Lord of the Rose (31 page)

“Oh, uh, sure,” Dram said.

It had been about an hour since Jaymes went off to inspect the ruined old house. Dram could only hope he’d notice the strangers before he blundered into their midst. As to himself and the gnomes, they had nothing to fear from a band of knights. Indeed, he reminded himself, most travelers would be delighted to have the protection of a well-armed group of honorable men. He forced himself to act gracious.

“There’s plenty of room here,” the dwarf said, indicating the meadow that surrounded the fishpond. “Lots of firewood and
more apples than a hundred men could eat in a month!”

“That’s good,” said the scout. He put up his weapon and waved. “That looks about right for the size of our company. Looks like we’ll be your neighbors tonight.”

“Well, sure,” Dram replied, smiling through clenched teeth. “Um, welcome to the neighborhood, neighbor.”

Jaymes crouched in the shrubbery outside the abandoned house, watching the file of horsemen make their way down from the low ridge and disappear into the apple grove. He had seen several scouts come out a few minutes earlier, reporting to their captain, then leading the rest of the party into the congenial shelter of the clustered trees.

He was certain the scouts had discovered Dram and the gnomes—even if his companions had tried to hide, the campfire would have given them away. Still he was confident that Dram would keep his mouth shut as to Jaymes’s whereabouts, and his companions would not come to any harm at the hands of a band of Rose knights. He was in no hurry to test the knights’ goodwill, and now their unwelcome presence would keep him from a dinner of fresh fish. Even the apples were out of reach, he realized, as his stomach rumbled. He dared not emerge from concealment, for the knight captain would have posted lookouts on the periphery.

Staying low, he made his way back through the thick bushes to the base of the old house. Evidently the former domicile of a minor Solamnic noble—one who had perished during the War of Souls—it was only about half the size of Lord Lorimar’s wrecked manor, but it had been a grand enough structure in its time. He had been inspecting it when the knights had arrived, making his way through the low outbuildings, which held several large presses as well as a variety of vats and bins. He assumed that the owners had made cider, or perhaps apple wine, there.

Now he would have to make himself comfortable somewhere. He found a storage shed attached to the rear of the house, a place
where the roof had remained intact and where there didn’t seem to be any annoying vermin. He arranged some clean straw into an approximation of a bed and forced himself to ignore the pangs of hunger and thirst that were beginning to render him fidgety. He stretched out on the pad, watching through the crack of the door as the afternoon’s light faded toward dusk.

The whole area was very quiet, though he could hear skunks rustling around on the ground floor of the adjacent house. He willed himself to sleep, but his fatigue wasn’t enough to bring slumber. Sitting up, leaning against the wall, he resigned himself to boredom.

Abruptly he caught his breath—a shadow moved past the door’s edge! Slowly, he rose to a crouch. His eyes remained fixed on that doorway. Was this one of the knights, come to inspect the buildings with the same curiosity that had brought Jaymes here? The warrior remembered with chagrin that he had left his sword back at the camp—he was armed only with his short dagger and one small crossbow. He drew the knife and set the missile weapon to the side, hoping that the one who had cast the shadow would move on. He tried to ready himself for anything.

Even so, he was startled when the door suddenly opened, and he couldn’t help but blink at the sight of another person in the fading daylight. Equally startling was the gasp of the person standing there, an intake of breath that indicated that she had spotted his hiding place.

That gasp of surprise—feminine and a little breathless—proved that this person was, beyond a doubt, a woman.

Sir Powell strolled around the fringe of the pond. His men had made camp, and now some of them rested on the soft grass, while others explored the waters of the pond. A dozen small campfires flickered and crackled among the trees, and the weather was lovely—dry and cool, but not too cold.

Selinda’s memory of good fishing had been correct. Powell’s men had pulled out dozens of trout before the sun set, and the
fish—wrapped in weeds and steaming in the coals of several large fires—now sent a tantalizing aroma through the evening air. The captain passed several of his men as they lounged easily with fishing poles, nodding genially in response to their greetings. These were good boys, his company, and every one was like a son to him.

He was happy that they had found such a pleasant place to camp, an oasis of water and fresh food amidst the generally barren expanse of the Solamnic Plain. Actually, this whole journey was turning out to be a rather enjoyable diversion. Lady Selinda was a pleasant companion, bright and good-humored and willing to share the discomforts of the saddle, the lash of the wind and chill of the rain, with a fortitude that would have made any knight proud. Indeed, she was probably the most uncomplaining woman it had ever been his pleasure to know. She certainly didn’t fit his impression of a pampered noblewoman—if anything, she seemed grateful for the chance to get away from the luxury that had cocooned so much of her life.

What a contrast to her father, the captain allowed himself to reflect. Lord Regent du Chagne was a dour and bookish man, squinty-eyed and meticulous in details, as physically unimpressive as his daughter was beautiful. Still, du Chagne was his lord, Powell reminded himself sternly and as such deserved the respect due to his station.

Of course, the knight captain had initially balked when the princess had insisted on an overland journey back to Palanthas, but in his secret heart he was glad to have the excuse to avoid the tedious sea voyage back to the north. Selinda had been right. The goblin menace was hundreds of miles away, in the shadow of the Garnet Range, and her suggestion that they follow the Vingaard Mountains back north had been a good one. While there might be an occasional bandit or gang of thieves lurking on the plains, the presence of a hundred armed knights was enough to keep even the most rapacious highwayman far, far away.

Still, she was a headstrong lass, stubborn as a mule and a little more feisty than Powell’s ideal female. Even tonight,
she had insisted on going off by herself, visiting the old house that she remembered from childhood trips. Since his men had already had a good look around, the captain had sent her off with only a show of protest. In truth, he felt that she could take care of herself.

Powell came to the small camp of the dwarf and gnomes, nodding to his fellow wayfarers as they offered him wishes for a good evening. A strange lot, that trio, the captain reflected. He had never known dwarves and gnomes to have so much to do with each other. Ah well, each to his own, he told himself, strolling past their backpacks. It was a surprisingly large assortment of baggage, he noted idly, feeling a little sorry especially for the two diminutive gnomes at thought of them carrying all that stuff on some undoubtedly lengthy trek.

He stopped and looked back at the equipment. There were
four
backpacks there, you dolt, he realized. That wasn’t surprising in itself. Yet he had chatted with the dwarf earlier, and indeed they had been camped nearby for several hours now. Why hadn’t the fourth member of the party shown himself by now?

That fourth backpack was a large satchel suited more to a human—a
tall
human—than to any dwarf or gnome. The Captain of the Rose turned about and knelt beside the pack. Yes, indeed there was a long object there, something wrapped in a cloak.

“I say there, Cap’n? Is there something you want?” asked the dwarf, rising to his feet with hasty politeness.

Powell was already pulling aside the cloak. He saw the gilded hilt, the gold-engraved L as he revealed a weapon that he recognized instantly.

It was Giantsmiter, the sword of Lorimar. That meant the worst possible thing: the dread Assassin was nearby.

Probably hiding out in the ruin of the old house.

The old house where the Princess of Palanthas had just gone for a stroll.

Coryn’s left hand clenched the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned as white as her pristine robe. Angrily she exhaled, a snort of sound startlingly loud in the silent chamber, then shook her head, a toss of black hair momentarily obscuring her view of the bowl of sparkling wine.

She had to watch—she knew that much—even if she hated what she was now gazing upon. In her right hand, clutched so tightly that it was bending, was the miniature golden swordsman—the talisman of Jaymes Markham, the man most of Solamnia called Assassin. She could see certain events transpire in her bowl, but they were events beyond her influence, or her will. There was destiny at work here, a future affecting all the lands of the north.

It was more than luck that brought the Princess of Palanthas to this place, she thought with a pang. It was indeed destiny, a fate woven into the very tapestry of the world. Coryn had dreaded this moment, known it might come, had known this for a long time. It was a meeting that had been foretold in certain of her auguries, even abetted by her own plans and schemes.

If not her desires.

Of course Selinda herself had made the choice to go exploring among the buildings where Jaymes had secluded himself. Coryn knew her—she was proud and inquisitive, smart and confident, but also naïve.

The wizard was startled by the flash of anger she felt. She recognized the emotion, in an intellectual sense, as jealousy even as she was startled by the flaming heat it raised in her breast.

“She is too damned
beautiful!”
snapped the wizard, shaking her head once again.

The image of Selinda du Chagne, lit from behind by the setting sun, glowed in her viewing bowl. Jaymes was dumbstruck and confused, staring at the gorgeous woman who had just discovered him, had him trapped like a cornered rat. He had a weapon, he had strength and speed. He could be past her, away from this place, in seconds.

Coryn remembered his roughness. She wanted him to use
it now against Selinda, but Jaymes wouldn’t, didn’t. He stood there, stock-still.

In disgust Coryn waved a hand, and the image faded from the mirror, leaving the Scrying Room in darkness. The white wizard stood and paced through the chamber, knowing the exact dimensions even though she could not see the walls, the table, or her chair in the lightless confines. With a single word she could have illuminated the place as bright as daylight, but she was unwilling to utter that word.

She would have to let things happen, she knew, let destiny take its course, but she didn’t have to suffer the watching.

“You bastard,” she murmured, before composing herself and slowly, carefully, opening the door.