“I’m sorry I didn’t get to speak with you last night,” Aefric said. “It was you who got the portcullis raised, was it not?”

  “That was me, your grace,” she said, smiling even wider. “By order of his majesty, of course.”

  “Of course,” Aefric said. “Though he must think well of you to give you the task.”

  “I’ve been visiting Armityr for the last three aetts,” she said. “The queen and I are distant cousins, and she invited me out for the Midsummer Festival.”

  Aefric enjoyed listening to Sighild regale him with tales of the entertainments of the Midsummer Festival. In fact, it was a pleasure just to listen to her talk. When he’d seen her this past spring, she’d barely spoken in his presence. She’d seemed … intimidated by him.

  Sighild was just describing some of the dancing when another familiar face arrived.

  “Nyorngyth!” Aefric said.

  Nyorngyth was a priest of Ulna, the Goddess of Travel. He hadn’t changed much since Aefric saw him in the spring. Same short-cut dark brown hair above his light brown skin. And same brown traveling robes, split in the front, with brown leggings underneath.

  As far as Aefric could tell, the only thing the man loved more than travel was food. He’d been portly when Aefric first met him and, if anything, he looked a little heavier now.

  “Your grace,” Nyorngyth said, bowing, while Sighild’s story tapered off. Though she looked displeased with the interruption.

  Nyorngyth noticed her reaction, but continued rather than let the moment become awkward. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aefric said, turning to Sighild. “You were telling of the dancing?”

  “Yes, your grace,” she said, bright smile back on her lips. She raised her arms high to illustrate a move—

  “Mistress Sighild!” An older woman’s voice, from some distance away. “Mistress Sighild Ol’Masarkor!”

  Sighild sighed dramatically. “I do apologize, your grace. I am summoned.”

  “I understand,” Aefric said, “and will forgive you. So long as you promise to finish your story later.”

  “Happily, your grace,” she said with that smile again. “I dine with her majesty at breaks, but perhaps she will permit me some time during the trip.”

  “I don’t doubt she will.”

  “Mistress Sighild Ol’Masarkor!” More voices had joined the calling now.

  “I think you’d best go,” Aefric said. “Until later.”

  “Until then, your grace,” she said, and gave Aefric one more smile before running off like a deer chased by wolves.

  “I don’t believe she’s on the list,” Ser Beornric said, stroking his mustache and side-eying Aefric. “But she really ought to be, I think.”

  Aefric whirled on Ser Beornric. “What did I say?”

  “Your grace said there was to be no marriage talk on the trip to Motte.”

  “I did not specify Motte,” Aefric said. “I said this trip. That includes the return trip.”

  “I wish your grace luck with that,” Nyorngyth said. “Talk of potential noble marriages is a popular pastime. Your grace should have heard all the speculation around Armityr about Prince Killian.”

  Aefric chuckled. “Good to see you, Nyorngyth.” Aefric scratched his chin. “Let’s see. The last time I saw you, you were heading into Fyretti with Countess Faenella.”

  “I was,” Nyorngyth said. “I was going to join her in the border investigations your grace authorized. But the events of the Indecisive River Valley changed those plans.”

  “They did,” Aefric said, nodding. “So what did you do?”

  “I went with the army to Kivash, of course,” Nyorngyth said. “That much travel? How could I not? Once matters were settled in Kivash — and I’d blessed those who’d needed it — I made my way east along the Indecisive River. I’d never seen much of its length, nor visited the towns along it.”

  “And how did you find the river?” Aefric asked.

  “Oh, your grace,” Nyorngyth said dreamily. “It doesn’t so much twist its way along as cavort. Seemingly at random. A true delight of travel, Ulna be praised.”

  “I’ll have to make time to see it, when I can.”

  “Your grace should indeed.” Nyorngyth adjusted his bulk. “When I reached that new branch of the Kingsroad, I considered going south into Malimfar, southeast into Caiperas, or following the road north to Armityr.” He shrugged. “I rolled dice, and asked Ulna to guide their fall. She led me back to Armityr just in time to join a royal procession all the way to Water’s End!”

  He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Truly, I am blessed.”

  “Will you bless us, for this journey?”

  “Of course, your grace,” Nyorngyth said. “It would be my honor.”

  “Gather about me, my knights,” Aefric said, and they formed a line with Aefric and Ser Beornric in the middle.

  “Form a ring around me, if you would,” Nyorngyth said, and at Aefric’s nod, his knights did so. “Thank you. Far easier this way.”

  Nyorngyth brought his hands together in front of his belly. Bowed his head and closed his eyes. Whispered a few words too softly for Aefric to hear.

  Nyorngyth knelt then in the hard dirt, and scraped together a handful.

  He held that handful, palm up, in his left hand, and covered the dirt with his right. He muttered a few more words, then stood.

  He stepped up to Aefric then, and there was something different in the aspect of the cleric. Normally, he seemed … so casual. Whether he was telling jokes or stories, listening or advising, he always seemed to be relaxed. At peace.

  But now, in this moment, he looked a warrior. Balance in his posture. Purpose in his eye.

  A breath of power surrounded him. Not the kind of power Aefric knew so well, but power nonetheless.

  With three fingers, Nyorngyth took a pinch of dirt and threw it at Aefric’s feet.

  With those same three fingers, Nyorngyth sketched the symbol of Ulna — the crossroads — in the air in front of Aefric. And as he did, his fingers seemed to sizzle the air behind them. For a moment, it was as though that crossroads hung, reddish brown, in the air.

  Nyorngyth took another pinch of dirt, threw it behind Aefric, and boomed words in a language Aefric didn’t recognize.

  “Ulna nistish vra Aefricasti Brightstaffasti ell cul natath.”

  Comfort and peace washed over Aefric. He felt much better about the coming journey. As though all the little things that could go wrong on the road, would not.

  Nyorngyth went around the circle, performing the blessing for each of Aefric’s knights.

  By the time he finished, the call came for everyone to mount up and ride. A bit of timing that Aefric found he could not consider coincidental.

  The royal entourage took long enough to get ready that morning that Aefric’s soldiers arrived at Forest’s Edge and had time to rest their horses before leaving again.

  Aefric didn’t need to borrow those horses from Count Ferrin after all.

  Just as well. Aefric was happy to see his glorious young black stallion, Windsong. And Queen Eppida seemed quite pleased to see Aefric riding her gift.

  As the royal party set out at last that morning, the entire company fell into the formation they would use for the trip to Water’s End.

  The soldiers and knights of Aefric’s personal guard rode out front, carrying both the royal banner and the Deepwater banner.

  Next came thirty of the knights who were traveling with the king. Then the royal party itself. First, six of the Knights of the Crown. Sers Beornric and Beatritz came next, followed by King Colm, Queen Eppida, and Aefric, and then the other six Knights of the Crown.

  That morning, it was only Aefric riding beside the king and queen. Although, as the days passed, other nobles would be allowed to ride with the three of them, as well as occasional others such as skalds, or Nyorngyth.

  After the royal party itself came the nobles, then the soldiers, then the other servants and retainers. Finally more soldiers to the rear, carrying the royal and ducal banners.

  The whole of the royal entourage seemed to stretch for nearly a quarter mile.

  That morning, during the ride, Aefric finished briefing the king and queen about what he knew and what he suspected, regarding a threat from Malimfar.

  “So Ferrin is still in the dark about Malimfar?” King Colm asked, when Aefric finished.

  “So far as I know,” Aefric said. “I’d meant to have Ser Beornric tell him the truth this past spring, but— Beornric!”

  “Your grace,” Ser Beornric called back, then slowed his horse to join the royal party.

  “When I sent you to Motte to explain my ruling about the mines, did you tell Count Ferrin that it was Malimfar behind his … poor decisions, not Merrek?”

  “I wanted to, your grace, but his excellency was not in a receptive frame of mind.”

  “No, I imagine not,” King Colm said with a sigh. “The boy is too hot-tempered.” He nodded dismissal to Ser Beornric, who rejoined Ser Beatritz a little further up.

  “And to tell him now would seem to be a move against his intended,” Queen Eppida said. “Nevertheless, he must be told before he marries her.”

  “But not yet,” Aefric said.

  “No,” King Colm agreed. “Much as I would like to tell him now that he may be sharing his bed with an adder, we really can’t. Not until the question of this coming assassination attempt is settled.”

  “Your grace is positive the attack will come?” Queen Eppida asked, and she sounded hopeful that Aefric was wrong. “I hardly see how it could take place.”

  Aefric had to admit. He agreed with her. He found it hard to imagine anyone trying to assassinate the king along the road. Not with so very many knights and soldiers about him. Especially as there were few, if any, good places for a bowman to hide near the Kingsroad.

  And unless Aefric was very much mistaken, knights and soldiers were checking every place that could hide an assassin.

  And then there were the royal magical protections. Both the king and queen wore blade-turning enchantments. The queen in the torc she always wore, and the king in a bracer worn under his tunic.

  Not to mention that a cleric of Ulna herself had blessed the journey. Surely such a blessing would keep them safe from assassins.

  Nevertheless, he stayed vigilant as they made their way first south across Motte — staying well clear of the tree cover provided by Kerrik Forest — to the Kingsroad, and then west towards Water’s End.

  Their majesties were originally supposed to stop at Norrtarr and Tafarac, but spread the word that they were needed at Water’s End to resolve an issue involving seabound problems between Malimfar and Caiperas that risked affecting shipping.

  This gave them an excuse to change their itinerary. Sleep in their pavilions, with plenty of knights and soldiers standing guard.

  And all seemed to be going well along the ride.

  The blessing of Ulna seemed to dominate the trip. The days were pleasant. The weather was good. The heat finally seemed to be giving way a bit. Losing some of its edge. The ride was smooth. The entourage even seemed to fall into a rhythm that required less time to stop and start, despite the number of people involved.

  It began to look as though they might make it all the way to Water’s End without a problem.

  In fact, by the end of the second day of steady vigilance, Aefric could tell that doubt had crept in about the imminence of an attack on anyone at all, let alone the king and queen.

  But then, on the third day of riding, the attack came.

  10

  On the third day of Aefric’s travel with the royal entourage, the skies were filled with slightly smeared white clouds fleeing the Risen Sea on winds that didn’t touch the ground.

  Down by the road, between the recovery efforts of Goldenfall and Felspark, the summer heat seemed to be staging a comeback.

  By the time that great centipede that was the royal entourage called the halt for lunch, Aefric doubted there were any among them who weren’t tired of the smells of dirt and their own sweat.

  And they still had half a day’s ride ahead of them.

  The soldiers found a good-sized clearing on the Goldenfall side of the Kingsroad. The procession had been going for over an aett now, so it seemed that everyone already knew their roles and their places, when it came to taking a break.

  Or perhaps everyone was simply ready to stop for food and something to drink. Because the whole of the procession seemed to leave the road and settle down for lunch faster than they had either of the two previous days.

  On that third day, Aefric and their majesties were joined for lunch and conversation on the wide, forest green blanket by three others. Sighild, Nyorngyth, and a ler Aefric hadn’t met before.

  His name was Ler Mildric Ol’Ornalla. He was a stout fellow, of middle years, though already showing more gray than soft brown in his short hair and well-groomed beard. He dressed in the colors of mustard and rust, but his silk tunic and hose looked good on him.

  In fact, he was rather handsome, in a roguish way. Maybe it was that smile of his, that always seemed to imply he knew more than he let on, but didn’t mind keeping secrets.

  Nyorngyth, of course, was in his brown travel robes. The king wore a pale red silk tunic over his riding leathers, and the queen wore a tunic that matched her eyes over hers. Sighild’s tunic was lemon yellow over her own riding leathers, while Aefric wore soft, Deepwater gray silk over his own.

  This many days on the road, though, and Aefric was beginning to see Dajen’s wisdom in trying to bring back hats. Aefric could feel the sun on his scalp, and the sweat was matting his hair.

  Plus, the shade of a hat’s bill would have been welcomed by his eyes, which were growing tired of the daylong glare.

  The royal lunch party was just enjoying an herb-roasted pheasant with a light, white cheese and honeyed oat bread — along with a dry white wine — when the hue and cry of rapid hooves approached from the east.

  Everyone turned to look. A single rider, in Motte livery, pushing speed out of a horse that could not take much more pushing.

  Orders were shouted. Knights leapt to their feet. Soldiers grabbed weapons. Even those who weren’t standing guard at the time hurried to posts around the huge entourage, intent on scanning all directions at once, for threats.

  But most eyes were still focused on the oncoming rider.

  As the royal party came to their feet, King Colm gave Aefric a significant look. As though the rider could only portend bad news.

  Aefric tapped the butt of the Brightstaff on the ground and caused white lightning to play along its length. To reassure their majesties of his own readiness to defend them.

  Which reminded Aefric. He didn’t know everyone he ate with that day…

  He turned to make sure Ler Mildric wasn’t an assassin, ready to take advantage of this distraction to end the life of his majesty.

  Ler Mildric only stared toward the rider, lips and eyes wide with excitement. Beside him, Sighild looked more curious than worried or excited.

  But from the corner of Aefric’s eye, he saw Nyorngyth. Standing in the king’s blind spot. Feet balanced like a skirmisher. A reddish, flame-shaped dagger in his hand. A dark look in his eye.

  No. Not him.

  Nyorngyth saw Aefric turn. Made his move. His hand leapt forward with the blade, aiming for the back of the king’s throat.

  Barely a handspan from murder.

  No time to call lightning. No time for a spell. No time even to grab that hand with magic. That would take too much focus.

  Aefric did the only thing he could.

  He focused a burst of raw magic and shoved Nyorngyth. Right in the center of mass.

  That was a blow that would have smashed open an unbarred castle gate. It should have knocked the portly cleric to the ground.

  But not Nyorngyth.

  Perhaps he was that well balanced. Knew how to use his weight right. Kept his center of gravity low. Perhaps he’d even anticipated the strike.

  Whatever the reason, he stumbled backward only two steps and never lost his footing.

  The king whirled. Reached for a sword he wasn’t wearing.

  “Down, sire!” Aefric shouted above the rising hue and cry, all around them.

  The king’s battlefield reflexes stayed true. He dropped to the blanket, dragging Queen Eppida down with him.

  Just in time. Nyorngyth threw that dagger.

  Aefric caught its handle with magic. Right above where the king crouched. It would have taken his majesty in the belly.

  Aefric threw the dagger back at Nyorngyth.

  The shot went wide. Nyorngyth didn’t even have to duck.

  He pulled two stilettos out of his sleeves and crouched to spring at the king.

  But Aefric’s throw had done its work. Bought him the moment he needed.

  Before Nyorngyth could leap Aefric froze him with magic. Made a human statue of him.

  Knights and soldiers rushed in.

  “Bind him,” the king ordered, coming to his feet and helping Queen Eppida to hers.

  Two Knights of the Crown grabbed Nyorngyth’s wrists, but couldn’t budge him except to tip him forward.

  But more knights and soldiers came to help. Once Aefric was convinced that Nyorngyth was sufficiently surrounded, he released the spell and left them to their work.

  He turned to the king and queen.

  “Were you hurt, sire?”

  “No,” King Colm said. “Thanks to your quick action, your grace.”

  Queen Eppida, breathless and clinging to her husband as though to reassure herself that he still lived, turned wide eyes to Aefric.

  “Forgive me … your grace … for doubting…”

  “You were right to question,” Aefric said, shaking his head in disbelief at the assassin’s identity. “Even I would never have suspected Nyorngyth.”

  “We traveled with him that whole way to Fyretti. To Castle Siarhal,” Sighild said to Aefric. She looked even paler than normal. Almost lost. “I never… I spoke so freely around him.”