Highmage's Plight (Highmage’s Plight Series Book 1) (21 page)

Fri’il steadied George in the saddle they now shared as he swayed. He was still weak from the deep rapport and they were all worried he might fall. Se’and took the lead, followed by George and Fri’il, then by Me’oh who rode before Balfour. Cle’or brought up the rear with the spare mounts. Raven chose to bound up the path well ahead of them and scout the way.

Se’and gestured and they began the ascent.

How long they ascended, George was uncertain. His staff was bound to his saddle and rested beside his knee. He only sensed that they travelled and Fri’il was talking to him quietly. He heard her distantly say something about “healthy daughters,” but understood little of it. It was enough of a nuisance that Fri’il held on to him tightly and that the computer staff was helping him keep his balance.

He muttered some reply to her as she hugged him closer. He shook his head to clear it. What was she saying to him? Why was he having so much trouble concentrating? He normally would have asked the computer staff, but for some reason that option did not occur to him.

Fri’il pressed her cheek to George’s back. He seemed to her to be recovering physically. Yet she was growing terribly disturbed about one aspect of their relationship: the serious lack of one.

In her homeland there were few men. Those that did live there were either lords or sailors. Few of the foreign men ever stayed. Although Cathartan goods were prized and brought good prices in foreign markets, Cathartan ways were difficult for foreigners to understand. Thousand of women of Cathart were craftsmen and artisans, merchants, farmers, fishermen, teachers and healers. They were also excellent bodyguards and soldiers, who allowed nothing to harm their people. Many outsiders learned that lesson rather forcefully. The luckier of repeat offenders were permanently banned from ever returning.

Yet the one thing the women of Cathart most desired were to bear sons, healthy and strong. It was the Curse of their land that but one boy per household was ever born in a generation. The loss of even one sire and the consequences to the continued existence of humanity in Cathart could be devastating.

Thus it was difficult for her Fri’il to fully understand George. But George knew not the intimate history of his escorts. Sire Ryff’s son Vyss, who had been dying when Balfour and Geoge found them encamped on the Caravan Road, was Fri’il’s affianced husband. As a secondson, Vyss was a rarity; a second born son to a Cathartan lord was considered a great blessing. A secondson did not inherit the full estate of a sire, after his passing, however. To establish a secondson’s house, gifts of wives and property were traditionally provided from every house. Yet as Vyss entered adolescence, the Curse’s virulent form struck. On the date of his majority, when Vyss should have begun receiving his secondson gifts, only one lord honored the tradition. It was understandable, since no one had ever survived the Curse that, the Lords of Cathart declined to attend his being presented and to present him their due. Only Fri’il’s sire had been faithful to the tradition and gifted Vyss a daughter in marriage. The lad was years her junior, yet had he been able, she would have proudly bore him children.

Throughout his illness, she had cared for and protected him as the first wife of his house. It was strange how strongly she had come to love him, realizing it most poignantly the moment Vyss presented her by bond. Not to be outdone by his father’s generosity, Vyss had explained to her that he needed to reward the pair for saving his life as well. She understood that, yet it had been hard to accept that she was being given away. However, such were the duties of Cathartan life that she obeyed. She just had not expected to fall in love with her new lord.

“M’lord?” she said.

George grunted.

“I… I just want you to know that I would be proud to bear you strong healthy daughters.”

His lack of response did not surprise her. He had made it plain that he did not intend to exercise his full rights as Fri’il’s and Se’and’s lord husband by bond. His ways were not their ways. 

She sighed and got up her courage, “I do not believe it would be a… a burden, m’lord. It is just our way.”

His head leaned further forward and she hugged him more tightly as their mount continued to plod up the path. 

“You are not the only one far from home in a strange land, Je’orj. Se’and and I are your family now. We can make a fine home for you, a house full of strong daughters. You have seen that as protectors we are without equal. Cle’or says that my sword skills are shaping up nicely. I am not a child, Je’orj. I can make a fine home for you. I know I can!”

She sighed in frustration as his silence lengthened, then snuggled her check closer to his neck and whispered, “I am a woman full grown.”

She heard him grunt, which was likely the closest acknowledgement she would get.
 

The wind became fierce as they struggled forward until they reached the first wayfarer’s camp. The area was a cavern carved into the cliff face. It was one of several along the path, which afforded vital resting places. The cavern was very large and provided more than enough space for all to dismount and rest.

Se’and unhappily noted that Fri’il seemed almost as pale as George. “You look exhausted. Get some sleep. Do want me to ride with him tomorrow?”

“No!” she hastily replied, then thought to explain. “It’s difficult, but I’m managing well enough.”

Nodding, Se’and wondered if she should not have pushed the issue further, then turned to other concerns. She hoped they would reach the safety of Niota quickly. The strain was wearing on them all. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep, even with the wind howling outside, things would all be better.
 

“He will never love you,” whispered the voice in Fri’il’s dreams. “He means to leave you. You know that in your heart.”

Yet George now lay in her arms. 

“He loves me!” she cried in her dream.

“Loves you? He is not capable of it. Only in Cathart will you ever find the love you crave. He is a man of another world and has no desire to sire a House. Se’and knows this. So why delude yourself?  You are young and beautiful. Why should you swoon over a husband in a loveless bond?”

Tears welled. She knew it was true, every word.

George struggled to awaken, his head aching as if the Summoning were at war with itself. As Fri’il’s tears touched his cheek, his eyes abruptly opened, but his gaze saw another place, a place of stone walls, gray and foreboding. There Fri’il stood facing him with a knife, preparing to kill him. Behind her a black cloaked figure crooned encouragement, waving George’s staff over his head.

George fought to wake, even as the computer staff in his nightmare flared with a grim light. It reached out to him, calling irresistibly. All the while Fri’il stood poised, uncertain. 

“You must love me!” she pleaded.

When he gave no answer, cringing from the fey light, she screamed and lunged at him. Dark laughter echoed all around them.
 

Raven led the way as they started out the next morning. She was followed by Me’oh, then Balfour, then Fri’il. Se’and rode double with George, a decision she made after seeing how tired Fri’il had seemed after an apparently difficult night’s sleep. The young woman’s irritability only made her decision that much easier. 

Cle’or rode rearguard. No one had often glanced at her seemingly from the moment they had begun their trek. The path was barely wide enough in places for even a single rider, though at intervals it widened enough for them to pause and rest as a group. Such halts never lasted long. Balfour checked on George and shook his head worriedly at Se’and. That alone should have been the reason for their feeling of urgency.

But Se’and felt there was something more, something ominous, so she brooked no delays. They quickly remounted and pushed on.

While Balfour rode he thought back upon his time at Niota so many years before. It had briefly served as a sanctuary. Raslinn, Lord of Niota, had offered him solace, telling him not to consider himself a failure just because he had been unable to effect the simplest of healing mageries.

Finally, when they came within sight of the keep’s high white walls, majestic towers, and gleaming parapet, they couldn’t help but think it was the most beautiful sight they had ever seen. The guards opened the gates for them at their approach and helped them from their mounts. Balfour tiredly noticed that all his companions were warmly greeted and were being made truly welcome.

Cle’or quickly dismounted. She saw each of her companions slumping forward as they entered the gates. She felt a terrible sense of urgency. She walked in her horse’s shadow as folk in ragged dress helped their charges dismount then urged them into the main building.

Every instinct told her to defend Balfour and George, yet that other presence whispered in her mind that that would prove to be in vain. Strangely, no one seemed to notice her as she followed the mounts into the safety of the barn. 
 

Se’and was awed by the magnificent hall. Marble arches gleamed and the chandeliers slowly revolved casting rainbow hues of light, which bathed the chamber.

“Ah, our guests must be made welcome! Bring food and drink while suitable rooms are prepared!” shouted the elvin lord of the keep.

Balfour saw the old silver-haired elf and smiled. “Lord Raslinn, it is so wonderful to see you again!”

The elf blinked and slowly grinned in recognition, “Young Balfour! So formal? My friend, I’m so happy to see you return to the Empire as I had always hoped!”

“Lord Raslinn,” Balfour said, “my friend here has taken seriously ill.”

“Ah, say no more,” the elvin lord turned to his servants. “Take the gentleman directly to a guest room. I am sorry but I have no healer here, as you must remember.”

“What ails my friend should react well enough to merely being within the Imperial wards here.”

The old elf’s expression changed from joy to deep concern. “Then the matter is more serious than mere sickness. Darkest magery must be afoot.”

Balfour nodded. “Since I was last here, I have become a healer and could do nothing for him outside the boundary.” Balfour suddenly felt lethargic and drained. His head slumped forward.

“Your journey up the escarpment has obviously taxed your strength. Take our guests directly to their rooms, then send up refreshments.” The servants hastened off. Se’and and her fellow sisters were feeling a bit tired themselves and were only too happy to be led upstairs as well.

“You are most kind,” Balfour muttered.

“Think nothing of it,” Niota’s lord replied, his gaze sparkling with ensorcellment, which made Balfour and the others see themselves being led to rooms where they might rest. In truth, his servants lifted each half-conscious, bespelled victim from his presence.

Cle’or hid in the unswept barn, which served as the keep’s stables. Their horses had been unsaddled but had not been fed before the servants quickly left. Minutes dragged by before she heard any further human movement.

Children dressed in rags, which appeared to have at one time been Imperial livery, entered the barn. They spoke not a word to one another. They merely provided the horses with feed and water.

From Cle’or’s vantage she noticed water being taken into an apparently empty far stall and heard a brief muttered conversation.  A child hastened out of the stall with a backward glance as the other children quickly left.

Over the sound of the horses eating Cle’or heard a gentle sobbing. She came out of hiding with her sword drawn and moved stealthily toward that end stall. When she looked within she saw a bruised and battered boy chained to the wall. 

He glanced up with tears smearing his dirt encrusted face as he rasped, “I won’t let you! Go away! Just leave me alone!”

Her hand trembled as she reached out to him, “Shh, little one, I will not harm you.”

He blinked back his tears, then stared at her. “I don’t know you. You must leave! Get as far away from here as fast as you can!”

“I cannot. My friends are here and they’re in trouble,” she replied quietly.

Sighing, the boy shook his head, “It is already too late for them as it is for all the rest of us here.”

Someone entered the barn, “Thomi, have you learned your lesson yet?”

“Go, hurry!” he whispered.

Cle’or slipped under the wooden slats to the next stall as a woman bearing a bucket of water approached. “You’re filthy child.  Master wants you cleaned up. He has plans for you.”

The lad cringed, then she dumped the bucket’s contents over him. “I won’t do it!” he cried.

“You will or the master says that he’ll see you served as your friend’s dinner!”

Thomi blanched, “Leave him alone!”

“He hasn’t eaten ever since the master put you here. Do you really think he’ll be able to help himself in a few more days? No? Then do what you’re told!” She pinched his thin arm, “No doubt the master will at last have to feed you proper first.”

The woman ripped the tattered jerkin from the boy’s still defiant shoulders. She reached over and took down a whip. 

“Thomi, you will obey!”

The sight of the whip being raised set Cle’or into motion; boys meant the very survival of her people. She cast two daggers. The first knocked the whip from the woman’s stung fingers and the hilt of the second hit her squarely between the eyes.