Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

39

His Highness, Prince Nalderick, rode northward from Karellon with a few friends and retainers, making much speed and very little display. His father, the scholarly Korvin, had offered advice and strong potions. His mother, Elyise, a charm of safe travel (particularly effective against ogres). His younger sister had wanted to join him… but both heirs-attendant could not depart the City at once. Nor had she permission to do so. 'Little Vixen' was Genevera's nickname, however, and she'd promised him a non-stop itch, perpetual thirst and reverse map-reading unless he agreed to help her sneak forth.

The fact that none of these calamities actually befell him should have been a relief, but wasn't. Not if one knew Genevera.

At any rate, he rode off with five loyal teammates, following Valerian's trail. His friend had stopped here and there along the way, but seemingly just to change horses and (one fancied) to stretch his sore legs.

Derrick was accustomed to hunts and sedate, gentle rides in the imperial parklands, not to long, cramping days spent in the saddle. Nor was he the only one in pronounced discomfort.

"May the gods curse his unswerving, iron-clad fundament," snarled Marlie, both hands at the small of his back, as they awaited a fresh round of steeds. "I'll slaughter Valerian myself, when we find him, just for the saddle sores."

The town was Crownborough, a tiny flyspeck on the Emperor's Way, at which Val had paused to eat and remount, spending enough money to bring a fond glint to the hosteler's eye. The Prince summoned the proprietor to his inn's courtyard for questioning, not deigning to enter the place.

"Yes, Milord, he was here, sure enough," said the halfling, beaming. "Tall young feller; blond, in haste to be gone, and mighty free with his coin. Paid nearly twice what the beast was worth, in his hurry… but we threw in free feed and tack, plus a chit for room and a meal, should he ever come back to the Traveler's Ease." (A touch rushed and nervous on the last bit, for Derrick had started to scowl. It was beneath him to haggle or even to notice expenditure. His retainers saw to all that… but he hated to think that Val had been cheated by mere, grubby tradesmen.)

Dark-haired Sherlon, somewhat bow-legged and stiff, muttered,

"He's never had a great deal of sense. Terrific forward defender, though," his teammate went on. "Not much gets past him."

"Except good advice," snapped Marlie, still aching and stiff. On top of everything else, he'd wagered a great deal of money on Val at the Open Casket, and soon would have to come up with repayment. Off of Valerian's corpse, in a just universe.

Brinn, Vashtie and Roreck had less to say, or else were too tired (or wise) to express it aloud. Anyhow, Nalderick was in charge, so it was for him to set matters straight.

"You will therefore charge each of us half the worth of our steeds, Hosteler," ordered the prince. "And next time refrain from defrauding your betters."

The halfling grimaced, but inclined his curly-topped head.

"Yes, Milord. It was ill done, and I'm happy to make redress. Will… will you be staying the night?"

Nalderick shook his head, no, despite the hollow groans of his suffering teammates.

"The war bells have rung and our business is urgent. We must press onward," said Nalderick, waving a servitor forth to make payment.

The next town was Snowmont, up by the Talons. There the trail ended, and everything went wrong at once. Fortunate fellow, Valerian.

They rode in through the town's main gate to find the place in an uproar. Magister Serrio's fair was packed with refugees, and Lord Orrin was now in disgrace; his mansion destroyed, his wife missing and his court mage freshly dismissed.

Orrin was a Feen, an Arvendahl half-elf; once master of Snowmont, now on his way over the mountains to the human held lands, beyond. And, yes, he'd seen Valerian. Told Derrick as much in the deserted courtyard of his former manse.

"He came into town at dusk last Threeday, alone. Acquired retainers, supped at my board and then helped to defeat an outburst of chaos, after which he and they vanished entirely, my lord," said Orrin, wary and tense. "Two other great ones appeared in answer to Snowmont's bells. High Lord Arvendahl and the Imperial Court Mage, Sherazedan. Perhaps you might question them, as I know nothing further." (That he'd admit to, at least.)

Nalderick had not declared his own rank. This far north in the bogs, he wouldn't be recognized as Prince Attendant without obvious badges of station or the deference of his companions. He neither liked nor trusted his uncle, but hearing this fellow… this surly Feen… refer to the wizard without his title was galling.

"His Imperial Highness is Valerian's master, and may indeed have some knowledge of my friend's whereabouts," said Nalderick, frostily formal, without making eye-contact.

Others were nearby, as well. Chiefly one Filimar, who'd been given charge over Snowmont by his relative, High Lord Arvendahl. Smart lad, Filimar… or else clearer sighted than Orrin, who rode off over the western march with just one loaded pack mule and no backward look.

"There's a man who merits a shot in the back or a sudden, tragic landslide, if ever I saw one," muttered big, golden Roreck, passing lightning from hand to hand as they watched Orrin slink off. "He'll be trouble for someone, and soon. Mark that I said it."

His twin, Vashtie, glanced over at Nalderick, a sly smile not quite piercing her usual calm.

"A quick word and over he goes, Naldo… missed by no one at all, guarantee it."

Tempting. But Nalderick shook his head, no.

"There will be strife, soon enough. I can feel it… but there's no sense rolling in blood or touching things off too early. Let him go. The poisoned waste is a well known solver of problems. Paved with the bones of exiles." Including, maybe, his lost uncle Telemun.

Thus, no one struck out at former Lord Orrin, who soon rode over the pass and out of their ken, to everyone's eventual grief.

Here and now, Nalderick turned his attention to Filimar. The younger elf stood with three companions, all of them clearly aware of Nalderick's rank and anxious not to betray what they knew, if disguise was His Highness's wish.

The young Arvendahl bowed so deeply that he might as well have dropped to one knee, murmuring,

"My lord," and awaiting Nalderick's signal to rise.

"What do you know of Valerian?" demanded the prince, without further preamble.

Filimar smiled; the expression warming his pale blue eyes, as well as lighting his narrow face.

"We met in the plaza, my lord… then separated for a time at the fair, while I escorted Lady Salem. There was an… erm… public entertainment. A combat display in which Valno succeeded in besting a giant cat-warrior. It was a truly wondrous fight!"

Off to one side, Solara snorted. Nalderick quelled her with a sharp look, then asked,

"And, afterward?"

Filimar, who'd been digging his friends in the ribs with his elbow, sobered right up once again.

"We next had to split up in search of Lady Salem, who must have been overcome at the sight of blood and battle, for she disappeared in the midst of the action."

Filimar looked upset at that, chiefly with himself, if Derrick was reading his aura correctly. A bit wistfully, the young elf went on with the tale.

"It was Valerian who found her. At the fish park, I believe. Milady is gentle and sensitive. Such manly pursuits unsettle her deeply."

Nalderick lifted an eyebrow, saying only,

"And then?"

Filimar made a face.

"Then, as the Feen indicated, Valno was invited to dinner at the manse. It, erm… was more impressive, back then."

Not much more than a cellar, charred foundation stones and a blackened rear wall now, though.

"Somehow," Filimar continued delicately (apparently wishing to keep any blame off of Val), "a swallowing void opened up. The war bells were sounded and we… That is, Sandor, Kellen, Arien and I… raced up to assist. We met Valno on his way down with Orrin's entire household. He'd been charged with their safety, my lord. Wasn't fleeing."

Nalderick smiled a little, genuinely warming to Filimar.

"Beside the fact that his god wouldn't let him, avoiding danger requires common sense, an attribute that our mutual friend possesses very little of. The swallowing void was dispelled, I take it?"

Filimar nodded.

"Yes, my lord. Eventually, and at cost. Again, as Orrin mentioned, my uncle and His Imperial Highness, Sherazedan came in answer to the war bells. I… well… had some converse with milady and then she, along with the druid and Valno just… vanished."

"Druid?" probed Nalderick, tugging at this newest thread in the tapestry.

"Yes, Lord. A woodling of Lobum, from his coloration and antler headdress. The plainsfolk are more tanned, bedecking themselves in polished seed-pods and antelope horn. This one was a northerner, evidently among Lord Valerian's retainers."

Derrick nodded, putting a few things together in his mind.

"I see. And, have you any idea where Valerian might have gone off to, and why?"

"No doubt spelled himself north to get out of trouble here and solve goblin issues at home," cut in Lady Solara, coming forward. She was as lovely and cold as Derrick remembered her. Every bit as attractive as a wind-chiseled ice floe.

Nalderick hadn't bidden her speak, yet, so he glanced over and then turned his back. To Filimar, he said,

"Valerian deems you worthy of comradeship, and I trust his judgment."

("In some things," grunted flame-haired Marlie, causing the others to laugh. Derrick ignored them all.)

"As you have descried, I am Nalderick Valinor ob Korvin, Prince-Attendant, and I am here at the behest of His Imperial Majesty." A very slight flex of the truth, but near enough not to trouble his conscience, at all. "To you and your set, simply 'Nalderick'."

Filimar's eyes widened. Behind the young elf lord, jaws dropped in unison, as all four bent the knee.

"I… this is a tremendous honor, indeed, My Prince," managed Filimar. "In any way that we can help to find Valno, I and my people stand ready. An Arvendahl, always, to the fray."

"Nalderick," prompted the prince, amused by Filimar's struggle to say his first name without adding a title.

"Nalderick," repeated the Arvendahl, looking like he'd just been blessed by his holy god.

It was then that the prince turned to question Solara. Didn't get very far, however.

"I bid you speak freely, milady. You have suggested that Valerian made his way north to Ilirian," said Nalderick, addressing the sorceress. Somewhat respectfully, for she outranked him in magical learning, if not in authority. "Yet, I sense him not. A few hundred miles further north would not hide him completely from ken or from scrying. Something else has occurred, and I believe that my uncle, your former master, may be involved in the matter. What do you know of this, Lady Solara?"

She was dressed for travel in simple, warm robes, with a hooded grey cloak over all, and her pearl-topped staff in one hand. Face ironed expressionless, violet eyes carefully blank, she inclined her blonde head.

"The dear, rustic lad does get around," she cooed, in a honeyed and cloying voice. "Perhaps his god has whisked him away on some quest of mercy to a nearby plane."

Nalderick sifted her words for the truth. Just as Filimar and Orrin seemed eager to keep any blame for Snowmont's troubles from Valerian, Solara was probably shielding her former master.

"Oh, come on, Dickie!" chimed a sudden, impatient new voice. "Sherazedan did it, and everyone knows!"

Genevera, morphing from footman's cloak-brooch to runaway princess with a bright flash of crystalline light. Dressed up in boy's clothes, armed with her knife and a bow.

"Even you can't be that thick!" she scolded, hands at her hips.

Everyone froze but the petulant girl, who folded her arms across her chest and scowled at them all. Lifting her chin, she announced,

"Yes, I am here. What of it?"

Nalderick sagged, hand at his face. In a tightly controlled voice, he asked,

"Did you seek an audience? Ask for permission to leave, Genna?"

She sniffed, absolutely secure in her charm and her rank as an imperial princess.

"Phooey. Why bother? It takes forever to see Gramperor, and anyway, he's busy with his dumb old dragon. No. I just came along, Dickie. You worry too much."

Nalderick cut her off with a gesture. Then, turning away from his brown-haired young sister, the prince murmured a connection spell and dropped to one knee in the windswept and rubble-strewn courtyard.

"Your Majesty…" he began, as a contact-rift first pulsed, died and then reformed in front of him. No image came from the other side. Just a cold, distant voice, saying,

"She is with you?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Nalderick, as everyone else knelt and bowed, hand to forehead in deepest obeisance. Even Genevera, once he'd dragged her down with a hasty spell of compliance.

"Did you take her?" demanded his grandfather's voice, dangerously quiet and calm.

Nalderick choked. To say 'no' would be to place all of the blame for her desertion on Genevera. To say 'yes' would mean at least banishment, for defying the emperor's will. But,

"No, Grandfather," said Genna, shedding her brother's magic to rise. "I just decided to…"

"Be silent," snapped His Imperial Highness, now a silhouette backlit by dragon's egg gold. Genevera at once lost the power of speech, looking utterly shocked and… for the first time… afraid.

"I am deeply displeased with you both. She should have been better watched. You, Nalderick, should have anticipated such willfulness on the part of your younger sibling. I have no further time to waste on this matter. Nalderick, her punishment rests in your hands. See that it is fitting and just, or face even worse, yourself."

And with that, His Imperial Highness broke contact.

"Well, that's easy, then," chirped Genevera, who could speak once again. "Just tell me, 'no fruit ices for a month', or something, Dickie. Problem solved."

"Shut up," whispered Nalderick, as all the rest gathered, stunned and silent, around him. "Just… shut up and let me think, Genna."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Somewhat later, needing no formal audience, constrained by no checkpoints or guards, Sherazedan appeared in the Lair, at His Imperial Majesty's side. Vernax the Golden was nearly translucent, now; most of its substance pulled into that pulsing-hot egg.

"The child has been located, Your Majesty," murmured the court mage, bowing low.

"She is safe?" asked Aldarion, tearing his gaze away from the slumped, fading dragon. Lines of exhaustion and care seamed his thin face. He was terribly weary, with the fight of a lifetime ahead of him.

"She has come to no harm, having absconded the palace with Prince Nalderick, evidently in deep disguise," said the wizard, carefully hedging his truths.

"He did not aid in her flight or concealment?" probed the emperor, combing through all of Sherazedan's thoughts that the wizard allowed him to see.

"No, Your Majesty. The prince was entirely unaware of his sister's doings… although… perhaps he should have known better; arranged for a closer watch on her highness, who is not much past her naming, and is known to be mischievous."

Aldarion grunted tiredly. Turning his attention back to Vernax, he said,

"See to their punishment, then, Brother. I am otherwise occupied."

Sherazedan bowed.

"As Your Majesty requires, so shall it be," he replied smoothly. "May the egg hatch soon, and Vernax rise once again at Your Majesty's side."

"From your lips to Oberyn's ears, Brother," sighed the emperor, hand resting gently on the dragon's golden-scaled snout. "I cannot take much more of this waiting."

"The realm watches and prays along with you, Majesty," murmured Sherazedan, bowing his head. For, the longer the wait, the stronger the reborn hatchling. The harder the fight for control.