He grunted, eyes fixed forward. She glanced at him sidelong, wanting to ask why he had washed his makeup off and forcing herself not to. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t guess: he was trying to fit in. Qanath wasn’t the only one who thought he’d turned into a Tabbaqeran, but his people were less pleased by it.
“You have a better idea where we’re going now?”
“I still want to see my mother first.”
“You have some sense where to look, though?”
“If she came past here a few days ago heading west… This close to the border, there’s only one place she could have been going. We had a chalet up in the mountains, a really isolated place.”
“Are we not in the mountains already?”
He didn’t seem to realize it was a joke, preoccupied eyes turned inward. “Half the country is mountains, and this is the better farmland than what lies along the coast. The soil is mostly clay and prone to flood.”
“Your people seem unhappy about that,” she pointed out carefully.
Havec shook his head. “Once we’ve talked to my mother, we’ll know what’s going on.”
Not Quite a Story for Little People After All
They made their way westward that day, climbing steadily toward the higher peaks. You couldn’t see the mountains save in the rocks beneath their feet: the clouds persisted stubbornly, clinging close to the ground and filling the broader valleys like fog. Flurries of snow continued on and off all day, never coming down hard enough to add to the dusting on the ground.
Qanath was quiet, and Havec was deeply grateful for her tact. He knew she must be bubbling with questions. He couldn’t stand to talk to her at the moment, though. He couldn’t stand to canvas his hopes.
It was late in the afternoon when they came over a hill to find a vale before them, a grove of aspen on the north face casting an unexpected splotch of pallor amidst the ubiquitous evergreens. Centrally there was a small lake, still frozen at this season although the ice was darker around the banks where it had begun to thaw. With the thin coat of snow on the ground, it was impossible to tell that a road descended into this valley further north. On the far slope, halfway up the hill, a small collection of buildings nestled among the trees.
At first glance, you might think it was a farm, but if you looked longer, you would notice that the details weren’t quite right. One square structure off to one side had the wide double doors you would associate with a housing for animals, but the fences that went with pasturage were nowhere in evidence. The other outbuilding was as big as the barn, its purpose unclear, and the central house was large, its adornments more elaborate than one would expect. Small balconies at several places on the second and third floors presented scenic views across the valley; finely-carved woodwork surrounded the windows and eaves; no fewer than twelve chimneys breathed smoke into the frigid, waning day.
Havec hesitated on the lip of the valley, surveying a place he hadn’t seen in years. The barn was actually a stable; the other building, a barracks to house the family’s personal guard. So far as he remembered, the people who kept the place running lived there, too. The central building was his family’s, an isolated retreat where his father had used to take him when he wanted to get away. It had been their place, where first his father taught him to interpret tracks and shoot a bow. He couldn’t recall that his mother had ever come with them, and it felt odd to find her here. Perhaps the chalet had come to mean more to her since she lost them both.
“Are we staying in this village?” Qanath whispered.
“This isn’t a village, it’s our house.”
“You have a house?”
Her voice had risen, and he hissed at her to quiet down. Then he took them back a bit from the ridgeline, so they would be invisible from the valley. As he steered them around its contour to the south, he said softly, “Where did you expect us to live, up a tree?”
“I thought your family would live in a castle or something,” she replied, keeping her voice down this time.
“Most of the fortifications are along the border with Tweel.”
He got them around to the western wall of the valley before moving cautiously back over the lip of the hill. The snow picked up suddenly, coming down in solid sheets as if for the purpose of obstructing his view. He had brought them in behind the house, and it was mostly hidden by trees. He put his weight on the balls of his feet and went slowly, straining his ears for any sound save the moaning wind combing pine needles and the almost-not-heard hiss of falling snow. He hadn’t seen many tracks marring the snow around the cleared areas at the valley’s heart, but it was thin. It seemed unlikely they would have mounted a heavy guard, but the border with the Empire had been the quietest place in the kingdom in his youth. Back then, his people had not called Tabbaqerans witches or laid their problems at the Empire’s door.
When they came to the end of the trees behind the house, the building loomed out of the growing gloom. He put himself behind a tree while he looked at the chalet, noting which windows had lights glowing. Then he peered off to his right, squinting at that other house where the guards would be. He thought about it for a minute before shrugging out of his pack and leaning it up against a tree.
Once the girl had followed suit, he took them through the trees to the northwestern corner of the house before leading them out into the open. He scuttled for the shelter of the building, feeling exposed. Once he reached it, he took a moment to press his back against the wooden siding, letting his heart return to its proper place. Then he took them east, ducking carefully below the windows.
He peeked around the corner at the front of the house, assuring himself that no one was about. Then he straightened and made for the door. He heard Qanath squeak as he reached for the knob. This wasn’t the Empire; they didn’t have cults of assassins here, clans of hired killers, schools of martial arts. So far as he was aware, he was the first person in the history of Moritia to have been the victim of a surgical attack.
He was already rotating the handle as it struck him that his mother might have taken a lesson from the experience, that not all opponents declared themselves openly in the field and those places where one let down one’s guard were actually the places where one was least secure. By then, he had already opened the door. The foyer was as vacant as expected, a slate-floored space with a vaulted ceiling lined by animal heads, unchanged since his youth. The sight of it affected him more deeply than he had anticipated, and he rocked back on his heels. Many of those trophies carried memories with them.
He made himself move forward, clearing the door for the girl. Down the hallway leading toward the other areas of the house, going slowly and listening for guards. Toward the rear, he entered an open area with a number of doors letting off it, a stairway leading up, a broad doorway in the far wall opening onto another room. He stepped up to that doorway, looking into a cozy space with a fireplace big enough you could have fit Xar comfortably inside.
It wasn’t the room that had arrested him, but the young man sprawled across the great bear hide in the center of the floor. He was in his stocking feet, wearing a sleeveless shirt, completely at his ease. A cup of wine stood at his elbow, and Havec couldn’t see that he was doing anything other than staring idly into the flames.
There were other rooms leading from the area where he had paused, and he heard the sounds of movement beyond at least one door. He could smell cooking, wine and roasting meat; this was a bad place to hang around. He turned to the staircase, giving the girl a significant look. Then he squatted slightly and held out his hands.
You’re mad, she mouthed, but after a moment, she gave up and climbed onto his back. He hefted her cautiously, then placed a foot on the first step. He’d learned the hard way that, although she was a boon companion, there were things she couldn’t do. These stairs were creaky, bald of carpets, and it was his job to make sure no one cut off their heads. If she couldn’t climb down a wet cliff, she couldn’t sneak up a squeaky flight of stairs.
Anyway, he still didn’t know what his mother’s status was. For all he knew, she was a prisoner, her life in peril constantly. He couldn’t trust his cousin Hemell with the knowledge he was here.
It was slow going, making sure of his footing on each step before moving to the next. The girl clung to his back, her nervous breath gasping in his ear. He set her down when they reached the top, giving her a nod. Then he made for the hallway, going straight to the second door on the left. It had been his father’s bedroom when his father was alive.
A woman sat at the desk against the outer wall, back to him. A tall, slender figure, posture upright. She turned at the faint sound of his caught breath, eyes flicking only briefly onto the girl partially eclipsed by his shoulder before settling on his face. She was as beautiful and cold as an ice sculpture, her features delicate. Eyes the same blue as his.
He stepped into the room as if drawn on a string. He felt his mouth open but had nothing to say. He crossed the room to her with his head floating, and she rose defensively from her chair as if she feared attack. There was another breathless moment when she didn’t see her son in the face of the man he had become. Then she frowned, drawing back from him. “What are you doing here?”
There was some part of him that knew even then that something was awry, but he was too keyed up to pay it heed. Taking her hands, he said, “I’m here, Mother. I made it home at last.”
She pulled her hands away. “To what end?”
“To… save you. To set our country right.”
She sighed as if he had annoyed her. “Yes, well, Hemell is my heir now, honey.”
He was terribly disoriented, by her words, by her manner, and couldn’t find a place in the conversation to grasp in order to steady himself. “Your heir? What about Jonet?”
“Your uncle is well. He’s in Callon, keeping things running for me while I take a little break.”
