Quint cupped her hands, dipped them into the river, brought them up to her lips, and drank deeply. It was a warm day, and the cool water soothed her dry mouth. As she leaned over to repeat the motion, she caught sight of her reflection in still water, and looked at it appraisingly.
"What do you think, Edwina?" Quint asked her horse, who stood not far off. "Do you think I'm pretty?" She traced the lines of her face with her gloved left hand, then pulled it away, glaring at it. Slowly, as if she were afraid of what lay underneath, she removed the black leather glove, grimacing slightly at the massive scar it hid. With a shake of her head, she pulled the glove back on, still amazed to see how perfectly it melded to the curves of her hand. But then, trying to forget about the glove, she peered at the water, studying the reflection it held.
"Green eyes," she murmured. "Do you like my eyes, Edwina? Brown hair." She tugged at the long braid which fell past her waist. "Nothing spectacular."
Edwina whickered at the girl, her mane flying.
"Of course you'd say that," Quint grinned. "You're biased. Plus you know I'll give you more sugar if I'm in a good mood."
She stretched out on the grass, content, letting her skin soak in the heat from the sun. Smiling, her thoughts circled back to how she had gotten this moment of freedom, this beautiful, wonderful moment all to herself.
It had been time for arms practice, but on a day such as today, there was no way she could ignore the call of nature. So she had snuck her way to the stables, saddled up Edwina, and ridden the short way to this small lake not more than thirty marks away from the Bard Lyceum. She did not mind arms practice, in fact, she was almost a Mistress of the Dagger, but today, today was a time for silence and contemplation, not violence.
This is what perfection is, she thought and her mind started to slip into sleep. Edwina's cries woke her, and her eyes jerked open, momentarily watering in the sudden brightness. Immediately, Quint knew what the horse was telling her. She practically jumped into the saddle as another figure came into view.
"Rat's foot," she cursed upon seeing the figure, and kneed Edwina into a run.
Swiftly the horse jumped forward, heading toward a grove of nearby trees without even having to be told by her mistress. Smiling grimly, Quint felt herself rise to the occasion of the coming hunt. Her eyes started to burn with an inner flame the deeper they ran into the small forest. Once safely inside the trees, she halted Edwina and dismounted, wandering back a little to see if the other figure was in sight. She did not see him, but knew he was still around, and quickly made her way back to the horse. The path split before her and she walked down the right trail, breaking off a few twigs and trampling the grass. Hopefully, she reasoned, the unknown person would follow this track while she escaped down the other side.
Well, she internally shrugged. It's worth a try.
Mounting Edwina again, the horse immediately started to run down the path without direction from her mistress. But that was only because they knew each other so well. Quint had no idea as to when the bond had developed, but it seemed to her that it had always been there. She shook her head, focusing her thoughts back on the chase.
This is no time to dig up warm memories about my horse, she reminded herself. There are people after you, so start thinking! What trouble!
After a little, she stopped Edwina, and listened for sounds behind her. She heard nothing, but had learned long ago that that did not mean there was no one around. If she had learned how to move quietly through a forest, anyone could learn. Suddenly Edwina whickered, throwing her mane across Quint's face, and started forward, once again in a run. Looking back, Quint saw a man, hanging from a vine, fly across the area she and the horse had just filled. If Edwina had not smelt him, Quint would be lying on the forest floor.
Once again she pulled her thoughts back onto the chase, concentrating on moving with Edwina. A slight shift of balance here, leaning forward more there, it was tough and tiring work. But it was something she loved to do, and the flame within grew ever higher. Ducking her head to escape the beating of a low hanging branch, she broke into a clearing. Quickly she reined Edwina in, spotting a figure calmly sitting upon a hose on the opposite side. She glanced behind her in hopes of seeing a way out, but another figure, the one who had been hanging on the vine, was closing the gap between them.
"A challenge, mistress," the figure on the other side called out in a low voice, the words echoing in his helm. "Your freedom or your death."
"And I would fight you?" Quint asked. The man nodded. "So be it. Just remember when you're lying on your back that you demanded this." Bending down, she grasped the dagger she kept in her boot. Slowly she pulled it out, so that every inch she revealed reflected the sun off the blade. She thought she saw the man's eyes widen inside his helm, but knew it was probably just shadows playing with her. No one could actually see people's eyes within helms. Dismounting and walking a short way from Edwina, she patiently waited for the man to join her.
"Are you ready?" he questioned as he fell into a fighting stance. When she nodded he immediately attacked, trying to throw her off guard.
It was a tactic she frequently employed and thereby knew the best way to parry it -- step out of the way and let the person charge right past you. Thus it was what she did, and she laughed slightly as he went running past. More wary, the man watched her, and waited for her to make the next move. But she did not. Defense always played a big part in her fighting style. She would wait for her opponent to attack, make a mistake, and then she went in for the kill. It had always worked so far, no need to start changing it now. Finally, unable to wait any longer, the man attacked again, and once more Quint managed to successfully parry. But she had noticed that he projected his moves with his shoulders. Grinning grimly, she knew she would know his every move, and could easily bring him down. Once more he attacked, his dagger a blur. It caught her sleeve, ripping it a little, and then . . . there, her opportunity. Suddenly the man found himself on his back, Quint's blade firmly pressed against his throat.
"Do you yield?" she coldly asked.
The man nodded, and Quint reversed the hold she held on her dagger, holding out her other hand to help the man to his feet. A foot planted itself on her back, forcing her to roll forwards.
"Gods!" She had forgotten about the other figure. Looking up into the sun, she saw him leaning over her, his dagger against her throat.
"You're dead." He took off his helm with his free hand, shaking sweaty, shoulder length blonde hair out of blue eyes. "Give me one good reason as to why I shouldn't kill you right now."
"All right," Quint agreed. "But you have to come closer. I'll whisper it to you."
As the man leaned in, she grabbed his hair, forcing him closer. Their lips met, and joined, in harmony.
"Break it up, you two," the other man interrupted. "You aren't in a private bedroom. There are young, delicate eyes out here who can see you." Taking off his helm, he brushed back sweaty black hair.
"Daric," Quint acknowledged when they finally broke apart. "I thought that was you but I wasn't completely sure." Gathering her feet beneath her, she swept pieces of grass off her black tunic and hair. "You'll be a good fighter one day," she announced. "But you need to watch your shoulders -- they're giving away your every move."
Daric glanced at the other man. "And that from a Mistress of the Dagger."
"Not quite," Quint reminded.
"In about a month," the other man replied. "Master Lyon has only told you that how many times now?"
"Speaking of the man, I presume he's the reason why you two are out here?"
Daric nodded. "When he noticed you weren't in class, he sent Brian and me to find you." He grinned. "I guess we did. But I think he has something big planned today because he was real adamant about us finding you quickly."
Quint frowned. That did not sound like the Master of Arms she knew -- Master Lyon being adamant about something? He was too sensitive of his students' needs to command them to do anything. One reason that he never said anything about Quint's wanderings was because he always sent students out in search of her. The first time she had ever done it, he had let it slide. But the second time -- she shook her head, smiling at the memory, she had not been prepared. The Master of Arms, though, knew that she probably got better practice during these chases than she did in class. It gave her an opportunity to use her hiding and fighting skills if found, and gave those after her a chance to track and fight the best student, beside the Master himself, at the Lyceum.
"Why do Bards have such an intense study in daggers?" Daric broke into her thoughts. "Why not sword, or bow?"
She studied the youngster, remembering that he had only come to the Lyceum eight weeks ago. "Bards have a bad habit of being too out-going at times."
"Everyone has to know how to protect themselves," Brian broke in. "Dagger just happened to work best for our needs. A sword projects way too much trouble and as for a bow, would you want to carry a bow and a lute on your back? Talk about uncomfortable."
"But a dagger can't stand up to a sword for long," Daric stated.
"No," Brian admitted. "But no one expects it to. Sometimes running is an acceptable option."
Daric snorted. "If I had wanted a dangerous profession, I would have become a Master of Thievery."
Suddenly Edwina whickered, throwing her mane wildly back and forth. Quickly Quint turned toward her horse, running over to her side.
"What's wrong . . . ?" And then she followed the horse's gaze. "Oh, gods. The Lyceum is burning!"
The three trainees bolted onto their horses, throwing themselves into the saddles. Kneeing their horses into a run, they recklessly flew through the forest. Within half a position, they came to the Lyceum, faces going pale at the sight before them.
"Oh, gods," Daric whispered, dismounting, then falling to his knees.
"Why didn't we hear this? We weren't that far away," Brian, too, felt his knees go weak.
"We were fighting our own battle," Quint reminded. "We probably heard it but just figured . . . " she stopped, wide eyes taking in the sight.
Everyone outside had been slaughtered, their blood soaking into the unforgiving ground. The Lyceum itself was a mass of flames, and even as they watched, the roof collapsed, settling in a cloud of dust and sparks. Flames suddenly roared higher, hot enough that the horses, and trainees, shied away slightly, and then they settled down to a light glow.
"Everyone's dead," Daric said from where he was sitting on the ground. "The teachers, the trainees, all of the Bards here for the Great Feast . . . " Quint and Daric grew one shade paler at his realization. "Oh, gods, all the Bards who were here for the Great Feast. Only about a dozen or so didn't come this year. Oh, gods." A dozen Bards, and us, are all the musicians left in the kingdom, his mind spun with the knowledge.
"Why?" Quint exhaled the word, as if hit in the gut. "Why did this happen? Who did this?"
"Someone wanted to see you dead." The trainees whirled to see the Mistress of History, Mistress Joyane, standing behind them. One hand grasped the back of her head, and the trainees could see blood mingling in her bright red hair. The other hand held onto a thick oak branch, helping her keep her feet while the world dizzyingly sped in circles.
"What?" Quint ran to her teacher's side as the other trainees stared, shocked.
For a moment, Joyane's eyes were lucid, and then she closed them in pain, stumbling to her knees. The trainee caught her as she fell and carefully lowered her to the ground. Finally, when Quint thought the teacher dead, she opened her eyes again.
"Someone wanted you to die, Quint."
"Who?"
"I don't know. All I remember is red hair, red hair like the fire." Pain clouded her eyes. "Go to Pathageron, to the palace, find your father . . . " The teacher closed her eyes, and Quint knew she would not open them again. Leaning over, she kissed Joyane on the forehead, wishing her a good trip into the afterlife. Behind her, she heard Daric vomiting, and Brian comforting the younger boy. Slowly, she took her hands away from Joyane's temples, and tears started down her cheeks as she saw the blood on them.
"Gods!" she screamed into the sky, and the total magnanimity of the situation hit her. Regardless of the blood, she buried her face into her hands, sobbing uncontrollably, rocking back and forth. A few moments later, she felt Brian's hand on her shoulder, and then he came around, sitting down across from her. Desperately, she clung to him, crying on his shoulder.
"They're all dead," Quint hiccuped between tears. "They're all dead because of me."
"Quint," He stroked her hair, trying to calm and comfort the trainee. "No."
"Yes. And if we had been here . . . " Green eyes grew wide. "If we had been here, you would be dead, too. Oh, gods, I could have killed you . . . " Once again she buried her head, the intensity of her crying telling Brian how much guilt she carried.
He had come to the Bard Lyceum at fourteen, and the moment he had seen Quint, then thirteen, he had fallen in love with her. Her strong spirit and beauty -- he smiled sweetly at the remembrance. A year later, they had exchanged promise rings, a promise that when they were both eighteen and full bards, that they would get married. As he ran his fingers through Quint's hair, he focused on that moment. She had started when he had declared his love for her, and it was then that he realized she loved him back. They gave each other their promise rings later that same night, and never had either taken it off their finger.
"I'm here," Brian whispered to his beloved. "I'm still here."
Suddenly, Edwina galloped over to Quint's side, nudging her and whining anxiously.
"Someone's still here," Quint interpreted. "Let's get out of here." She jumped onto her horse, glancing down once more at Joyane, and pulled back tears. After another quick look around the Lyceum, so that she would not forget it, she kneed Edwina over to where the other trainees stood, waiting for her. And then, as one, they raced into the forest, away from the nightmare.
About a hundred and fifty marks of running, the horses slowed down, and the trainees allowed them to stop and catch their breath.
"What are we going to do?" Brian wondered. "Should we go to Pathageron like Mistress Joyane said to?"
Quint shrugged. "I don't know what good it would accomplish. And I have no idea as to what she meant about my father -- I have no clue as to who he is."
"You really don't know?" Daric's eyes were wide.
"I've lived at the Lyceum all my life," Quint explained, struggling to hold tears back. Finally, she made herself pull up the flame and fed it all of her emotions. Usually, it, like alcohol, would either dull her emotions or make them three times as bad. In this case, she willed them into nothingness. "None of the teachers or students ever really cared about my being there. Master Lyon started me on daggers when I was six, or thereabouts. No one ever asked who my parents were, and truly, I never really asked either. It didn't seem particularly necessary. But Mistress Joyane always claimed to know who my father was, though she never told me, always claiming that the time was never 'right'." Somehow she managed not to cry. "And now she'll never be able to tell me."
"Well, tell me this? Does anyone know how to get to Pathageron?" Daric questioned. Quint and Brian exchanged looks then grimaced. "That's what I was afraid of. I guess we'll have to ask someone."
"Oh, right," Brian sneered, glancing around. "There's so many people nearby. Might as well just ask the air the way." He turned his face upward. "Hello, Master Air. Could you please tell us how to reach Pathageron?"
Quint glared at her beloved. "A rock would be of more use than you right now," she admonished. Wrinkling her forehead, she brought up an ancient map in her mind. "I think it's across the Range of Darkness and then a few days north from there."
"We have to go across the Aurelia Mountains?" Daric's eyes were wide with a touch of fear.
"What did you call them?" Brian asked.
"The Aurelia Mountains," Daric repeated. "I lived in a small village about two days ride from the Lyceum. One day, before I was born, a messenger from the king rode into the village, and said that the mountains had swallowed up the baby princess Aurelia. The Lord of my village, therefore, renamed the Range of Darkness the Aurelia Mountains in her memory."
"Interesting tale," Quint replied. "But we should get moving."
Sighing, Rowan shifted in his chair. Not the most comfortable chairs, but it would do. It's more than a lot of my men get, he reminded himself. It's hard to keep everyone in an army happy. But they couldn't have been more happy this afternoon. Grimly, he smiled, pulling up the memories of the flames and blood, spilling and mixing. Thoughts churning, he remembered everything that had led up to this beautiful, wonderful day . . .
It would have been more beautiful and wonderful if Lyon had actually done as ordered! He snorted. So, he made a mistake. He'll have to right it now, and he knows if he doesn't, that I'll kill him for his incompetence. He sighed. An almost perfect day. But since she didn't die, will the gods still help me? His mind circled back to a few days later . . .
"Tell me, Master of Magic Eldson, will the throne my brother now holds over be mine?" The red haired man turned green eyes onto Eldson. "What say the gods to whom you pray?" The green eyes were not completely sane.
Eldson sighed, closing his eyes. "Let me see if they will answer my calls." Slowly, and a touch reluctantly, he pulled on the red line in his mind which led to the gods. Sometimes they would answer, sometimes not. It all depended upon their whims. Following the line, he fell deeper and deeper. Suddenly he opened his eyes, startling the other man in the tent. "Prince Rowan of Jartena," the voice that came from Eldson's mouth was not Eldson's. It made Rowan's hair prick his scalp, and shivers run up and down his back. He knew it was nothing the Master of Magic could have done; therefore, the gods were answering his questions. "You want the throne your brother holds." There was a glint of red in Eldson's normally brown eyes.
"It's no big secret," Rowan pertly replied.
"We will help you gain it."
"Why?" The prince studied Eldson with narrowed eyes. Everyone wanted something for their help -- surely gods were no different. And he was right.
"We want you to kill a bard trainee. If you do this, we will help you get the throne."
"Why can't you kill this trainee?" Rowan threw out the challenge. "Surely all-powerful gods such as yourself should be able to accomplish such a menial task."
"We can not." The voice was subdued. "She is protected by forces we can not manipulate. Magic can not be used against, or for her. Only iron can bring her death." A slight pause. "Will you do this deed for us?"
"Her death for the throne of Jartena?" Eldson nodded. "Then yes, consider the deed done." He held out his arm, which Eldson grabbed and shook.
The gods sent Rowan a mental image of the trainee. "Do not fail us. Fare thee well, prince Rowan." The red disappeared from Eldson's eyes as if it had never been there.
Rowan's eyes were blazing. "Gather my maps and my captains. We decide upon a battle plan tonight." Pausing, he placed a finger near his mouth. "Oh, yes, and get me a pen and some paper. I know someone in the Bard Lyceum whom I will recruit for our purposes."
About two positions later, a plan of action which Rowan and all of his captains approved of, had been drawn up.
"When will we start out?" one of the captains asked.
"Tomorrow morning," Rowan replied. "Earlier started is earlier ended. It will take us three days to reach the Lyceum from our current position, and that should be more than enough for my contact inside the Lyceum to ready things."
Before dawn broke the next morning, Rowan and his men were ready to move. Reaching down, Rowan patted his horse's mane, hoping to calm the animal who wanted to run from here to Pathageron and back.
"We're all set, my lord," a nearby captain announced.
The prince nodded. "To the Bard Lyceum we go." He waited until all of his men had passed, and then fell in behind the ranks. Riding in behind his men was one of his many peculiarities, but it gave him opportunity to think. Besides, the gazes of the men on his back always made him constantly look over his shoulder, in case anything more lethal than a look be planted in it. Fifty men, Rowan thought proudly. Fifty men under my rule who will fight for me regardless of their duties. And more will join me when I go to march into Pathageron and pull the crown off my brother's head. Exaltation ran up and down his spine as he thought about that joyous day.
During the second day of their march, the messenger he had sent out to the Lyceum returned.
"Your majesty," the messenger said, slightly sweating and out of breath. "Here's your reply." He handed the prince a folded piece of paper.
"Thank you. You're dismissed." Opening the note, he glanced over the words, and smiled. "It's from him," he reassured Eldson, who had nudged his horse closer to the prince's. "He says he'll be ready."
Eldson nodded, as if he had not expected anything else. "He's a good man. True to his word."
"And a great fighter, too," Rowan reminded.
"I'd imagine that would make him a good teacher, also."
"Bards are only taught daggers, Eldson. No swords or bows. I believe we have a distinct advantage in the fighting area."
They reached the Lyceum the next morning, after the sun had been over the horizon for three marks. Immediately his men had set upon the Lyceum. Rowan had watched the slaughter from a nearby hilltop. The singers had been taught well, he had to admit that. But as he had explained to Eldson earlier, no one, no matter how good, could stand up in a real fight against a sword with a dagger. Within a mark, everyone outside had been killed, and the Lyceum itself was a mass of flames. A grim smile of satisfaction grew on his face as he looked over the battleground.
"You idiot!" The voice broke into Rowan's pleasant thoughts. "What were you thinking?"
His horse had started at the words and tried to throw the prince off. Somehow, he managed to calm the horse down, and then, gritting his teeth at the audacity of the interruption, turned to yell at the newcomer.
"And what . . . " He paused. "Lyon, my friend." Rowan greeted the Master of Arms.
"Why didn't you wait for the signal?" Lyon asked furiously.
Rowan shrugged. "What does it matter? So she died a few moments earlier than need be."
"What does it matter?" Lyon ground his teeth together. "It matters because she wasn't here, you idiot!"
"What? You had better explain yourself quickly, old friend." And Lyon obliged, explaining about how Quint often went into the forest but that he had sent two trainees after her. "What kind of incompetent Master of Arms allows his students to wander about in a forest?"
"A good one," Lyon countered. "She learns more out there than I could ever teach her!"
"And so she can go whenever she feels like it? Nice discipline!"
"She's got discipline, you overgrown rat's tooth! The only time she sneaks out is during arms practice."
"Sire," Eldson interrupted. "Do you truly think this is the time or place to discuss teaching styles with Master Lyon?"
Eldson's eyes were flaming. "So what are you going to do to remedy your problem?" he asked the Master of Arms.
"My problem? It wouldn't even have been a problem if you had waited for the signal!" Lyon was furious with his old friend.
"Regardless," Rowan replied, trying to soothe Lyon's anger. "It is a problem now. What is the best thing to be done about it?"
"I could stay here and wait for her to return," Lyon began. "And then kill her. But the combination of her and the two trainees I sent after her are too great for me to do that without risking my own skin in the process. Therefore, once they return, and they will return the minute they see the smoke, I'll follow them until I know where they're going. Then I will find you and you can lead your men to destroy them."
"Is that the best you can think of?" Rowan questioned. He did not like the plan and his eyes and positioning showed it. Lyon nodded. "So be it. We'll be in the heart of the Range of Darkness for the next week, and then we will march toward Pathageron as the gods will." Then he turned, leaving Lyon behind with the massacre. Perhaps he should have left some men with Lyon, to help him kill the trainees when they returned, but he did not feel like giving his old friend any aid. It was all his fault and he should be the one to right it. Therefore he would go along with this insipid plan of his until he could laugh in his face. Eventually, though, one way or another, he would find the girl and that would be the end of that.