Mystic and Rider Page 2

  “He’s no mystic,” Kardon called, still standing behind the bar and watching. “He’s just a servant. He does my bidding.”

  The woman called Senneth turned to look at him, and again he found her gaze unsettling. Her eyes were a crystal gray, wide and thoughtful and impossible to read. She looked like she was having no trouble at all scanning his soul. “Only a mystic,” she said, “is burned by the touch of the Pale Mother’s hand.”

  One of the regular customers gave a gruff laugh. “That right, Kardon?” he inquired. “You’re piling up magicians in the back room? What, do you have them doctoring our beer so we fall asleep at our tables and you can rob us blind?”

  Kardon himself felt blind with a swift surge of fury. “He’s a boy. He’s no mystic. And I’ll thank you to remember what kind of service I’ve given you all these years.”

  Senneth had edged her knife even deeper under the collar, till the point of it rested against the soft flesh under the boy’s chin. He was staring down at her, mesmerized by terror or whatever power she had in her eyes; she was smiling up at him with an expression that seemed to owe as much to rage as mirth.

  “What would you do, I wonder,” she murmured, “if I twisted this blade enough to break your collar? What sort of power would you show us then?”

  At that exact moment, someone screamed.

  Kardon’s attention whipped that way. While almost everyone else had been watching the sea captain question the serving boy, another small drama had been playing itself out in the back of the room. Two of Kardon’s old friends had approached the scrawny young nobleman and backed him into a corner. He now cowered against the wall, arms ineffectually raised before him, looking even more slight and helpless than before. His face was so fine and so white that Kardon imagined he’d rarely seen the countryside outdoors, let alone the rough weather in a training yard. He’d probably never held a sword in his life.

  “Please,” he was saying, trying to bat away the weapons pointed in his direction. “I have nothing—but my father, he’ll pay you—if you don’t hurt me—he’s very wealthy—”

  “Young handsome boy like you could be worth a lot to us,” purred one of the attackers, poking at the boy’s shoulder and throat with the point of his sword. “I don’t like the idea of a ransom unless the stakes are awfully high, but I bet you’ve got more valuables on you than you even know. What about the pin on your hat here? Is that a set of rubies I see?” And he knocked the hat off with the tip of his blade.

  And a cascade of golden curls came tumbling down over the young man’s shoulders.

  Over the young woman’s shoulders, Kardon corrected himself.

  Everyone in the bar was now staring at the events unfolding in the corner. Even dressed in a velvet jacket cut like a man’s, the woman was suddenly unmistakably female, and terrified. Her face went even whiter; she crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself. But her attackers were chortling with unrestrained delight—what a glorious catch! what a prize with a dozen fabulous uses!—and they pressed even closer, weapons falling to their sides. One of them even lifted a hand to brush his fingers across her ivory-smooth cheek.

  “Don’t touch her,” a cold voice said. Cursing himself for continually losing track of the other players in the room, Kardon cut his eyes over to the last remaining stranger. The sandy-haired man was on his feet, his cloak thrown over his chair, and he had a dagger in each hand. The weapon belt now revealed around his waist showed an array of other small knives tucked in well-worn sheaths. More than a street fighter—a mercenary soldier, trained for one thing only. “Leave her in peace,” he added.

  “You leave in peace before you don’t have a chance to leave at all,” her attacker snarled. “This isn’t your fight.”

  “I make it mine,” the mercenary said calmly. “Let her pass.”

  “Fight for her,” the cutthroat said.

  Then so many things happened at once that Kardon could not follow them all. The mercenary lunged for the cutthroat. The other assailant swung his sword at the golden-haired girl. The girl crumpled to the floor in what appeared to be a swoon—until her attacker shouted with bewilderment.

  “She’s gone! Where’d she go?” he cried—and then he howled in pain as something small and feral raked him across the thigh.

  Kardon dashed around the edge of the bar, a blade of his own in hand, intending to join the fight. He’d only gotten two steps away from the counter when his way was blocked by the burly black-haired sailor.

  “We’re taking your servant boy with us,” the big man said, tossing a handful of silver onto the polished wood of the bar. “This may or may not cover his purchase price.”

  “What?” Kardon screeched, but the big man shoved him back so forcefully that he lost his balance and fell heavily to the floor. Winded and dazed, he could only lie there and watch the quick, efficient activity occurring throughout his tavern. The sea captain had come to her feet, her knife still under Cammon’s collar, and she gave her blade one hard twist. The silver snapped in two and fell to the boy’s feet, while his hands went up in wonder to his throat.

  “Out the door,” Senneth said, pushing him that way. “Wait for us.”

  He stumbled out. She strode forward, knife still in hand, Tayse at her side. They waded into the fight across the room, which now involved every patron of the bar, so that the mercenary was totally overmatched. Not for long; once the sea captain and her bundle of muscle joined the fray, it was clear that these were three seasoned warriors who had fought countless times in battles more hazardous than this one. Their blade work was methodical and unerring, and they beat back their would-be attackers with cold efficiency. Within minutes, Kardon’s friends had either collapsed panting to the floor or run for the kitchen to escape.

  Of the golden-haired woman there was no sign, though Kardon thought he saw a small calico wharf cat scurry across the floor and out the front door through which Cammon had disappeared.

  The sea captain glanced around once as if to make sure no more danger lurked in the corners, then sheathed her blade in one economical movement. “Is Kirra outside?” she asked the men who stood beside her. Both of them were still holding their weapons in their hands.

  “I saw her go through the door,” the sandy-haired young man said.

  “Good. Then we’ll be off. The boy rides with you, Justin, if Donnal hasn’t managed to find another horse.”

  “I’ll just watch this one a moment while you organize the others,” Tayse said, turning his attention to Kardon. The woman laughed as she ushered the younger man outside.

  The barkeeper stayed prone on the floor, raising one of his hands in a gesture of submission. “I’m not doing anything,” he said. “I’m not coming after you. Just take what you want and go. Lousy mercenaries. Thieves of the worst kind,” he could not stop himself from muttering.

  The big man smiled as if he was genuinely amused. “We’re not mercenaries,” he said. “We’re King’s Riders.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE hard ride down the slick, dark alleys of the city was made even less agreeable by the freezing rain that fell on them the whole way. Senneth could tell that Kirra and Cammon were absolutely wretched. The other three might have been miserable as well, but Justin and Tayse would never show it, and Donnal had ways of dealing with discomfort. The rain bothered Senneth a little more than the cold did; she was never cold. And she didn’t even mind the rain, since it meant there was less chance the barkeeper or one of his friends would come after them.

  Donnal pushed his horse to the lead once they broke free of the last, straggling streets of the city, taking them down the main trade road that led straight east. Numb from cold, they followed him blindly, even when he broke off and started going cross-country. He had scouted this terrain over the last couple of days while the rest of them had been in Dormas; he had picked out their next campsite against the chance of a quick departure. Senneth only hoped it was covered and dry. She wouldn’t even allow herse
lf to consider that he might have had time to lay in fuel for a fire.

  Another twenty minutes down a path that only a wild creature would have been able to find, and even Senneth was beginning to tire. She heard Kirra’s sharp voice—“Are we going to stop sometime tonight?”—and Donnal’s reassuring answer.

  “Just over that hill there. Old dairy house, I think. Must have been a farmhouse nearby, but I couldn’t find it. Maybe it burned down.”

  And as he finished speaking, they crested the hill. There it was, a dark smudge against the wet darkness, holding the approximate shape of a house. They all clattered inside, still on horseback, and swung themselves out of the saddle to look around.

  Little to see in the dark, but Senneth’s first impression was that it was moldy enough to make her doubt its waterproofing, and not a degree warmer than the air outside. “I’ll make a fire,” she said, handing her reins to Kirra.

  “Wood in the corner,” Donnal said.

  “Aahhh,” she said, grinning at his shape, barely discernible in the shadows. “May the Bright Mother bless you for all your days.”

  She saw Cammon’s head lift at the prayer, but she didn’t pause just then to talk to him. Kirra and Donnal were ushering the horses to the back of the small structure, where there appeared to be some kind of stalls or gates already in place. Justin and Tayse were hauling down saddlebags, getting out blankets and food. Her own task, as usual, was to start the fire. No need to worry about the smoke escaping; this place was rickety enough to allow it all to drift outside.

  In something under fifteen minutes, they had a small, dry, almost convivial camp laid out, and Senneth could feel the spirits of her companions rising.

  “Good work,” she said, nodding across the flames to Justin and Tayse. “He was not expecting what he got from us.”

  As always, Justin scowled at her, and Tayse looked merely indifferent. As she had learned during the one week they had been riding together, they neither liked nor trusted her, so her praise would not move them. Still, she would continue to express her approval when it was merited. So far, they had not failed her; she was pretty sure that pride on Justin’s part and sheer damned stubbornness on Tayse’s would guarantee that they never did.

  Finally warm and at rest and still full of wonder, the young serving boy turned his wide eyes her way. “What did—why—who are you?” he stammered. “I don’t know—why did you take me?”

  Senneth turned to him with a smile. He was sitting between Kirra and Justin, his hands folded in his lap, waiting with a shocked patience for whatever the rest of the night might bring. She was pretty sure it would be just dinner and a well-deserved sleep, but he might worry that he had gone from one form of misery to another.

  “I’m Senneth,” she said. “The lady with the lovely hair is Kirra Danalustrous.”

  Kirra smiled in her friendly way. “Hey there.”

  “Justin—Tayse—Donnal. They’re traveling with me on certain errands for the king. Your name, I understand it, is Cammon.”

  He nodded, but his attention had fixed on Kirra. Clearly he was remembering some scene from the barroom brawl. “You’re—you pretended to be a boy, then you showed you were a woman, and then—did you change shapes?” he asked with some wonder. “I saw a cat where you’d been standing—”

  Kirra was grinning. “It’s a skill I have. I’m a shiftling,” she said. “So’s Donnal.”

  Cammon looked around at the faces ringing the fire, but Senneth thought he looked more intrigued than frightened. “So that’s why you took me from the bar? All of you are mystics?”

  Tayse snorted. Justin said shortly, “No. Just those three.”

  Cammon gave Senneth a questioning look, and she nodded. “I can’t shape-shift, though. Or at least not very well. But yes, Kirra and Donnal and I are mystics—and, yes, that’s why we rescued you. Because I think you’re a mystic, too.”

  Cammon put his hand to his throat, where the red mark of the moonstone still lingered. “I don’t know,” he said in a low voice. “I never had any kind of magic when we lived in Arberharst.”

  Kirra tilted her head to one side. Any such movement always caused her glorious hair to ripple with light. Senneth grinned to see how the four men, all unwilling, turned to watch that sight. “But you’re from Gillengaria, aren’t you? Originally?”

  Cammon nodded. “My mother was. My father—I don’t know. He never talked much about his past, so I’m not sure where he came from.”

  Kirra shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Somewhere in your mother’s family or your father’s, someone was a mystic, and you’ve inherited the power.” She glanced at Senneth. “Or so some of us think.”

  “Yes, she just saw you emptying a chamber pot in the alley behind the bar, and she said, ‘He’s a special one,’ ” Justin said in a mocking voice. Senneth could tell he was still furious at the detour and delay in plans, though he had no responsibility for their timetable and even less for their mission. He had played his part well, though. Give him a chance to fight somebody, and he was always willing to oblige. “So we had to stop and free you, and now I don’t know what we’re going to do with you.”

  Cammon looked apprehensive, but Senneth said, “We’ll take you someplace safe. Don’t worry.”

  “Food’s ready,” Tayse said briefly and began handing ’round plates. Tayse, Senneth, Kirra, and Justin had all ordered dinner at the tavern—but Senneth, at least, had been too tense to eat much, and the long, cold ride had left them all hungry again.

  “We’ll talk about all this after dinner,” Senneth said.

  Which did not take very long, since the meal was plain and there was little conversation. Donnal and Kirra were murmuring together, as they often did, and Justin got up once to check the horses, but the rest of them just forked meat into their mouths and rejoiced at how much better they began to feel. Warm, dry, fed. All a traveler could ask for.

  Donnal cleaned up afterward. Tayse and Justin sat together, oiling their swords and inspecting their other weapons. Senneth cared for her own blades, but not with quite the same obsessive attention. Then again, she had to admit it: Either one of them could best her any day in hand-to-hand combat, and until she’d met these Riders, she’d considered herself a damn good fighter.

  Kirra drew closer so that she and Cammon and Senneth sat in a little triangle on one of the camp blankets. “Now,” Senneth said. “Let’s talk a bit more about you.”

  Cammon shrugged again. “Like I said. I never had any magical abilities before I came to Gillengaria. I don’t know that I do. It’s just that—since I’ve been here—I’ve felt strange. Like thoughts and ideas are pouring in on me all the time, from everywhere. I can look at a man and know when he’s lying. One day a woman came in, and I knew she was dying. I could feel this—this blackness oozing out of her. She took a room next door, and she was dead in a week. Kardon was furious, because she owed him money, and she didn’t have a coin on her.”

  Senneth exchanged glances with Kirra. “Sensitive,” the golden-haired woman said.

  “Reader,” Senneth added. “Did you know Kirra wasn’t a man when she came in the bar dressed like one?”

  Cammon frowned a moment, trying to remember. “I just got a glimpse of her before everything started to get crazy,” he said. “But—yes, I did. Everyone else gasped when her hair came down. But I wasn’t surprised.”

  “How did that barkeeper—Kardon, is that his name?—how did he know you were a mystic?” Senneth asked.

  Cammon shook his head. “I don’t know. He was always telling me not to be trouble, he knew my type. I think he’s just suspicious of people in general, and being a mystic was the worst thing he could think of. So he gave me the moonstone.” He rubbed his neck again. “I never thought—I’d never felt anything like that.”

  “Keep it on long enough, and it can actually kill you,” Kirra said. “Poison your blood. It really is anathema to people like us.”

  Cammon’s eyes were on the br
acelet around Senneth’s left wrist. “Then how can you—?”

  Senneth grinned and shook her hand so the stones tinkled together. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  “Are they fake jewels?”

  “Oh, they’re real, all right, as you’ll know if you touch them,” Kirra said dryly. “She’s the only mystic I’ve ever met who can actually bear to touch moonstone.”

  He looked at Senneth. “But why? Doesn’t it hurt you?”

  Senneth shrugged. “I can feel it. Like a small fire across my skin. But I find the bracelet useful. It makes strangers fail to guess my identity. And it—” She shrugged again. “It keeps my power in check somewhat. When I was younger, I could not always control it. Now I can, but I don’t mind keeping the intensity a little low.”

  “What exactly is your power?” Cammon asked, and then looked embarrassed, as if it was rude to ask.

  From across the building, Justin raised his voice in a sardonic question. “Yes, Senneth, what exactly is your power? Donnal and Kirra at least have shown us what they’re capable of, though I’m not so impressed at people who turn themselves into beasts, but you’ve never been exactly clear on what it is you can do.”

  Kirra half-turned to shoot her answer over her shoulder. “She is power, you stupid gutter boy. She can do anything. She can create heat, and light, and fire. She can heal someone better than I can. She can change shape if she wants to. She can cast darkness. She can—she can do anything.”