

Amberhill sat back on his heels and rubbed his face with his hands. All his fault. He moved his foot and his toe struck something that jingled. A bulging purse of gold. A mocking gesture from the men who had betrayed them.

He gathered Morry into his arms. At first Goss shied away, but then the stallion allowed him to place the dead man across his back. Amberhill took the purse of gold and led Goss through the fog.

He would not let Morry be found and the blame laid on him. He would find a place for him to rest until he could return his body to Hillander for a proper burial. He deserved no less.

All my fault.

Morry had been a devoted servant, had raised him when his own father was incapable. Had trained him in the ways of the Raven Mask. Now he was gone. Morry had said he didn’t trust the plainshield. Morry hadn’t thought the scheme worth any amount gold. He was right.

I did not listen.

It was one thing for the Raven Mask to steal jewels and trinkets, or even a piece of parchment from a museum, and quite something else to deal in human lives. He knew that now. Morry’s final lesson.

Without looking back, Amberhill led Goss out of the fog into the brightness of day. He would find a temporary resting place for Morry, then pursue the plainshield and his cohorts. When he caught up with them, he would make the plainshield eat the gold, one coin at a time.

“If you do not find my daughter, if any harm comes to her, the eastern lords will march on this city and see your crown removed.”

Lord Coutre’s face was so red Laren feared his heart would burst. Zachary sagged in his throne, rubbing his temple.

“You are under great strain, my lord,” Castellan Sperren said. “Do not use this time to make threats you will later regret. Under other circumstances, we would take your words as treason.”

Lord Coutre’s face only grew redder, his white eyebrows standing out in sharp contrast. “I shall say what I want! It’s my daughter who’s been abducted! What were you thinking by allowing her a ride in the country with the Eletian threat?”

“It was not the Eletians who took her,” Colin said. He displayed the crossbow bolt on his palm. It was common enough looking, and not of the sort of weapon Eletians were known to use.

Lord Coutre dismissed him. “What are you going to do about it?”

Zachary looked up and Laren wondered what thoughts flowed through his mind. Certainly he worried for Lady Estora’s welfare, but her abduction raised so many other questions: Who dared such a brazen act? Could it have been the Eletians? She didn’t think so, but she knew he must consider the possibility. If not, who else wanted the future queen? Some group, no doubt, that wished to destabilize Zachary’s power. Second Empire came immediately to mind.

There were likely other groups and individuals out there with all kinds of grievances. Enemies of Coutre, perhaps, who did not wish to see the clan rise to such prominence with Estora’s marriage to Zachary. Enemies they couldn’t even begin to imagine.

These possibilities and more must occupy Zachary’s mind. What enemy was he facing? Would Lord Coutre follow up on his threat if Lady Estora were harmed? It was not a complication he, or any of them, needed right now.

“We will find her,” Zachary said, his voice gruff. “I’ve a phalanx of Weapons assembling. And I will lead them.”

“No, you won’t,” Laren and Colin said simultaneously.

“They likely wish to draw you out,” Colin added, “so they can capture you, too, or worse.”

Zachary stood and upon the dais he towered over them. “I will not stay. I cannot just sit here and do nothing.”

Lord Coutre grunted. “Better that than you endangering the mission to rescue my daughter. Send your Weapons—they’ll do their job better if they don’t have to worry about you.”

They all looked at Lord Coutre in surprise, and Laren applauded his reasoning.

“I wish to go, too,” he added, “but I am an old man and would only hinder your Weapons. Wisdom is knowing when to go and when not to. I have a wife and children to comfort, so I will leave you now. But I want word sent to me the moment you know anything.”

They watched him as he made his way down the throne room runner. He moved slowly, was more bent than Laren remembered. Zachary sank back into his throne chair.

“I’ll send Ty and Osric with your Weapons,” Laren said. “They can bring word back.”

Zachary gave her the barest of nods. She called a Green Foot runner over to deliver her instructions.

“We’ve wasted so much time,” Zachary murmured.

“Necessary,” Colin replied. “The abductors may have a strong lead on us, but our Weapons shall be tireless in their pursuit. When the Weapons catch up with them, they shall be sorry they chose such a course.”

Such a fervor had grown in Colin’s voice that Laren could tell he longed to partake in the pursuit himself.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “we shall bring up Weapons from the tombs to take their place and guard you. The gods only know what other acts these villains have planned.”

“My cousin did not return,” Zachary said.

“No,” Colin replied. “Willis said he was not among the dead or injured, and was fine when last he saw him. We can only conclude he went in pursuit of the abductors immediately.”

What Zachary thought of this he did not say. “The fog Willis mentioned, it sounds like magic.”

“He said it was unnatural,” Laren recalled. “I agree.”

“The Eletians will have to be questioned.”

Laren thought that would be an interesting discussion.

Neff the herald rushed through the throne room doors and down the runner. He dropped to his knee before the dais. “Eletians, my lord, from the encampment. Three have come to speak to you.”

Laren and Zachary exchanged glances, stunned by the uncanny timing.

“Send them—” Zachary began, but the Eletians had already entered the throne room and were gliding down the runner.

They came unarmed, but the guards in the throne room moved in closer to their king, hands on the hilts of their swords. The Eletians did not appear intimidated in the least, their stride unflagging, their features unperturbed. Leading them was the one who had been their guide in Prince Jametari’s tent that day, his sister. She wore a gray-green cloak about her shoulders. But for a few thin, looping braids, her pale hair was unbound and flowed to the small of her back.

The other two Eletians, males, followed behind her, and were similarly attired in gray-green. Sunlight slanted through the throne room windows and played across their hair and brightened their faces as though pulled to them.

The woman in the lead knelt before Zachary, followed in turn by her companions.

“Greetings, Firebrand,” she said. “My brother bade us speak to you in this troubled time.”

Zachary indicated they should rise. “And what troubled time does Prince Jametari think this?”

“Little passes without our notice, especially that of our Ari-matiel. We are aware that your lady has been taken from you.”

Zachary’s eyes narrowed just a hint. “We have only just heard the news ourselves. How is it the Eletians know so much?”

“We have different ways of knowing,” the woman replied. “We hear the voice of the forest carried along the stream that flows through our camp. We felt a small surge of magic in the woods west of us, and the tale is told to us by limb, by leaf, by breath of wind.”

Old Sperren, leaning on his staff of office, quaked to life beneath his cloak. “How do we know you did not take Lady Estora yourselves?”

“He knows,” the woman said, gazing at Zachary. “Deep inside he knows the truth of it. We have nothing to gain by seizing this land’s future queen and everything to lose. There is another power at work in the lands. You may ask your Green Rider captain if we speak truth.”

Laren’s eyes widened. How did they know the nature of her special ability?

“Laren?” Zachary said.

She brushed her fingers over her brooch. It warmed to her touch, and she felt nothing but harmony, no sense of falsehood or deception. Only peace. The voice of her ability fairly hummed with truth. Astounded, she nodded to the king.

Zachary relaxed perceptibly. “What is this other power you speak of?”

“It is something we’ve been aware of since summer,” the Eletian said, “when so much was awakened and stirred up. However, when all else settled, this did not. We know not its shape or intent, only that it lies westward, and that it was behind the surge of magic we felt in the woods. We feel that your rescue party will track the abductors westward toward the source.”

Colin called one of his Weapons over and spoke quietly to him. The Weapon trotted out of the throne room.

“And this is what brings you forth from your encampment?” Zachary asked.

“We had no desire for blame to be mislaid upon us, and wish for you not to fear us as a threat. That was your line of thought, was it not?” She eyed them each in turn. “And our Ari-matiel sends words, for he is one gifted with foresight, and you may use his words as you will. Telagioth?”

One of the men stepped forward and put his hands before him, palms upward. Laren expected some enchantment to arise from them, at least some glow of light, but it did not. He simply spoke: “Ari-matiel Jametari says, ‘The golden lady shall find safety only in green. A time shall come when black shrouds green, and among the dead a voice shall speak of stone.’”

Silence followed until Sperren sputtered, “What in the five hells is that supposed to mean?”

“We do not know,” the woman said, “though we assume ‘golden lady’ refers to the one who was taken. Our Ari-matiel does not interpret his words. Often he does not remember their speaking. It is up to the recipients to find the meaning.”

“Worthless,” Sperren muttered.

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” the woman said.

With that, and without seeking leave, the Eletians bowed and departed. Once they exited the throne room, everything was cast into its ordinary gloom and felt tired, as though the sun had moved behind the clouds.

Later that evening, Laren mulled over the day’s events as she wandered down to the Rider wing of the castle. The company of Weapons and her two Riders had set out in pursuit of Lady Estora hours ago, and there was much to think on. The parameters of the situation staggered her. Possible civil war with the eastern provinces, loss of confidence in Zachary by his people. If he could not protect their future queen, how could he protect them? If anything happened to Lady Estora, she could see only disaster, and who knew what was brewing in Blackveil. They could all be caught up in internal fighting when suddenly the threat of Blackveil descended on them.

She found the Rider wing quiet. Many of her Riders were out on errands, several paired with new Riders-in-training. The empty corridor and closed doors left her feeling desolate, but she walked on.

A blur of white fur streaked past her feet. She jumped aside, her heart clamoring in her chest. The creature—a cat?—darted through a doorway standing ajar and into the room beyond. Laren peered in, and realized the room was Karigan’s. Two globes of gold-blue gazed back at her. She opened the door all the way and the corridor’s lamplight revealed the cat nestled in a clump on Karigan’s bed. It watched her every move, tensed to leap away if she came too close.

“Huh.” Laren left the door cracked open, and headed on to the common room where she found Connly, his heels upon the hearth and a mug of tea cupped in his hands.

“Captain!” He stood in surprise and she gestured he should sit. She pulled up a rocking chair to sit next to him.

“Since when did Karigan take in a cat?” she asked him.

Connly snorted. “I don’t think she knows she has. It sleeps there on her bed most every day. Sometimes we find it here at the hearth. We leave it scraps and water. We think it lives in the abandoned corridors. It’s not bothering anyone.”

“I suppose.” Laren’s thoughts were already plunging back into the realm’s troubles. She rocked absently, only half listening as Connly updated her on the doings of the Riders.

She had approved of Lady Estora confronting Zachary yesterday. She had approved of her spirit, and had thought Zachary was being overprotective. It surprised her, really, for he had done little else to recognize her status. Giving over his study to her had been a compassionate move, which Laren had applauded, and there had been the obligatory appearances at state and social events, but otherwise he had reached out very little to her.

Should this crisis pass and Lady Estora return unharmed, she planned to have a long talk with him no matter how unhappy it made him. If Lady Estora was to share power with him, he must bring her in on meetings, have her sit beside him during public audiences. She needed to hear the voices of the common folk and their troubles, to see the mechanics of her country at work.

Then there was the conversation Laren intended to have with Lady Estora herself, the one about revealing the secret. She had not yet approached the young noblewoman, thinking there was plenty of time, and she’d had so many other immediate concerns—duties to attend to, meetings to sit through, problems to be solved. Now she was sorry she’d never gotten a chance to speak with her.

Until Lady Estora returned to them healthy and unharmed, it was all moot anyway.

“—and I don’t see us making any progress with Ben and the horses,” Connly said.

She shifted in her chair becoming aware of where she was again. “Ben,” she said.

Connly glanced sideways at her. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

“You were talking about Ben and horses.”

Connly laughed. “Yes, at the very end. Don’t worry, there wasn’t anything terribly important. Not like the other news of the day.”

“Could you tell me again? Tell me what my Riders have been up to?”

Connly started over and this time she listened, and listened closely and engaged herself in the routine and the mundane. It was a relief from the day’s greater, more threatening events.