Chasing the Prophecy
Page 18

“We’d hate to strand you,” Aram said.
The drinling speaker smirked. “If we raced to Durna, the two of us on foot might beat you. Horses need rest. We don’t. A drinling can cover a lot of ground running at a full sprint day and night. All he needs is food.”
“Helps when he can eat dirt,” Jason said. “Or grass, or squirrels, or pinecones.”
“Sounds as though you know our ways,” the drinling said.
“Nia never fails to amaze me with what she can eat,” Jason said.
“She may amaze you again with the team she assembled,” the drinling replied. “Good people. We drinlings will get you on the water. We’ll defend you as best we can. The rest is up to you.”
Jason glanced at Corinne. She looked relieved. Hard times might be coming. But maybe not tonight.
CHAPTER 5
A PRIVATE MEETING
A cold rain sheeted down relentlessly, pattering against the roof of the old storage shed and making the puddles outside appear to boil. Seated on a wooden cask, Rachel drew her cloak closer about herself to help against the chill. Across the yard three lanterns hanging under the eaves of the stable brightened the rainy night.
Beside her sat Galloran, blindfold in place, his sheathed sword resting across his knees. At her other hand crouched Bartley of Wershon. Yesterday the husky viscount had been full of blustering bravado. Today he was much more subdued, rubbing his lips regularly as he stared soberly outside.
Rachel noticed her fingers trembling. Was it the cold or her nerves? She tightened her hands into fists. Weeks of travel and anticipation had led to this night. Much time and effort could be saved if the meeting went well.
“They’re late,” Bartley whispered.
Rachel had only seen the viscount briefly on the day when Jason had faced Chancellor Copernum in a battle of wits. But she knew that he had helped Jason. And according to Brin and Nicholas, he had quietly proven very useful ever since Jason had departed Trensicourt months ago. At present he had really stuck his neck out, offering his estate as the location of the upcoming meeting.
“Tardiness is probably a good sign,” Galloran said. “If this were an ambush, they would have taken care to be prompt.”
“Instead they elect to insult us?” Bartley asked softly.
“The weather is harsh tonight,” Galloran replied calmly.
Tark suddenly ducked into the storeroom, water streaming from his cloak. “I saw the signal. Three quick flashes, evenly spaced.”
“Then our guests approach as requested,” Galloran replied. “No evidence of foul play.”
“Aye,” Tark confirmed, and slipped away into the darkness.
Rachel knew that Nedwin, Ferrin, Brin, and Nollin were scouting the area. Tark and Io were stationed in a neighboring outbuilding with horses ready for a getaway. They had worked hard to defend against a potential ambush. The visitors thought the meeting was taking place up the slope at the manor. At the last moment one of Bartley’s sentries would divert them to the lower stable, where Kerick awaited to greet them.
After riding hard from the jungle’s edge to the outer boundaries of Trensicourt, Rachel had spent two days living in a remote barn while Nedwin arranged the particulars for this meeting. Yesterday morning, before sunrise, she and her friends had arrived at the Wershon estate to temporarily take up residence in a large mill at one corner of the property. If this meeting went well, she might sleep in comfort before much longer.
“You’re sure you want me at the meeting?” Rachel asked.
“Certain,” Galloran replied. “These are men accustomed to solving problems through negotiation, but they will not be eager to surrender the kingdom. We must appear strong. A talented Edomic adept is a unique and intimidating weapon. Remember, if the opportunity arises, show your power by exerting control over them. Petrify them, put them on the ground—anything to make them feel vulnerable. The talent to command men is extremely rare and bespeaks a deep reservoir of power.”
“All right,” Rachel said, trying to sound like somebody he could rely on. Did Galloran suspect how terrified it made her to think that the outcome of this meeting might depend on how intimidating she seemed? Was he hearing her insecurities as she thought them? Maybe his attention was elsewhere. Or maybe he was kind enough to pretend he couldn’t sense her anxiety.
Rachel noticed Bartley warily eyeing her acolyte robe through the gap in her cloak. At least they seemed to have an effect on him. He turned his attention back out the door and softly cleared his throat. “A lone rider approaches.”
“We invited three guests,” Galloran said. “Have they only sent a messenger?”
Rachel watched the hooded rider pull up to the stable, dismount, and lead his steed below the overhanging eaves. Not far from one of the dangling lanterns, Kerick approached the man and engaged him in conversation. After words were exchanged, Kerick took the reins and gestured for the man to enter the stable. He then faced away from the storage shed where Rachel hid and waved his arm twice over his head.
“There’s the signal,” Bartley whispered. “I suppose this means at least one of them came.”
“How could they resist?” Galloran asked. “Trensicourt is currently run by strategists and compromisers, not men of action. Strategists need information. Compromisers require meetings. They had to send someone.”
“Strategists also like traps,” Bartley added. “These compromisers have an untrustworthy reputation.”
Galloran gave a nod. “We’ll remain on guard. Rachel, at the first sign of trouble, don’t be afraid to use force.”
Rachel told herself that she had trained for this. She had used Edomic in dicey situations before. But she had only commanded a person under pressure the night Kalia had attacked. Those commands had been urgent and reflexive. This would be a different sort of challenge: commanding a powerful enemy to prove a point. Would she be able to get it right?
Rachel raised the hood of her heavy cloak and took Galloran by the hand. She led him out into the downpour, with Bartley close behind and Io joining them. Rachel kept her eyes on the stable, but there was little to see. Kerick and the visitor had disappeared inside. Rain drummed against her hood. She tried to help Galloran avoid the worst puddles. By the time they reached the overhanging roof of the stable, their boots were caked with mud.
As Rachel led Galloran through the entryway, she got her first clear look at the visitor. An open area before the stalls had been swept, and a large table had been brought in. Food awaited, and drink. The smell of fresh rolls mingled with the inevitable odors of pent-up horses.